"Come on! Let's go home!" This was the universal idea, and in a second the whole party were cutting straight for home, utterly stampeded. They could readily have found shelter and security back over the hill, from the flying balls; but they preferred to get home, and they made straight for it. The popping of the guns, which still kept up in the woods across the little river, now meant to them that the victorious Yankees were driving back their friends. They believed that the bullets which now and then yet whistled over the woods with a long, singing "zoo-ee," were aimed at them. For their lives, then, they ran, expecting to be killed every minute. The load of cartridges in their pockets, which they had carried for hours, weighed them down. As they ran they threw these out. Then followed those in their sleeves. Frank and the other boys easily got rid of theirs, but Willy had tied the strings around his wrists in such hard knots that he could not possibly untie them. He was falling behind. Frank heard him call. Without slacking his speed he looked back over his shoulder. Willy's face was red, and his mouth was twitching. He was sobbing a little, and was tearing at the strings with his teeth as he ran. Then the strings came loose one after the other, the cartridges were shaken out over the ground, and Willy's face at once cleared up as he ran forward lightened of his load. They had passed almost through the narrow skirt of woods where the first attack was made, when they heard some one not far from the side of the road call, "Water!" The boys stopped. "What's that?" they asked each other in a startled undertone. A groan came from the same direction, and a voice said, "Oh, for some water!" A short, whispered consultation was held. "He's right up on that bank. There's a road up there." Frank advanced a little; a man was lying somewhat propped up against a tree. His eyes were closed, and there was a ghastly wound in his head. "Willy, it's a Yankee, and he's shot." "Is he dead?" asked the others, in awed voices. "No. Let's ask him if he's hurt much." They all approached him. His eyes were shut and his face was ashy white. "Willy, it's _my_ Yankee!" exclaimed Frank. The wounded man moved his hand at the sound of the voices. "Water," he murmured. "Bring me water, for pity's sake!" "I'll get you some,--don't you know me? Let me have your canteen," said Frank, stooping and taking hold of the canteen. It was held by its strap; but the boy whipped out a knife and cut it loose. The man tried to speak; but the boys could not understand him. "Where are you goin' get it, Frank?" asked the other boys. "At the branch down there that runs into the creek." "The Yankees'll shoot you down there," objected Peter and Willy. "_I_ ain' gwine that way," said Cole. The soldier groaned. "_I'll_ go with you, Frank," said Willy, who could not stand the sight of the man's suffering. "We'll be back directly."