Bailey kept humming the “Weaver,” but now and then He broke it off, to say, with a queer satisfaction, “Well, we surely did skedaddle⁠—we surely did.” Jack Ellyat had said nothing for a long time. This was war, this was Phaëton, this was the bronze chariot Rolling the sky. If he had a soul any more It felt scrawny and thin as a sick turkey-poult. It was not worth the trouble to fatten. He tried to fatten it With various thoughts, now and then, but the thoughts were spoilt Corn. They had damn well skedaddled. They damn well had. That was all. The rest of the army could win or lose They had surely skedaddled. They had been whipped again. He had been whipped again. He was no longer The old soldier⁠—no longer even “Bull Run Jack.” He had lost a piece of himself. It had ragged edges That piece. He could see it left behind in the tents Under a dirty coat and a slab of tobacco.