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It was being made. The air was in anguish with the din of tree-felling and log-chopping, of stamping, neighing, braying, whooping, guffawing, and singing--all the daybreak charivari beloved of a camp of Confederate "critter companies." In the midst of it a chum and I sat close together on a log near the mess fire, and as the other boys of the mess lifted their heads from their saddle-tree pillows, from two of them at once came a slow, disdainful acceptance of the final lot of the wicked, made unsolicited on discovering that this chum and I had sat there talking together all night. I had the day before been wheedled into letting myself be detailed to be a quartermaster's clerk, and this comrade and I were never to snuggle under the one blanket again. The thought forbade slumber.

"We can select out sev'l pair--" he began, but heard a puerile titter and lost his nerve. "Now, you boys that ain't got any business here, jest clair out!--Go! I tell you, aw I'll--" The boys loitered off toward the engine. "We can select out sev'l si-izes," he drawled, uncovering a box, "and fit you ove' in my office. You ain't so pow'ful long nor so pow'ful slim, but these-yeh gov'ment contrac's they seldom ev' allow fo' anybody so slim in the waist bein' so long in the, eh,--so, eh,--so long f'om thah down. But yet still, if you'll jest light off yo' hoss and come and look into this-yeh box--"

"No," he said, but Ned Ferry had lately restored to him, by proxy, some lost letters, with an invitation to come and see him.

"Smith," said the Colonel, and then smoked and smiled again till my brow beaded,--"tired?"

"What do you see?" His frown scared me to my finger-tips.

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