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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.

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

"Ain't you Major Harper's quartermaster-sergeant?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't doubt you have; though I didn't know but it might be Charlie Toliver or something."

"Uv co'se!" The reptile giggled, squirted and nodded.

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