ed laugh.

"Why, bless my soul, Beau, I thought you'd run after the fleshpots of
Washington!" His face was flushed with excitement and the soft curls upon
his forehead were wet and dark. Around his mouth there was a black stain
from bitten cartridges. "By George, it was a jolly day, wasn't it, old
man?" he added warmly.

"Where are the others?" asked Dan, grasping his arm in an almost frantic
pressure.

"The others? they're all right--all except poor Welch, who got a ball in
his thigh, you know. Did you see him when he was taken off the field? He
laughed as he passed me and shouted back that he 'was always willing to
spare a leg or two to the cause!'"

"Where are you off to?" inquired Dan, still grasping his arm.

"I? oh, I'm on the scent of water. I haven't learned to sleep dirty yet,
which Bland says is a sign I'm no soldier. By the way, your darky, Big
Abel, has a coffee-boiler over yonder in the fence corner. He's been
tearing his wool out over your absence; you'd better ease his mind." With a
laugh and a wave of his hand, he plunged into the darkness, and Dan made
his way slowly to the campfire, which twinkled from the old rail fence. As
he groped toward it curses sprang up like mustard from the earth beneath.
"Get off my leg, and be damned," growled a voice under his feet. "Oh, this
here ain't no pesky jedgment day," exclaimed another just ahead. Without
answering he stepped over the dark bodies, and, ten minutes later, came
upon Big Abel waiting patiently beside the dying fire.

At sight of him the negro leaped, with a shout, to his feet; then,
recovering himself, hid his joy beneath an accusing mask.

"Dis yer coffee hit's done 'mos' bile away," he remarked gloomily. "En ef'n
it don' tase like hit oughter tase, 'tain' no use ter tu'n up yo' nose,
caze 'tain' de faul' er de coffee, ner de faul' er me nurr."

"How are you, old man?" asked Bland, turning over in the shadow.

"Who's there?" responded Dan, as he peered from the light into the
obscurity.

"All the mess except Welch, poor devil. Baker got his hair singed by our
rear line, and he says he thinks it's safer to mix with the Yankees next
time. Somebody behind him shot his cowlick clean off."

"Cowlick, the mischief!" retorted Baker, witheringly. "Why, my scalp is as
bald as your hand. The fool shaved me like a barber."

"It's a pity he didn't aim at your whiskers," was Dan's rejoinder. "The
chief thing I've got against this war is that when it'