Page:1861 vs 1882. "Co. Aytch," Maury grays, First Tennessee regiment; or, A side show of the show (IA 1861vs1882coaytc00watk).pdf/130

124 Captain, it had to be read and re-read, to see that every "i" was dotted and "t" crossed, but returned because there was one word that he couldn't make out. Then it was forwarded to the Colonel. He would snatch it out of your hand, grit his teeth, and say, "Dn it;" feel in his vest pocket and take out a lead pencil, and simply write "app." for approved. This would also be returned, with instructions that the Colonel must write "approved" in a plain hand, and with pen and ink. Then it went to the Brigadier-General. He would be engaged in a game of poker, and would tell you to call again, as he didn't have time to bother with those small affairs at present. "I'll see your five and raise you ten." "I have a straight flush." "Take the pot." After setting him out, and when it wasn't his deal, I get up and walk around, always keeping the furlough in sight. After reading carefully the furlough, he says, "Well, sir, you have failed to get the Adjutant's name to it. 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 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 childlike and bland, rolls up his shirt-sleeves, and winks one eye at you, gets astraddle of a camp-stool,