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"Morgan's cavalry are shooting some more stragglers," shouted some one.

If he ran short of ammunition he could ram pieces of hardtack into his gun and he had no doubt they would do terrible execution in the ranks of the enemy.

IT WOULD have been very strange, indeed, if Si Klegg had not grumbled loudly and frequently about the food that was dished up to him by the company cooks. In the first place, it was as natural for a boy to grumble at the "grub" as it was for him to try to shirk battalion drill or "run the guard." In the next place, the cooking done by the company bean-boiler deserved all the abuse it received, for as a rule the boys who sought places in the hash foundry did so because they were too lazy to drill or do guard duty, and their knowledge of cooking was about like that of the Irishman's of music:

"Deer Annie."

"Them fellers ain't sewin' on no buttons. Si," he replied; "they're skirmishin'."

"But we don't wear no vests," said Si, taking a practical view of this new word; "nothin' but blouses, 'n' pants, 'n' shirts."

Si went back to his cooking, with the Pediculus still on his arm. He wanted to show it to Shorty. The Captain's profound explanation, with its large words, was a little too much for Si. He did not yet clearly comprehend the matter, and as he walked thoughtfully to where Shorty was "bilin'" the coffee he was trying to get through his head what it all meant.

"How're ye gittin' on, Shorty?" said Si, as he and his comrade still struggled along.

"Shorty," said Si as they sat by the fire,—"I'm goin' to drop dead in my tracks before I'll fall out again."

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