ong the
bushes. This performance was greeted with great enthusiasm by the fast
increasing crowd of spectators.

[Illustration: SI WENT SPRAWLING 137 ]

"I oughter have told you that saddle-mule's the worst bucker in the
Army o' the Ohio," said the Quartermaster-Sergeant, who was among the
onlookers. "Why, he'd buck off the stripe that runs down his back, if
he took it into his measly head. He bucked off a chattel mortgage, and
that's the way he come into the army. You can't ride him without using
one of Aunt Jemima's sticking plasters."

"Much obliged for your information. But I will ride him all the same,"
said Si, whose temper had risen to the exploding point. "I kin ride him
if he ties himself in a double bow-knot."

Si was too much of a farmer boy to give in to anything that walked on
four legs.

He had hung on to the bridle rein, and after addressing a few impressive
words to the obstreperous mule he again leaped upon his back. The mule
took a docile turn, his motive having apparently been merely to show Si
what he could do when he took a notion.

The space at command will not permit us to follow Si through all the
details of "hitching up" that team. He did finally "git thar, Eli,"
after much strategic effort. The mules brayed and kicked a good deal,
and Si's wrath was fully aroused before he got through. He became
convinced that soft words were of no account in such a contest, and he
enforced discipline by the judicious use of a big club, together with
such appropriate language as he could think of. Si hadn't yet learned
to swear with that wonderful and appalling proficiency that was so soon
acquired by the army teamsters. In the management of mules profanity was
considered an invaluable accessory in times of great emergency.

At last Si climbed into the saddle, as proud as a King. Seizing the
long, single line running to the "leaders"--by which contrivance the
army team was always guided--he shouted "Git up, thar, Pete! G'lang
Susan!" and the caravan started. But the unregenerated brutes didn't go
far. Si was gaily cracking his whip, trying to hit a big blue-bottle fly
that was perched on the ear of one of the "swing" mules.

As if by a preconcerted plan, the establishment came to a sudden
halt and the mules began to rear and kick and plunge around in utter
disregard of consequences. It didn't take more than a minute for them to
get into a hopeless tangle. They were in all conceivable shapes--heads
and