etam, and luckily the
ribbon of bushes held out. But when they were half way to the stream a
thick, dark figure rose up before them. Dick, in an instant, recognized
Sergeant Whitley.

"We want to get a nearer view of the enemy," said the boy.

"I'll go with you," said the sergeant. "I'm on what may be called
scouting duty. Besides, I've a couple of friends down there by the
river, but on the other side."

"Friends on the other side of the Antietam. What do you mean, sergeant?"

"I was scouting along there and I came across 'em. Only one in fact is
an old acquaintance, an' he's just introduced me to the other."

"That's cryptic."

"I don't rightly know what 'cryptic' means, but I guess I don't make
myself understood well. In my campaign on the plains against the Indians
I had a comrade named Bill Brayton. A Tennesseean, Bill was an' a fine
feller, too. Him an' me have bunked together many a time an' we've dug
out of the snow together, too, after the blizzards was over. But when
we saw the war comin' up, Bill had fool notions. Said he didn't know
anything 'bout the right an' wrong of it, guessed there was some of each
on each side, but whichever way his state would flop, he'd flop. Well,
we waited. Tennessee flopped right out of the Union an' Bill flopped
with it.

"I felt powerful sorry when Bill told me good-bye, and so did he. I
ain't seen or heard of him since 'till to-night, when I was cruisin'
down there by the side of the river in the dark an' keepin' under cover
of the bushes. Had no intention of shootin' anybody. Just wanted to take
a look. I saw on the other side a dim figure walkin' up an' down, rifle
on shoulder. Thought I noticed something familiar about it, an' the
longer I watched the shorer I was.

"At last I crept right to the edge of the bank an' layin' down lest some
fool who didn't know the manners of our war take a pot shot at me, I
called out, 'Bill Brayton, you thick-headed rebel, are you well an'
doin' well?'

"You ought to have seen him jump. He stopped walkin', dropped his rifle
in the hollow of his arm, looked the way my voice come and called out,
likewise in a loud voice: 'Who's callin' me a thick-headed rebel? Is it
some blue-backed Yankee? You know we see nothin' of you but your backs.
Come out in the light, an' I'll let some sense into you with a bullet.'

"'Oh, no I won't,' says I, still layin' close, an' not mindin' his taunt
'bout seein' our backs only. 'You couldn't hit me if