He went to Si and examined him. Shorty turned on his side and watched him with eager eyes. His heart sickened as he saw the Surgeon's face grow graver as he proceeded. The Surgeon probed the bullet's track with his fingers, and drew out a piece of folded letter paper stained with blood. Instinctively he unfolded it, and read through the ensanguined smears, written in a cramped school-girl hand: "Dear Si: Though I did not have the heart to say it, Ime yours till death, and Ime sure you feel the same way. Annabel." "I'm much afraid the end has come too soon to a brave as well as loving heart," said the Surgeon sadly. "Doctor, he can't die. He mustn't die," said Shorty in agony. "The regiment can't spare him. He's the best soldier in it, and he's my pardner." "He may live, but it's a very slender chance," said the Surgeon. "Men live in this war against all science and experience, and it is possible that he may." "Major," said Lieut. Bowersox, coming in, "I understand that two of my men were brought in here wounded. The report which was sent North this morning gave them as killed. If you have them here I want to correct it and save their people sorrow." "One of them," answered the Surgeon, "has no thought of dying, and will, I'm sure, pull through. I am sorry I cannot say the same for the other. It he lives it will be a wonder." "Neither of us is a-going to die till we've put down this damned rebellion, and got home and married our girls," gasped Shorty with grim effort. "You can jist telegraph that home, and to ole Abe Lincoln, and to all whom it may concern." And he fell back exhausted on his blanket. CHAPTER XVIII. A DISTURBING MESSAGE THE DEACON HURRIEDLY LEAVES FOR CHATTANOOGA. THAT evening Lieut. Bowersox sent a telegram to Deacon Klegg. It had to be strictly limited to 10 words, and read: JOSIAH KLEGG, ESQ., Somepunkins Station, Ind.: Josiah not killed. Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded. E. C. BOWERSOX. It did not arrive at Sumpunkins Station, three miles from the Deacon's home, until the next forenoon. The youth who discharged the multifarious duties of Postmaster, passenger, freight and express-agent, baggage-master, and telegraph operator at Sumpunkins Station laboriously spelled out the dots and dashes on the paper strip in the instrument. He had barely enough mastery of the Morse alphabet to communicate the routine messages relating to the railroad's business aided by the intelligence of the conductors and engineers as to what was expected of them. This was the first outside message that he had ever received, and for a while it threatened to be too much for him, especially as the absence of punctuation made it still more enigmatical. He faithfully transcribed each letter as he made it out and then the agglomeration read: "Josiamn otkildho spitalat chatano ogabadl ywounded ecbower sox."