ge there from the noise.
She flew away with a tumult of plaintive "whips." The rebel in front
halted for a long time. Then he apparently concluded that an owl was
after the whip-poor-will, and, reassured, came forward.

As he had crawled along. Si had felt with his hands that he was on a
tolerably beaten path, which ran by the sapling he was now standing
behind. He was sure that this led through the abatis, and the rebel
was coming down it. The rebel came on so near that Si could hear his
breathing, and Si feared he could hear his. The rebel was carrying his
gun at a trail in his right hand, and putting all his powers into his
eyes and ears to detect signs of the presence of Yankees. He hesitated
for a little while before the sapling, and then stepped past it.

As he did so Si shot out his right arm and caught him around the neck
with so quick and tight a hug that the rebel could not open his mouth
to yell. Si raised his arm so as to press the rebel's jaws together, and
with his left hand reached for his gun. The rebel swayed and struggled,
but the slender Southerner was no match for the broad-shouldered Indiana
boy, whose muscles had been knit by hard work.

The struggle was only momentary until Si secured the gun, and the
rebel's muscles relaxed from the stoppage of his breath.

"If you say a word, or try to, you're a dead man," Si whispered, as he
dropped the gun, and substituted his left hand at the man's throat for
his right arm. Taking silence for acquiescence, Si picked up his own gun
and started with his prisoner for the Colonel. He walked upright boldly
now, for the watchers on the rebel works could not see that there was
more than one man in the path.

The Colonel ordered Si to bring his prisoner back into a gully some
distance behind the line, where he could be interrogated without the
sound reaching the men in the works.

"Where do you belong?" asked the Colonel.

"To Kunnel Wheatstone's Jawjy rijimint."

"How many men have you got over there in the works."

"Well, a right smart passul."

"What do you mean by a right smart parcel?"

"Well, a good big heap."

"What, a thousand?"

"Yes, I reckon so."

"Ten thousand?"

"I 'spects so."

"Twenty thousand."

"Mouty likely."

"You don't seem to have a clear idea of numbers. How many regiments have
you got over there?"

"Well, thar's Kunnel Wheatstone's Jawjy rijimint--that's mine; then
thar's Kunnel Tarrant's South Carliny rijimint, and th