He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How are you, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled more vigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through the stave, he turned to me and exclaimed, "Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escape calumny--and to this complexion you may come at last." Again he took sight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time. "But, come," said I, "how did you get here?" "Get here?" echoed he, "the easiest way in the world! Sergeant Penn-- crossed the river on a three hours' leave of absence--took a glass too many--stayed over the time, and his friend, Sergeant Smith, feeling anxious for Penn--'s welfare, went after him and had him arrested as a deserter--and here he is! 'Nix my Dolly,'" etc. etc.; and he settled again into his musical reverie. "Well, what will be the upshot of it?" said I. "The _down-shot_ of me, maybe!"--Nix my Doll--"at least, I shall be shipped off with these fine fellows to the west; and if the court-martial happen to sit on my case after dinner, I may get off with _merely_ having my head shaved, and being drummed out!" Poor Penn--, at the thought of this, kicked the bench furiously, and whistled with all the vigor he could muster. "When do you go?" asked I, eagerly. "Next Sunday," he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bid you good-by now, for the last time"--and he pressed my hand warmly--"for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you on that day, and Penn-- would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even in his disgrace. There--there--go, my dear boy, let this be the last visit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after giving his hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling. In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn-- sitting as before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but so slowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of a pendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible. With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge the acquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn-- than to continue that of the unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the day of my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist the temptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly I crossed the river, and taking my station behind a large tree on the bank of the river, so that I could see Penn--without letting him see me, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the deserters should be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at the wharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swung open; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisoner after prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attached to their ankles. I counted them as they came out--counted a dozen--but