Johnny was finally finishing volume one of Richard Falk's history and the old jingle kept running through his head as he transformed Falk's scrawled words into his own neat copperplate. Somewhere in the middle of Bavaria Johnny had lost interest in the War of the Spanish Succession. That was not the fault of Colonel Falk's handwriting, which was abominable, nor yet of his prose, which was lucid. Perhaps if Johnny had been reading neatly printed folio pages at his usual breakneck pace, his enthusiasm would not have flagged, but there was something about syllable by syllable transcription of dead bivouacks, dead skirmishes, dead battles, that rendered them very dead indeed. Oh, when you're up you're up,And when down you're down,And when you're only halfway up"You're neither up nor down," he sang mournfully. "It can't be that bad." Johnny finished the last scrolled letter, sanded the sheet, and regarded his hostess solemnly. Emily Falk set a nuncheon tray on a chair by his daybed "What a beautiful hand you write.
