l.

B. B. LAUGHLIN, Adjutant.

When Capt. McGillicuddy marched Co. Q back to its street, he called
attention to the order with a few terse admonitions as to what it meant
to every one.

"Get at this as soon as you break ranks, boys," urged the Captain. "You
can do a whole lot between now and tattoo. The others will, and you must
not let them get ahead of you. No straw in knapsacks this time."

Company spirit was high, and it would be little short of a calamity to
have Co. Q beaten in anything.

There was a rush to the Sutler for white gloves, blacking, needles,
thread, paper collars, sweet oil and rotten stone for the guns.

That genial bird of prey added 50 per cent to his prices, because it
was the first business he had done for some weeks; 50 per cent more for
keeping open in the evening, another 50 per cent for giving credit till
pay day, and still another for good will.

The Government had just offered some very tempting gold-interest bonds,
of which he wanted a swad.

"'Tain't right to let them green boys have their hull $13 a month to
waste in foolishness," he said. "Some good man should gather it up and
make a right use of it."

Like Indiana farmer boys of his class. Si Klegg was cleanly but not
neat. Thanks to his mother and sisters, his Sunday clothes were always
"respectable," and he put on a few extra touches when he expected to
meet Annabel. He took his first bath for the year in the Wabash a week
or two after the suckers began to run, and his last just before the
water got so cold as to make the fish bite freely.

Such a thing as a "dandy" was particularly distasteful to him.

"Shorty," said Si, as he watched some of the boys laboring with
sandpaper, rotten stone and oil to make the gunbarrels shine like
silver, "what's the cense o' bein' so partickler about the outside of a
gun? The business part's inside. Making them screw heads look like beads
don't make it no surer of gitting Mr. Butternut."

"Trouble about you folks on the Wabash," answered Shorty, as he twisted
a screw head against some emery paper, "is that you don't pay enough
attention to style. Style goes a long ways in this vain and wicked world,"
(and his eyes became as if meditating on worlds he had known which were
not so vain and wicked), "and when I see them Kokomo persimmon knockers
of Co. B hustling to put on frills, I'm going to beat 'em if I don't lay
up a cent."

"Same here," said Si, falling to work on his gunba