Chapter X: Act I: Headquarters of the Army

MILES (_in bed_):

What ho, there! orderly—I say, I say!
Bring in my breakfast. What’s the time o’ day?
What? six o’clock!—and day’s already broke?
I’m too late to escape him. Holy smoke!
I think I hear his footstep on the stair—
But no, it is not his: there is no blare
Of a great trumpet strenuously blown—
That veritable _tuba mirum_ known
To have sounded once the charge at Kettle Hill
(After ’twas made) and to be sounding still.

ORDERLY:

Perhaps he will not come.

MILES:

Perhaps, perhaps—
Yet well I know those War Department chaps
Have told him of my novel plan that places
The Army on a military basis.
Ne’er mind the breakfast; I’ll get up and fly
Before the sun’s another minute high.
If I can by a masterly retreat
Escape him trust me to come back and eat.

ORDERLY:

There’s some one, sir, a-tryin’ to break in.

MILES:

O Lord, forgive my every little sin!
Seeing that I was going to be late
Developing my Plan, he would not wait,
He’s risen with the lark, alas, and brought
His answer to my unperfected thought.
He always was forehanded. [_Enter President._]

PRESIDENT:

I’ve no time
To let the punishment await the crime.
Take that, and that, and that! (_beating him._)

MILES:

Of course, of course;
I’m firm in judgment, but I yield to force.
“Submission is a military virtue,”
The Regulations say, “howe’er it hurt you.”
I’ll now submit to buffets with sobriety,
And, later on, my view of their propriety,
Together with some pertinent suggestions
Touching important military questions.

PRESIDENT:

You may, and touching civil ones to boot;
Submit them, though, to Secretary Root.

[_Enter Root._]

MILES:

Yes, but ’twould hearten me if you’d agree
To signify your mind to him, not me.
Seeing him lame I’ll know the views I deem
Correct are held by you in light esteem.

ROOT:

Don’t rub your bruises, man; that’s mutiny!

PRESIDENT:

And it demands official scrutiny.
I’ll summon a court-martial, sir, to “fire” you;
And if it finds you guiltless I’ll retire you.
You huff me anyhow. Dashnation, man,
The battle spirit, like a black-and-tan
Ranch dog, sits up and howls within my breast,
And it’s O, to bust a bronco in the West!
Fetch me that broomstick, soldier. Golly me!
I must ride something or I die.

ROOT (_on hands and knees_):

Ride me.