“Why in the devil didn’t you think of making old man Sheeley give you some of the cooked provisions out of the mess chest? Now the wagons are the Lord knows where, and here we are sucking our thumbs to appease hunger. I can go twenty-four hours without eating, but darned if I like it to be an hour over that time.” “And pray, sir, why didn’t _you_ ask Mr. Sheeley for some of the provisions in the mess chest?” I inquired. “Because I didn’t think of it.” “And neither did I; but if you will promise to say nothing more about Sheeley and the mess chest I will introduce you to a little private arrangement of my own.” The Colonel looked up inquiringly for a moment, and although he said nothing, I could plainly read in his countenance “Oh do.” At the battle of Winchester, some weeks previous, I secured a number of large sized boxes of sardines, all of which I had given away, save one. This I had in my saddle pocket, along with a small flask of brandy that I procured as we passed through Greenvillage. I had kept it a secret, for on the march you have plenty of visitors if you are known to possess a flask of liquor. Here was an emergency, however, and it was for an emergency I had saved it. The flask and sardines were speedily produced, and for the first time in twenty-four hours I saw the Colonel smile. And then he took the cork out of the flask, threw back his head and _smiled_ again, and, as he lowered the uplifted arm, I discovered considerable daylight through the bottle he had smiled at. Ahem, like master like man, and I followed his example. Then the sardines were discussed, and we grew amiably disposed, and we talked and talked about—everybody and everything but Sheeley and his mess chest.