"Let's make her good and strong, Si," said Shorty, putting in some more tobacco; "for the fellers are sock-dolagers, and it will take a horse dose to kill 'em. They'll just enjoy a little taste o' terbacker. Make it strong enough to bear up an aig. Now, let's git our clothes off while it's coolin' down. You drench me, and I'll drench you, and we'll salivate these gallinippers in a way that'll surprise 'em." The surprise seemed to be mostly on the other side. Shorty's skin was raw from head to foot from the depredations of the various tribes of "epizoa," as the physicians generalize them. He gave a yell that could be heard through the whole regiment as the acrid, biting tobacco-juice struck a thousand little punctures in his skin inside of a second. Everybody rushed up to see what was the matter, and stood around, laughing and commenting, while scratching and slapping at their own colonies of tormentors. Then Shorty began the most vehement stream of profanity, and showered maledictions on everything in the State of Tennessee, which was only a breeding place for fleas, woodticks, jiggers, graybacks, niggers, rebels, traitors, bushwhackers, guerrillas, thieves, robbers and murderers, and other spawn of Jeff Davisism. Presently he grew violently sick at the stomach, turned deathly white, and fainted. Frightened, Si rushed for the Surgeon. "Only tobacco poisoning," said the latter, after he had looked Shorty over carefully. "You made that solution too strong, and the lot of little punctures took it directly into his circulation. You might have killed him if you had made it stronger, or got more of it on him. I never saw such rapscallions as you boys are. You are always trying to kill yourselves or one another, in spite of all that I can do or tell you. A man that's Surgeon of this regiment has to earn his money, I tell you. He will come out all right pretty soon, only he will be very weak. I'll send you down some whisky to give him." "Real old rye, Doctor?" said Shorty, very faintly, and opening his eyes feebly. "None of your Commissary stuff. This is a powerful bad case, and I need the best." "You shall have it," laughed the Surgeon. "I know you. You are all right when you are all right. But you won't be able to march with the column to-day. I'll give you an excuse from duty. And you (to Si) had better stay with him. I'll speak to your Captain." The bugles were sounding the "assembly" every where, and the men, slapping and scratching as if they would tear their flesh and their clothes off, were hastily swallowing their last mouthfuls of hot coffee and bread and pork, snatching up their guns and blankets and falling in.