Dan, sitting in the thin shelter on the woodpile, threw a single glance at the strip of pines, and brought back his gaze to Big Abel who was splitting an oak log hard by. The work had been assigned to the master, who had, in turn, tossed it to the servant, with the remark that he “came out to kill men, not to cut wood.” “I say, Big Abel, this sun's blazing hot,” he now offered cheerfully. Big Abel paused for a moment and wiped his brow with his blue cotton sleeve. “Dis yer ain' no oak, caze it's w'it-leather,” he rejoined in an injured tone, as he lifted the axe and sent it with all his might into the shivering log, which threw out a shower of fine chips. The powerful stroke brought into play the negro's splendid muscles, and Dan, watching him, carelessly observed to a young fellow lying half asleep upon the ground, “Big Abel could whip us all, Bland, if he had a mind to.” Bland grunted and opened his eyes; then he yawned, stretched his arms, and sat up against the logs. He was bright and boyish-looking, with a frank tanned face, which made his curling flaxen hair seem almost white. “I worked like a darky hauling yesterday,” he said reproachfully, “but when your turn comes, you climb a woodpile and pass the job along. When we go into battle I suppose Dandy and you will sit down to boil coffee, and hand your muskets to the servants.” “Oh, are we ever going into battle?” growled Jack Powell from the other side. “Here I've been at this blamed drilling until I'm stiff in every joint, and I haven't seen so much as the tail end of a fight. You may rant as long as you please about martial glory, but if there's any man who thinks it's fun merely to get dirty and eat raw food, well, he's welcome to my share of it, that's all. I haven't had so much as one of the necessities of life since I settled down in this old field; even my hair has taken to standing on end. I say, Beau, do you happen to have any pomade about you? Oh, you needn't jeer, Bland, there's no danger of your getting bald, with that sheepskin over your scalp; and, besides, I'm willing enough to sacrifice my life for my country. I object only to giving it my hair instead.” “I believe you'll find a little in my knapsack,” gravely replied Dan, to be assailed on the spot by a chorus of comic demands. “I say, Beau, have you any rouge on hand? I'm growing pale. Please drop a little cologne on this handkerchief, my boy. May I borrow your powder puff? I've been sitting in the sun. Don't you want that gallon of stale buttermilk to take your tan off, Miss Nancy?” “Oh, shut up!” cried Dan, sharply; “if you choose to turn pigs simply because you've come out to do a little fighting, I've nothing to say against it; but I prefer to remain a gentleman, that's all.” “He prefers to remain a gentleman, that's all,” chanted the chorus round the apple tree. “And I'll knock your confounded heads off, if you keep this up,” pursued Dan furiously.