eachin'
and tavern-keepin'. Down there in camp everything was straight and
systematic. Every feller what don't have nothin' in his shoulder-straps
bosses all the fellers what hain't no shoulder-straps at all. The feller
what has one bar in his shoulder-straps bosses all the fellers what
hain't nothin in theirs, and the feller what has two bars bosses the
fellers with but one; the feller with leaves gives orders to the fellers
with bars; the feller with an eagle lays clear over him, and the man
with a star jest makes everybody jump when he talks. Out at the depot
on Bean Blossom Crick Sol Pringle has the say about everything. He knows
when the trains come and when they go, and what goes into 'em. This
seems to be a betwixt and between place, neither pork nor bacon, I
don't like it at all, I always want things straight--either one thing
or t'other--reg'ler close communion, total-immersion Babtist, or
free-for-all, shoutin' Methodist."

"I think I can help you, 'Squire," said a big, goodnatured-looking
civilian railroad man, who had become interested in the Deacon's
troubles. "I've bin around with the Assistant Yard-Boss pickin' out a
lot o' empties to hustle back to Nashville for grub. That's one o' them
over there, on the furthest switch--X634. See? It's got a chalk mark on
it. I'll help you carry your boys into it, and fix 'em comfortable, and
you'll go back with it all right."

The Deacon turned gladly to him. The man summoned some of his friends,
who speedily transferred Si and Shorty, with their belongings, cedar
boughs and all, to the car, and made them as comfortable as possible,
and added some little offerings of their own to contribute to the ease
of the journey. They bestired themselves to find something to eat that
the boys would relish, and brought out from somewhere a can of peaches
and one of tomatoes, which proved very acceptable. The Deacon was
overwhelmed with gratitude.

"I want every one of you to come up to my house, whenever you git a
chance," he said, "and make a long visit. You shall have the very best
that there is on my farm, and if you don't live well it won't be Maria
Klegg's fault. She'll jest lay herself out to be good to men who's bin
good to her son, and when she lays herself out to git up a dinner the
Burnett House in Cincinnati takes a back seat."

Feeling entirely at ease, he climbed into the car, with a copy of the
Cincinnati Gazette, which he had bought of a newsboy, lighted his pip