--"

"No, sir," cried he, with great determination, before I could finish
the word. "Do you suppose an officer of the United States army, an
unimpeached soldier, capable of being acquainted with a _deserter?_"

"A _deserter_!" echoed I; "Penn-- a deserter!" and the truth flashed
across my brain, writing that terrible word in letters of fire, as did
the hand on the walls of Belshazzar. The next moment, by permission of
the guard, who knew me, I passed down into the long damp basement of
the barracks, where the offenders were imprisoned. At the farther end,
among a number of fellow-culprits, my eager eye soon discovered the
object of its search. He was sitting with folded arms, perched on a
carpenter's bench, and with the most wo-begone countenance imaginable,
whistling a favorite air, and beating time against the side of the
bench with his long, pendulous legs. I can hear the tune yet, "Nix my
Dolly;" and who that has ever seen "Jack Shepherd" has forgotten it?

"Hallo!" cried I, "Penn--, how is this?"

He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How are
you, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled more
vigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through the
stave, he turned to me and exclaimed,

"Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escape
calumny--and to this complexion you may come at last." Again he took
sight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time.

"But, come," said I, "how did you get here?"

"Get here?" echoed he, "the easiest way in the world! Sergeant Penn--
crossed the river on a three hours' leave of absence--took a glass too
many--stayed over the time, and his friend, Sergeant Smith, feeling
anxious for Penn--'s welfare, went after him and had him arrested as a
deserter--and here he is! 'Nix my Dolly,'" etc. etc.; and he settled
again into his musical reverie.

"Well, what will be the upshot of it?" said I.

"The _down-shot_ of me, maybe!"--Nix my Doll--"at least, I shall be
shipped off with these fine fellows to the west; and if the
court-martial happen to sit on my case after dinner, I may get off
with _merely_ having my head shaved, and being drummed out!" Poor
Penn--, at the thought of this, kicked the bench furiously, and
whistled with all the vigor he could muster.

"When do you go?" asked I, eagerly.

"Next Sunday," he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bid
you good-by now, for the last time"--and he pressed my