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Our camp was in the heart of Copiah County, Mississippi, a mile or so west of Gallatin and about six miles east of that once robber-haunted road, the Natchez Trace. Austin's brigade, we were, a detached body of mixed Louisiana and Mississippi cavalry, getting our breath again after two weeks' hard fighting of Grant. Grierson's raid had lately gone the entire length of the State, and we had had a hard, vain chase after him, also.

The smoker twinkled. "You're different from Ned Ferry," he said.

The patient gentleman smiled again as he said, "Oh--Gholson can attend to that."

"Good-morning," I murmured.

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