"En ef'n
it don' tase like hit oughter tase, 'tain' no use ter tu'n up yo' nose,
caze 'tain' de faul' er de coffee, ner de faul' er me nurr."
"How are you, old man?" asked Bland, turning over in the shadow.
"Who's there?" responded Dan, as he peered from the light into the
obscurity.
"All the mess except Welch, poor devil. Baker got his hair singed by our
rear line, and he says he thinks it's safer to mix with the Yankees next
time. Somebody behind him shot his cowlick clean off."
"Cowlick, the mischief!" retorted Baker, witheringly. "Why, my scalp is as
bald as your hand. The fool shaved me like a barber."
"It's a pity he didn't aim at your whiskers," was Dan's rejoinder. "The
chief thing I've got against this war is that when it's over there won't be
a smooth-shaven man in the South."
"Oh, we'll stand them up before our rear line," suggested Baker, moodily.
"You may laugh, Bland, but you wouldn't like it yourself, and if they keep
up their precious marksmanship your turn will come yet. We'll be a regiment
of baldheads before Christmas."
Dan sat down upon the blanket Big Abel had spread and leaned heavily upon
his knapsack, which the negro had picked up on the roadside. A nervous
chill had come over him and he was shaking with icy starts from head to
foot. Big Abel brought a cup of coffee, and as he took it from him, his
hand quivered so that he set the cup upon the ground; then he lifted it and
drank the hot coffee in long draughts.
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