"You'd better get Pinetop to daub your chinks for you," he suggested. "He
can make a mixture of wet clay and sandstone that you couldn't tell from
mortar."
"You jest wait till I git through these shoes an' I'll show you," remarked
Pinetop, from the woodpile, where he was making moccasins of untanned beef
hide laced with strips of willow. "I ain't goin' to set my bar' feet on
this frozen groun' agin, if I can help it. 'Tain't so bad in summer, but, I
d'clar it takes all the spirit out of a fight when you have to run
bar-footed over the icy stubble."
"Jack Powell lost his shoes in the battle of Fredericksburg," said Baker,
as he carefully fitted his notched sticks together. "That's why he got
promoted, I reckon. He stepped into a mud puddle, and his feet came out but
his shoes didn't."
"Well, I dare say, it was cheaper for the Government to give him a title
than a pair of shoes," observed Dan, cynically. "Why, you are going in for
luxury! Is that pile of oak shingles for your roof? We made ours of rails
covered with pine tags."
"And the first storm that comes along sweeps them off--yes, I know. By the
way, can anybody tell me if there's a farmer with a haystack in these
parts?"
"Pinetop got a load about three miles up," replied Dan, emptying his pipe
against the door sill. "I say, who is that cavalry peacock over yonder? By
George, it's Champe!"
"Perhaps it's General Stuart," suggested Baker witheringly, as Champe came
composedly between the rows of huts, pursued by the frantic jeers of the
assembled infantry.
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