“I? oh, I'm on the scent of water. I haven't learned to sleep dirty yet, which Bland says is a sign I'm no soldier. By the way, your darky, Big Abel, has a coffee-boiler over yonder in the fence corner. He's been tearing his wool out over your absence; you'd better ease his mind.” With a laugh and a wave of his hand, he plunged into the darkness, and Dan made his way slowly to the campfire, which twinkled from the old rail fence. As he groped toward it curses sprang up like mustard from the earth beneath. “Get off my leg, and be damned,” growled a voice under his feet. “Oh, this here ain't no pesky jedgment day,” exclaimed another just ahead. Without answering he stepped over the dark bodies, and, ten minutes later, came upon Big Abel waiting patiently beside the dying fire. At sight of him the negro leaped, with a shout, to his feet; then, recovering himself, hid his joy beneath an accusing mask. “Dis yer coffee hit's done 'mos' bile away,” he remarked gloomily. “En ef'n it don' tase like hit oughter tase, 'tain' no use ter tu'n up yo' nose, caze 'tain' de faul' er de coffee, ner de faul' er me nurr.” “How are you, old man?” asked Bland, turning over in the shadow. “Who's there?” responded Dan, as he peered from the light into the obscurity. “All the mess except Welch, poor devil. Baker got his hair singed by our rear line, and he says he thinks it's safer to mix with the Yankees next time. Somebody behind him shot his cowlick clean off.” “Cowlick, the mischief!” retorted Baker, witheringly. “Why, my scalp is as bald as your hand. The fool shaved me like a barber.” “It's a pity he didn't aim at your whiskers,” was Dan's rejoinder. “The chief thing I've got against this war is that when it's over there won't be a smooth-shaven man in the South.” “Oh, we'll stand them up before our rear line,” suggested Baker, moodily. “You may laugh, Bland, but you wouldn't like it yourself, and if they keep up their precious marksmanship your turn will come yet. We'll be a regiment of baldheads before Christmas.” Dan sat down upon the blanket Big Abel had spread and leaned heavily upon his knapsack, which the negro had picked up on the roadside. A nervous chill had come over him and he was shaking with icy starts from head to foot. Big Abel brought a cup of coffee, and as he took it from him, his hand quivered so that he set the cup upon the ground; then he lifted it and drank the hot coffee in long draughts. “I should have lost my very identity but for you, Big Abel,” he observed gratefully, as he glanced round at the property the negro had protected. Big Abel leaned forward and stirred the ashes with a small stick.