"They're good shots, at
any rate."
"They are that. There were some darkies plowing up there just this
side of San Diego, and some of our fellows picked them off as neatly
as you please. It must have been eight hundred yards if it was a foot.
But somehow I don't quite like it."
"War is war," said Sam, using a phrase which presumably has a rational
meaning, as it is so often employed by reasonable people. "It doesn't
pay to be squeamish. The squeamish men don't make good soldiers. I've
seen enough to learn that. They hesitate to obey orders, if they don't
like them."
As he said this they passed a small crowd of boys in the street. They
were trying to make two dogs fight, but the dogs refused to do so, and
the boys were beating them and urging them on.
"What stupid brutes they are," said Sam. "They're badly trained."
"They haven't had a military education," responded Cleary. "But I
almost forgot to ask you, have you seen the papers from home this
morning? They're all full of you and your greatness. Here are two or
three," and he took them from his pocket.
Sam opened them and gazed at them entranced. There was page upon page
of his exploits, portraits of all kinds, biographies, anecdotes,
interviews, headlines, everything that his wildest dreams had imagined,
only grander and more glorious. There was nothing to be seen but the
words "Captain Jinks" from one end of the papers to the other.
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