they have all come from? Looks like a crow-roost, with some o' the crows
drunk."

Apparently, all the negro cooks, teamsters, officers' servants, and
roustabouts from the adjoining camps{39} had been gathered there, with
Groundhog, Pilgarlic, and similar specimens of the white teamsters among
them and leading them.

[Illustration: THE NEGROES MERRYMAKING. 39]

Seated on a log were three negroes, one sawing on an old fiddle, one
picking a banjo, and one playing the bones. Two negroes were in the
center of a ring, dancing, while the others patted "Juba." All were more
or less intoxicated. Groundhog and Pilgarlic were endeavoring to get up
a fight between Abraham Lincoln and another stalwart, stupid negro,
and were plying them with whisky from a canteen and egging them on with
words.{40}

The Deacon strode up to Groundhog and, catching him by the arm, demanded
sternly:

"What are you doing, you miserable scoundrel? Stop it at once."

Groundhog, who had drunk considerable himself, and was pot-valiant,
shook him off roughly, saying:

"G'way from here, you dumbed citizen. This hain't none o' your bizniss.
Go back to your haymow and leave soldiers alone."

The Deacon began divesting himself of his burden to prepare for action,
but before he could do so, Shorty rushed in, gave Groundhog a vigorous
kick, and he and Si dispersed the rest of the crowd in a hurry with
sharp cuffs for all they could reach. The meeting broke up without a
motion to adjourn.

The Deacon caught Abraham Lincoln by the collar and shook him
vigorously.

"You black rascal," he said, "what've you bin up to?"

"Didn't 'spect you back so soon. Boss," gasped the negro. "Said you
wouldn't be back till termorrer."

"No matter when you expected us back," said the Deacon, shaking him
still harder, while Si winked meaningly at Shorty. "What d'ye mean by
sich capers as this? You've bin a-drinkin' likker, you brute."

"Cel'bratun my freedom," gasped the negro. "Groundhog done tole me to."

"I'd like to celebrate his razzled head offen him," exploded the Deacon.
"I'll welt him into dog's meat hash if I kin lay my hands on him. He's
too mean and wuthless to even associate with mules. If I'd a{41} dog on
my place as onery as he is I'd give him a button before night. He's not
content with bein' a skunk himself; he wants to drag everybody else down
to his level. Learnin' you to drink whisky and fight as soon as you're
out o' bondage. Next thing he'll be