You ought to have the colonel and adjutant, and you must go back and get their signatures." After this, you go to the major-general.

He is an old aristocratic fellow, who never smiles, and tries to look as sour as vinegar.

He looks at the furlough, and looks down at the ground, holding the furlough in his hand in a kind of dreamy way, and then says, "Well, sir, this is all informal." You say, "Well, General, what is the matter with it ?" He looks at you as if he hadn't heard you, and repeats very slowly, "Well, sir, this is informal," and hands it back to you.

You take it, feeling all the while that you wished you had not applied for a furlough, and by summoning all the fortitude that you possess, you say in a husky and choking voice, "Well, general (you say the "general" in a sort of gulp and dry swallow), what's the matter with the furlough ?" You look askance, and he very languidly re-takes the furlough and glances over it, orders his negro boy to go and feed his horse, asks his cook how long it will be before dinner, hallooes at some fellow away down the hill that he would like for him to call at 4 o'clock this evening, and tells his adjutant to sign the furlough.

The adjutant tries to be smart and polite, smiles a smole both child-like and bland, rolls up his shirt-sleeves, and winks one eye at you, gets astraddle of a camp-stool, whistles a little stanza of schottische, and with a big flourish of his pen, writes the major- general's name in small letters, and his own--the adjutant's--in very large letters, bringing the pen under it with tremendous flourishes, and writes approved and forwarded.