change all the conditions of warfare!”
“No! is it possible?” replied Tom Hunter, his thoughts reverting
involuntarily to a former invention of the Hon. J. T. Maston, by
which, at its first trial, he had succeeded in killing three
hundred and thirty-seven people.
“Fact!” replied he. “Still, what is the use of so many studies
worked out, so many difficulties vanquished? It’s mere waste
of time! The New World seems to have made up its mind to live in
peace; and our bellicose _Tribune_ predicts some approaching
catastrophes arising out of this scandalous increase of population.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Colonel Blomsberry, “they are always
struggling in Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities.”
“Well?”
“Well, there might be some field for enterprise down there; and
if they would accept our services—-”
“What are you dreaming of?” screamed Bilsby; “work at gunnery
for the benefit of foreigners?”
“That would be better than doing nothing here,” returned the colonel.
“Quite so,” said J. T. Matson; “but still we need not dream of
that expedient.”
“And why not?” demanded the colonel.
“Because their ideas of progress in the Old World are contrary
to our American habits of thought. Those fellows believe that
one can’t become a general without having served first as an
ensign; which is as much as to say that one can’t point a gun
without having first cast it oneself!”
“Ridiculous!” replied Tom Hunter, whittling with his bowie-knife
the arms of his easy chair; “but if that be the case there, all
that is left for us is to plant tobacco and distill whale-oil.”
“What!” roared J. T. Maston, “shall we not employ these
remaining years of our life in perfecting firearms? Shall there
never be a fresh opportunity of trying the ranges of projectiles?
Shall the air never again be lighted with the glare of our guns?
No international difficulty ever arise to enable us to declare
war against some transatlantic power? Shall not the French sink
one of our steamers, or the English, in defiance of the rights
of nations, hang a few of our countrymen?”
“No such luck,” replied Colonel Blomsberry; “nothing of the kind
is likely to happen; and even if it did, we should not profit by it.
American susceptibility is fast declining, and we are all going
to the dogs.”
“It is too true,” replied J. T. Maston, with fresh violence;
“there are a thousand grounds for fighting, and yet we don’t fight.
We save up our arms and legs for the benefit of nations who don’t
know what to do with them! But stop– without going out of one’s
way to find a cause for war– did not North America once belong
to the English?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Tom Hunter, stamping his crutch with fury.
“Well, then,” replied J. T. Maston, “why should not England in
her turn belong to the Americans?”
“It would be but just and fair,” returned Colonel Blomsberry.
“Go and propose it to the President of the United States,” cried
J. T. Maston, “and see how he will receive you.”
“Bah!” growled Bilsby between the four teeth which the war had
left him; “that will never do!”
“By Jove!” cried J. T. Maston, “he mustn’t count on my vote at
the next election!”
“Nor on ours,” replied unanimously all the bellicose invalids.
“Meanwhile,” replied J. T. Maston, “allow me to say that, if I
cannot get an opportunity to try my new mortars on a real field
of battle, I shall say good-by to the members of the Gun Club,
and go and bury myself in the prairies of Arkansas!”
“In that case we will accompany you,” cried the others.
Matters were in this unfortunate condition, and the club was
threatened with approaching dissolution, when an unexpected
circumstance occurred to prevent so deplorable a catastrophe.
On the morrow after this conversation every member of the
association received a sealed circular couched in the
following terms:
BALTIMORE, October 3.
The president of the Gun Club has the honor to inform his colleagues
that, at the meeting of the 5th instant, he will bring before
them a communication of an extremely interesting nature. He requests,
therefore, that they will make it convenient to attend in