im lying upon the short grass by the
wall, he shook his own roughened hair, in impatient envy. "Why, you've
stood it like a Major, Pinetop," he remarked.

Pinetop opened his eyes. "Stood what?" he drawled.

"Why, this heat, this dust, this whole confounded march. I don't believe
you've turned a hair, as Big Abel says."

"Good Lord," said Pinetop. "I don't reckon you've ever ploughed up hill
with a steer team."

Without replying, Dan unstrapped his knapsack and threw it upon the
roadside. "What doesn't go in my haversack, doesn't go, that's all," he
observed. "How about you, Dandy?"

"Oh, I threw mine away a mile after starting," returned Jack Powell, "my
luxuries are with a girl I left behind me. I've sacrificed everything to
the cause except my toothbrush, and, by Jove, if the weight of that goes on
increasing, I shall be forced to dispense with it forever. I got rid of my
rations long ago. Pinetop says a man can't starve in blackberry season, and
I hope he's right. Anyway, the Lord will provide--or he won't, that's
certain."

"Is this the reward of faith, I wonder?" said Dan, as he looked at a lame
old negro who wheeled a cider cart and a tray of green apple pies down a
red clay lane that branched off under thick locust trees. "This way, Uncle,
here's your man."

The old negro slowly approached them to be instantly surrounded by the
thirsty regiment.

"Howdy, Marsters? howdy?" he began, pulling his grizzled hair. "Dese yer's
right nice pies, dat dey is, suh."

"Look here, Uncle, weren't they made in the ark, now?" inquired Bland
jestingly, as he bit into a greasy crust.

"De ark? naw, suh; my Mehaley she des done bake 'em in de cabin over
yonder." He lifted his shrivelled hand and pointed, with a tremulous
gesture, to a log hut showing among the distant trees.

"What? are you a free man, Uncle?"

"Free? Go 'way f'om yer! ain' you never hyearn tell er Marse Plunkett?"

"Plunkett?" gravely repeated Bland, filling his canteen with cider. "Look
here, stand back, boys, it's my turn now.--Plunkett--Plunkett--can I have a
long-lost friend named Plunkett? Where is he, Uncle? has he gone to fight?"

"Marse Plunkett? Naw, suh, he ain' fit nobody."

"Well, you tell him from me that he'd better enlist at once," put in Jack
Powell. "This isn't the time for skulkers, Uncle; he's on our side, isn't
he?" The old negro shook his head, looking uneasily at the froth that
dripped from the keg into the dust.

"Naw, suh