“An’ ez fer that boy ez collared me before, let him look out fer himself, thet’s all!” he fairly hissed, between his snaggy, yellow teeth. He was not likely to forget Louis. The weather now was worse than had been expected. Nearly every other day it rained, and the camp was something fearful to contemplate, cut up as it was by the feet of thousands of soldiers and hundreds of horses. Louis and his mess had carpeted their tent with brush thickly matted together and filled in with chips, but still it was damp and unwholesome. The hospital tent soon overflowed with typhus and typhoid fever cases. The siege was doing more harm by sickness than it was by bullet and shell. “Your turn to gather firewood,” announced Moses Blackwell one afternoon, after inspection drill. “Get a good supply, Louis, and we’ll try to dry the air in the tent somehow.” “I’ll get all I can bundle and carry,” answered the young soldier, and started off, axe and strap in hand. All the small brush had been cut down long before, and not wishing to tackle a big tree he had to walk a good way into the timber before he reached something of the size he had in mind to cut down. He was just about to start work near the edge of a ravine when the sounds of two voices broke upon his ear. He listened intently. “What’s the news, Yank?” “Ain’t much, Reb. What’s the news your way?” “General Johnson has just come down with a hundred thousand men to wipe you out.” “A hundred thousand, eh? Any of the little boys left to hum to mind the baby?” “It’s a fact. What’s Little Mac doing, going to sleep?” “No, he’s thinking where he’s going to bury you rebs when the next fight is over.” Then came a brief silence. Louis had listened to the talk with a smile. He knew the pickets on both sides sometimes became friendly and arranged not to shoot at each other. Sometimes they even made an exchange of some kind. Soon the talk was resumed. “Grayback, got any terbacker?” “A half plug.” “What will you take for it?” “What will yer give?” “A canteen of fresh coffee.” “I’ll take yer up, ’though I know the coffee’s more’n half chicory.” “Better coffee nor you’ll ever git over there, Grayback.” A rustle through the brush and grass followed, and peering forth from the trees Louis saw the Union and the Confederate soldiers meet in the hollow and exchange goods. Then each hurried back to his post. A second later the Confederate sang out: “Corporal’s coming, Yank; look out fer yourself,” meaning that the truce was, for the time being, at an end, and that shooting on sight was now the order of the day. After that both pickets remained securely hidden. Louis was particularly fortunate in getting some dry brushwood, and that night the boys of the mess sat around the camp fire in a more comfortable frame of mind than usual.