“Heaven! how thankful to fate I am for that sutler’s wagon, even if it had furnished us with nothing but salt! Do you know, Colonel, that one of the greatest privations of our lives is the lack of that once cheap and common necessary of life, table salt! The river supplies us with fish, the forests with game, the farms with meat, poultry, eggs, vegetables, and breadstuffs; but where—oh! where are we to obtain a continuous supply of salt? One of our boys, a prisoner in the old Capitol at Washington, was permitted to write home to his friends. He wrote: ‘Everything is d—d here except in one respect: we have salt in our soup!’ That letter was suppressed when it reached our camp. That one line would have formed much too great a temptation for our men to permit themselves to be taken prisoners, so that they might get salt to their soup! But come, Colonel, while I talk the coffee is cooling. Sit up, sit up, and try to make the best of matters by making a good meal,” said Captain Bannister; and with this “grace before meat,” he seated himself at the table and began to help his prisoner guest. Justin, notwithstanding his misfortunes, really did make a good meal, though not a very merry one; for he was hungry, he was also tired, and likewise a little sulky, as indeed what prisoner would not be? When the two officers had supped and were satisfied, the two boys, Wing and Hay, were supplied with supper. After which the camp service was cleared away by Ellis and Thomas. “I can offer you half my hard bed, Colonel; but the boys will have to take each a blanket and content themselves with the bare floor,” said Captain Bannister. Again Justin bowed in silence. He could feed, because feeding is one of the absolute necessities of life; but he could not converse complacently with his captor. The programme pointed out by Bannister was followed. Justin Rosenthal laid down to take his night’s rest beside his guerrilla captor. Hay wrapped himself in the blanket that was given him and stretched his chilled and tired frame upon the hearth before the fire. But Wing went prowling about the room until he found a large closet; and then he asked permission to sleep within it. And as the closet communicated only with the room, and had no outlet by which the prisoner could escape, this permission was readily granted. Only Hay was dissatisfied. “It’s just like that sulky, unsocial fellow, Wing—always poking himself off by himself; and yes, by ganny! always finding a place to poke himself into besides,” growled the boy, as he settled himself to rest. Fatigue is such a solicitor of sleep, that with a clear conscience and a sound constitution a tired man must sleep under the most inauspicious circumstances.