put them into proper order for immediate use.

it was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their
awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape
observation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of
destruction.

'Have you got everything?' said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.

'Everything,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; 'plenty of ammunition, in case the
shots don't take effect. There's a quarter of a pound of powder in the
case, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.'

These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably
feel most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle
was too powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to
walk on--rather slowly.

'We are in excellent time,' said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the
fence of the first field;'the sun is just going down.' Mr. Winkle looked
up at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability of his
'going down' himself, before long.

'There's the officer,' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes
walking. 'Where?' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'There--the gentleman in the blue cloak.' Mr. Snodgrass looked in the
direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed
a figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his
consciousness of their presence by slightly beckoning with his hand; and
the two friends followed him at a little distance, as he walked away.

The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded
through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his
house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the
feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the
trench--it looked like a colossal grave.

The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling,
and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were
waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the
other--a portly personage in a braided surtout--was sitting with perfect
equanimity on a camp-stool.

'The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,' said Mr. Snodgrass; 'take
a drop of brandy.' Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend
proffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.

'My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,' said Mr. Winkle, as the officer
approached. Doctor Slammer's friend bowed, and produced a case similar
to