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“Well, if you set there gabblin’, you’ll never seeyer wife.”

“Come on,” said Private Smith.”Wait a moment, boys; less take suthin’. It’s on me.” He led them to the rusty tin dipper which hung on a nail beside the wooden water-pail, and they grinned and drank. Then shouldering their blankets and muskets, which they were “takin’ home to the boys,” they struck out on their last march.

“They called that coffee Jayvy,” grumbled one of them, “but it never went by the road where government Jayvy resides. I reckon I know coffee from peas.”

They kept together on the road along the turnpike, and up the winding road by the river, which they followed for some miles. The river was very lovely, curving down along its sandy beds, pausing now and then under broad basswood trees, or running in dark, swift, silent currents under tangles of wild grapevines, and drooping alders, and haw trees. At one of these lovely spots the three vets sat down on the thick green sward to rest, “on Smith’s account.” The leaves of the trees were as fresh and green as in June, the jays called cheery greetings to them, and kingfishers darted to and fro with swooping, noiseless flight.

“I tell yeh, boys, this
knocks the swamps of Loueesiana into kingdom come.”

“You bet. All they c’n raise down there is snakes, niggers, and p’rticler hell.”

“An’ fighting men,” put in the older man.

“An’ fightin’ men. If I had a good hook an’ line I’d sneak a pick’rel out o’ that pond. Say, remember that time I shot that alligator—”

“I guess we’d better be crawlin’ along,” interrupted Smith, rising and shouldering his knapsack, with considerable effort, which he tried to hide.

“Say, Smith, lemme give you a lift on that.”

“I guess I c’n manage,” said Smith grimly.

“Course. But, yo’ see, I may not have a chance right off to pay yeh back for the times ye’ve carried my gun and hull caboodle. Say, now, gimme that gun, anyway.”

“All right, if yeh feel like it, Jim,” Smith replied, and they trudged along doggedly in the sun, which was getting higher and hotter each half-mile.

“Ain’t it queer there ain’t no teams comin’ along,” said Smith, after a long silence.

“Well, no, seein’s it’s Sunday.”

“By jinks, that’s a fact! It isSunday. I’ll git home in time f’r dinner, sure!” he exulted.”She don’t hev dinner usually till about oneon Sundays.” And he fell into a muse, in which he smiled.

“Well, I’ll git home jest about six o’clock, jest about when the boys are milkin’ the cows,” said old Jim Cranby.”I’ll step into the barn an’ then I’ll say: ‘Heah!why ain’t this milkin’ done before this time o’ day?’ An’ then won’t they yell!” he added, slapping his thigh in great glee.

Smith went on.”I’ll jest go up the path. Old Rover’ll come down the road to meet me. He won’t bark; he’ll know me, an’ he’ll come down waggin’ his tail an’ showin’ his teeth. That’s his way of laughin’. An’ so I’ll walk up to the kitchen door, an’ I’ll say, ‘Dinnerf’r a hungry man!’ An’ then she’ll jump up, an’—”

He couldn’t go on. His voice choked at the thought of it. Saunders, the third man, hardly uttered a word, but walked silently behind the others. He had lost his wife the first year he was in the army. She died of pneumonia, caught in the autumn rains while working in the fields in his place.

They plodded along till at last they came to a parting of the ways. To the right the road continued up the main valley; to the left it went over the ridge.