At a little distance Big Abel, with several of the company “darkies” was struggling energetically over the property of the mess, storing the cooking utensils into a stout camp chest, which the strength of several men would lift, when filled, into the wagon. Bland, who had just tossed his overcoat across to them, turned abruptly upon Dan, and demanded warmly “what had become of his case of razors?” “Where are we going?” was Dan's response, as he knelt down to roll up his oilcloth and blanket. “By Jove, it looks as if we'd gobble up Patterson for breakfast!” “I say, where's my case of razors?” inquired Bland, with irritation. “They were lying here a moment ago, and now they're gone. Dandy, have you got my razors?” “Look here, Beau, what are you going to leave behind?” asked Kemper over Bland's shoulder. “Leave behind? Why, dull care,” rejoined Dan gayly. “By the way, Pinetop, why don't you save your appetite for Patterson's dainties?” Pinetop, who was leisurely eating his breakfast of “hardtack” and bacon, took a long draught from his tin cup, and replied, as he wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, that he “reckoned thar wouldn't be any trouble about finding room for them, too.” The general gayety was reflected in his face; he laughed as he bit deeply into his half-cooked bacon. Dan stood up and nervously strapped on his knapsack; then he swung his canteen over his shoulder and carefully tightened his belt. His face was flushed, and when he spoke his voice quivered with emotion. It seemed to him that the delay of every instant was a reckless waste of time, and he trembled at the thought that the enemy might be preparing to fall upon them unawares; that while the camp was swarming like an ant's nest, Patterson and his men might be making good use of the fleeting moments. “Why the devil don't we move? We ought to move,” he said angrily, as he glanced round the crowded field where the men were arraying themselves in all the useless trappings of the Southern volunteer. Kemper was busily placing his necessary toilet articles in his haversack, having thrown away half his rations for the purpose; Jack Powell, completely dressed for the march, was examining his heavy revolver, with the conscious pride a field officer might have felt in his sword. As he stuck it into his belt, he straightened himself with a laugh and jauntily set his small cap on his curling hair; he was clean, comely, and smooth-shaven as if he had just stepped from a hot bath and the hands of his barber. “You may roll Dandy in the dust and he'll come out washed,” Baker had once forcibly remarked.