transpired,' as the missionaries say, in relation to this article of
the _quizzeen_. All the barrels were loaded--which I had forgotten--and
so proceeded to give it an extra charge of groceries. * * *

It was a deadly fray. _Rang tang bang, paoufff!_ We fought as if it had
been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my
country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to
exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see
that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at JIM
MARRYGOLD of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans,
four years ago. He and DICK MIDDLETONGUE of Natchez (who carved the
Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came
down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve _me_. Such
language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such
double-shotted d--ns! I drew my pistol _at once_, and gave Dick a
blizzard. The ball went through his ear--the red pepper took his eyes,
while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In
this sweet state of affairs, CHARLEY RUFFEM of Savannah was descending
on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in
with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a _third_
barrel--killed him _dead_, and _salted_ him.

The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many _bad
artists_.

The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars.

A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and
fought--for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was
RAWLEY CHIVERS, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it,
he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had
more than one trial at _'fertig-los!'_ on the old _Pauk-boden_ in
Heidelberg.

'POP!' said he on the seventeenth round, 'are we going to chop all day?'

'CHIV,' said I, as I drew my castor, '_are you ready_?'

'Ready,' quoth he, effecting the same manoeuvre--'_one_, _two_,
_three_.'

I scratched his cheek, but the mustard settled him.
Sputter--p'l'z'z'z--how he swore! I went at him with both hands.

'_Priz?_' I cried.

'Priz it is,' he answered.

So I took him off as a priz. He was very glad to go too, for he hadn't
had a dinner for six weeks, and would have made a fine study for a
Murillo beggar so ar as rags went.

I punish my men whenever I catch them foraging. Pu