ion, telling the same story of former finery, draggled through
the injurious grime of a thousand camps and marches. There were patched
and threadbare blankets, tramped-out boots and shoes, an occasional
book, many decks of cards, and so on.

Shorty came across a new cedar canteen with bright brass hoops. He slung
it over his shoulder, with the thought that it would be a nice thing to
send back to Maria, as a souvenir of the battle. She might hang it up in
her room, or make a pin-cushion or a work-basket out of it.

Presently he came to a box of shells, which he picked up and carried
back to the tree. It was quite heavy, and when he set it down again he
felt thirsty. The canteen occurred to him. It was full. He raised it to
his lips and took a long swig.

"Great Jehosephat," he gasped, his eyes starting out with astonishment.
"That ain't water. It's prime old applejack, smoother'n butter, and
smellin' sweeter'n a rose. Best I ever tasted."

Shorty had been strictly abstinent since his return from Indiana, The
rigid views of the Klegg family as to liquor-drinking had sunk into
his heart, and somehow whenever temptation came his way the clear,
far-seeing eyes of Maria would intervene with such a reproachful glance
that the thought of yielding became repugnant.

But the smooth, creamy applejack had slipped past his lips so
unexpectedly that it possessed him, before principle could raise an
objection. Shorty was the kind of a man to whom the first drink is the
greatest danger. After he had one almost anything was likely to happen.

Still, though his blood was already warming with the exhilarating
thrill, there were some twinges of conscience.

"Now, I mustn't take no more o' that," he said to himself. "That one
drink was good and all right enough, because I really thought I was
goin' to take a drink of water when I put the canteen to my lips. I
could swear that to Maria on a stack o' Bibles high as her dear head.
God bless her!"

He began bustling about with more activity, and giving his orders in a
louder voice. He saw Pete Skidmore pick up what had been once a militia
officer's gaudy coat, and examine it curiously. He shouted at him:

"Here, drop that, drop that, you little brat. What 'd I tell you? That
you mustn't fetch a rag of anything you see in here, except with the
point o' your bayonet and with your bayonet on your gun. Drop it, I tell
you."

"Why, what's the matter with that old coat?" asked Pete in an