"Sure I put 'em on the officer of the guard's table, sir." "Where's he?" "Gone to breakfast, sir." If the sergeant had then and there ordered Corcoran to "go and fetch the lieutenant," Corcoran would have gone and tried, and it wouldn't have surprised Shorty. "Fetch me my cap," he said instead; then turning to the prisoner, now rubbing hard with the towel, he continued in the same crisp, curt tones. "Obey orders. Sit in there," and he pointed to the open cage, "till I come back. I'll see to the despatches." And though still raging over his misfortunes, measurably relieved, Shorty saw him stride away through the dark hall, saw how the soldiers' eyes followed him, how at the outer gate the loungers stood up as he passed by. Then, without a word to the Irishmen or another word from them, Shorty stepped into the wooden-barred cage and sat him down upon the wooden bench, still rubbing with the now grimy towel. A change had come over the situation. Corcoran presently slipped away and speedily reappeared with a clean towel, which he handed to Shorty with a queer mingling of anxiety and bravado in his manner, and as silently took the soiled one away. Hanley, after a minute's perturbed pondering over the matter, scratched his head and slunk--there is no other word for it--into the neighboring barrack-room. Over in one of the other cells a drunken soldier had set up a maudlin song, and it was a relief to the big sergeant's soul to stop and tell him to shut up. Four or five other prisoners, each in his own barred cage on the west side, were standing or sitting and peering out into the court, curious spectators of the scene. The cages or cells to Shorty's right seemed to be empty. But presently there came a soft knocking and scratching on the boards that separated him from the occupant of the one on his right. Lumber was bought in a hurry that summer, much of it only half seasoned. The planks had warped and shrunk. There was a wide crack, and at that crack appeared an eye, and through that crack came the whisper of "Shorty, Shorty. Don't ye know me?" Some of our brigade, thought the lad, as he edged up to the wooden wall. Some poor fellow overstaying pass. "Who is it?" he asked. "Don't ye remember Desmond, 28's Engine?" "Desmond! Of course. Why, what brought you here?" "The same squint-eyed, pasty-faced pup that did you, I s'pose. Sa-ay, Shorty, _you_'re all right. They can't keep you 'soon as they know who you are. The officer of the day comes at nine o'clock and you'll be let off all right. But I'm in a hole. Say a good word for me. Help me out, and I can tell you things about that school you'd give a heap to know. Remember the day of the fire in Twenty-fifth Street?--the day the peeler wasn't going to let you pass, and I pulled you through?"