“See here,” said the Blacksmith, “youse fellys is gittin’ that mule all excited. Ef you’re goin’ to quarrel you’d better go outside where there’s lots o’ room fer ye to run away in.” “Now--now--now!” said the Dunkard, wagging the horse-tail at the company. “Don’t git fightin’. Ef he knows anything awfuller then that hoop-snake wenture let him out with it.” “I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose to hev it drug outen me fer you uns to hoot at.” His tone was pacific, and his companions promised not to hoot. “The awfullest thing I ever hed to do with,” he said, “was down in front o’ Richmon’ durin’ the war. Our retchment--the Bloody Pennsylwany--was posted kind o’ out like from the rest o’ the army. We lay there fer th’ee weeks doin’ nawthin’ but eatin’, sleepin’, drinkin’ an’ listenin’ to the roar o’ the guns over to the front. Still it wasn’t pleasant, fer we was allus expectin’ somethin’ to happen. It’s a heap sight better to hev somethin’ happenin’ then to be waitin’ fer it to come. But final it come. “One mornin’ at daybreak the guard was bein’ changed, an’ down on one post they found the picket dead, but not a mark was they on him. It looked wery queer. We’d seen no enemy fer a week an’ yit here was a felly killed plumb on his post, within stone th’ow of our camp. It made the boys feel clammy like, I tell ye, an’ they wasn’t many a-hankerin’ to go on that beat at night. It was a lonely placet, anyway, right on the edge o’ a leetle clump o’ woods in a holler th’oo which run a creek, gurglin’ in a way that made ye creep from your heel-taps to your hat. But the post hed to be covered. Ez luck ’ud hev it, my tent-mate, Jim Miggins, ez nicet a man ez ever shouldered a musket, was stationed there. Next mornin’ the relief goes around, an’ Jim Miggins is lyin’ dead be the stream--not a mark on him nowhere. Still they was no sign o’ the enemy, an’ we’d a clean sweep o’ fiel’s five miles acrosst the country. Mebbe we wasn’t puzzled.” “Why didn’t the general put a whole regiment in them woods an’ stop it?” asked the Loafer. “That wasn’t tactics,” answered the veteran. “Ye may think you knows better how to run a war then our general, but ye don’t. It wasn’t tactics, an’ even ef it hed ben it wasn’t the way the Bloody Pennsylwany done things. One man takes the post next night ez usual, young Harry Hopple o’ my company, a lad with more grit then a horse that cribs. In the mornin’--Harry’s dead--no mark on him--no sign o’ the enemy nowhere. Don’t tell me that wasn’t awfuller then hoop-snakes. Why, every man knowd now that ef he drawed that post he was a goner. That was a recognized rule--he was a goner. ’Hen a felly gits it he sets down an’ packs up his duds; then he writes home to his ma or his girl, sais good-by to the boys an’ goes out. Mornin’ comes--he’s dead be the stream--not a mark on him--no enemy in sight. That was the way Andy Young, leetle Hiram Dole, Clayton Binks o’ my company, an’ a dozen others was tuk off.”