" 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, Marse Plunkett, he's fur de Un'on, but he's pow'ful feared er de
Yankees," he returned.
Bland broke into a laugh. "Oh, come, that's downright treason," he
protested merrily. "Your Marse Plunkett's a skulker sure enough, and you
may tell him so with my compliments. You're on the Yankee side, too, I
reckon, and there're bullets in these pies, sure as I live."
The old man shuffled nervously on his bare feet.
"Go 'way, Marster, w'at I know 'bout 'sides'?" he replied, tilting his keg
to drain the last few drops into the canteen of a thirsty soldier. "I'se on
de Lawd's side, dat's whar I is."
He fell back startled, for the call of "Column, forward!" was shouted down
the road, and in an instant the men had left the emptied cart, and were
marching on into the sunny distance.
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