"All right, sir; we'll start at once, sir," said Si with ostentatious alacrity. Shorty slapped his bayonet on, and brought the point very near Groundhog's abdomen. "I'll jab this thing clean through you in a holy minute, you pusillanimous basswood cullin'; you pestiferous pile o' pizen, rotten punk," he said savagely. "Git on your wheel-mule and gether up the lines." Impelled by this, and the vigorous clutch of Si upon his collar, Groundhog climbed clumsily into the saddle and sullenly brandished his whip. The mules made a start and went down the bank, but at the edge of the turbid torrent the leaders set their legs as stiffly as if they were the supports of a sawhorse. They did not make a sound, but somehow the other four understood, with electric suddenness, and their legs set like posts. "Jest as I expected," said Groundhog, with a grunt of satisfaction; "they've balked for all day, an' you can't git 'em to move another foot if you killed 'em. They're as solid as if they'd growed there." With an air of having encountered the irresistible, he started to get out of his saddle. "Stay in there, confound you," said Shorty, prodding him with his bayonet. "Lick them mules. Make 'em start." "'Bout as much use in lickin' a white-oak stump," said Groundhog, plying the whip viciously as a relief to his feelings. "You kin lick every inch of skin off 'em, and they won't move no more'n a gravestone." "Start those mules along. Stop fooling,' said the Adjutant impatiently. "We can't start 'em. They're balkin', sir," said Si desperately. "Nonsense, nonsense," said the Adjutant. "Come ahead. Don't you see you're stopping the Second Brigade and all its teams?" The men of the Second Brigade were already swarming across on the logs, while looking backward Si and Shorty could see the road filling up with teams. They ran down to the lead mules and caught them by the bridles and tried to pull them ahead. They might as well have pulled at the giant sycamore trees growing along the banks. Everybody now began to take an interest in the affair. It is one of the delightful peculiarities of human nature that everybody knows better how to manage a balky horse or mule than the unfortunate man who is trying to. "Stop whippin' them mules. You only make them wuss," shouted one man authoritatively. "Tie stones to their tails." "Tie a string around their ears," shouted another. "That'll be sure to start 'em." "Bite their ears, you fools. Don't you know nothin' about mules? Bite their ears, I tell you," shouted a man from Indianapolis. "Throw some hot water on 'em." "Tie their feet and tails together with a string." "Build a fire under 'em." "Turn the harness around the other way on 'em." "Blindfold 'em." Then the regimental humorists began to get in their work: "Sing 'em the 'Battle Cry o' Freedom.'" "They've struck for more grub. Promise 'em double rations till we get to Shelbyville."