Cuban equipment was of the scantiest. Cuban dews are heavy; Cuban
nights are cool--these were perils indeed for a weak-lunged
invalid. Branch began to fret. Rain filled him with more terror
than fixed bayonets, a chill caused him keener consternation than
did a thousand Spaniards; he began to have agonizing visions of
himself lying in some leaky hovel of a hospital. It was typical of
his peculiar irritability that he held O'Reilly in some way
responsible, and vented upon him his bitterness of spirit.
The fellow's tongue grew ever sharper; his society became
intolerable, his gloom oppressive and irresistibly contagious.
When, after several weeks of campaigning, the column went into
camp for a short rest, O'Reilly decided that he would try to throw
off the burden of Leslie's overwhelming dejection, and, if
possible, shift a portion of it upon the shoulders of Captain
Judson.
On the day after their arrival O'Reilly and the big artilleryman
took advantage of a pleasant stream to bathe and wash their
clothes; then, while they lay in their hammocks, enjoying the
luxury of a tattered oil-cloth shelter and waiting for the sun to
dry their garments, O'Reilly spoke what was in his mind.
"I'm getting about fed up on Leslie," he declared. "He's the
world's champion crepe-hanger, and he's painted the whole world
such a deep, despondent blue that I'm completely dismal.
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