the boys meet an old friend and are taken home in a hurry.

it was not until late the next afternoon that the wagon-train finally reached bridgeport, and the weak, wornout mules had at last a respite from straining through the mud, under the incessant nagging of the teamsters' whips and their volleyed blasphemy.

the deacon's merciful heart had been moved by the sufferings of the poor beasts. he had done all that he could on the journey to lighten the labor of those attached to his own wagon. he had restrained as much as possible the st. vitus dance of the teamster's keen whip, uselessly remonstrated with him against his profanity, carried a rail to help pry the wheels out of the mudholes, and got behind and pushed going up the steep hills. at the journey's end when the exhausted brutes stood motionless, with their ears drooping and their eyes looking unutterable disgust at everything connected with the army and war, the deacon helped the teamster take their harness off, and carry them as much corn and hay as the forage-master could be pursuaded to dole out to them.

the deacon's next solicitude was to get the boys aboard a train that would start out soon. this was a sore perplexity. all was rush and bustle about the railroad yard. trains were coming, being switched hither and yon, unloaded, and reloaded, and going, in a way that was simply bewildering to the plain farmer. men in uniform and men in plain clothes were giving orders, and these were obeyed, and everybody seemed too busy to answer questions or give information.

"naw; git out. don't bother me with no questions, i tell you," impatiently said a man in citizen's clothes, who with arms outspread was signalling the switching engines. "'tain't my business to give information to people. got all i kin do to furnish brains for them bull-headed engineers. go to that quartermaster you see over there in uniform. the government pays him for knowin' things. it don't me."

"i don't know anything about the different cars, my friend," said the quartermaster haughtily. "that's the business of the railroad people. i simply order them to make up the trains for me, and they do the rest. there's a yard-master over there. go ask him."

"blazes and brimstone," exploded the yard-master; "how in the devil's name do you suppose i can tell anything about the trains going out? i'm just pestered to death by such fool questions, while the life's being worried out of me by these snoozers with sardine-labels on their shoulders, who strut around and give orders, and don't know enough about railroading to tell a baggage-check from a danger-signal. if they'd only let me alone i'd have all these trains running in and out like shuttles in a loom. but as soon's i get one arranged down comes a shoulderstrap and orders something different. go off and ask somebody that wears brass buttons and a basswood head. don't bother me. get out of the way of that engine there."

in despair, the deacon turned to a man who wore a major's shoulder-straps.

"no," he answered; "i'm sorry to say that i cannot give you any information. i'm only in command of the guards here. i haven't anything to do with the trains. the quartermasters run them, and they run them as they run everything they have anything to do with—like the old man and woman run their fulling mill on the kankakee—that is, like—

"dumb this mixin' o' military and civilian," said the irritated deacon, "it's worse'n mixin' religion and politics, and preachin' and tavern-keepin'. down there in camp everything was straight and systematic. every feller what don't have nothin' in his shoulder-straps bosses all the fellers what hain't no shoulder-straps at all. the feller what has one bar in his shoulder-straps bosses all the fellers what hain't nothin in theirs, and the feller what has two bars bosses the fellers with but one; the feller with leaves gives orders to the fellers with bars; the feller with an eagle lays clear over him, and the man with a star jest makes everybody jump when he talks. out at the depot on bean blossom crick sol pringle has the say about everything. he knows when the trains come and when they go, and what goes into 'em. this seems to be a betwixt and between place, neither pork nor bacon, i don't like it at all, i always want things straight—either one thing or t'other—reg'ler close communion, total-immersion babtist, or free-for-all, shoutin' methodist."

"i think i can help you, 'squire," said a big, goodnatured-looking civilian railroad man, who had become interested in the deacon's troubles. "i've bin around with the assistant yard-boss pickin' out a lot o' empties to hustle back to nashville for grub. that's one o' them over there, on the furthest switch—x634. see? it's got a chalk mark on it. i'll help you carry your boys into it, and fix 'em comfortable, and you'll go back with it all right."

the deacon turned gladly to him. the man summoned some of his friends, who speedily transferred si and shorty, with their belongings, cedar boughs and all, to the car, and made them as comfortable as possible, and added some little offerings of their own to contribute to the ease of the journey. they bestired themselves to find something to eat that the boys would relish, and brought out from somewhere a can of peaches and one of tomatoes, which proved very acceptable. the deacon was overwhelmed with gratitude.

"i want every one of you to come up to my house, whenever you git a chance," he said, "and make a long visit. you shall have the very best that there is on my farm, and if you don't live well it won't be maria klegg's fault. she'll jest lay herself out to be good to men who's bin good to her son, and when she lays herself out to git up a dinner the burnett house in cincinnati takes a back seat."

feeling entirely at ease, he climbed into the car, with a copy of the cincinnati gazette, which he had bought of a newsboy, lighted his pipe, put on his spectacles, and settled down to a labored, but thorough perusal of the paper, beginning at the head-lines on the upper left-hand corner, and taking in every word, advertisements and all, as systematically as he would weed a garden-bed or milk a cow. the deacon never did anything slip-shod, especially when he had to pay 10 cents for a copy of the cincinnati gazette. he was going to get his full money's worth, and if it was not in the news and editorials, he would take it out of the advertisements and patent medicine testimonials. he was just going through a convincing testimonial to the manifold virtues of spalding's prepared glue, when there was a bump, the sound of coupling, and his car began to move off.

"glory, we're goin' home!" shouted the deacon, waving his paper exultingly to the railroad men who had been so helpful. but he exulted prematurely. the engine rattled ahead sharply for a few hundred yards, and then began backing to opposite the spot where it had started from.

"that's all right," said his railroads friends encouragingly. "she's just run back on the other switch to take up a couple more cars. she'll go ahead all right presently."

"i hope it is all right," said the deacon, a little abashed; "but i never had any use for a hoss that went back more'n he did forrard."

but this was only the first of many similar experiences, which occupied the rest of the day.

"good gracious, do they want to wear the track and wheels and injines clean out?" grumbled the deacon. "no wonder they're all out o' order. if i jammed my wagon back and forrard this way it wouldn't last a month. no wonder war-taxes are high, with everybody doin' all they kin to waste and destroy property. i've a great mind to write to gen. rosecrans or president lincoln callin' attention to the way their hired men monkey around, and waste time, and don't accomplish nothin'."

some time after dark, and after the deacon's patience had become well-nigh exhausted, the railroad men came around with a lantern, and told him that at last it was settled, and the train would move out very soon. there had been conflicting orders during the day, but now the chief quartermaster at nashville had ordered the train forward. sure enough, the train pulled out presently, and went rattling up toward shelbyville. again the deacon's heart bounded high, and after watching the phantom-like roadside for awhile, he grew very sleepy, and crawled in alongside of si. he waked up at daylight, and went at once to the car-door hopefully expecting to recognize the outskirts of nashville, or at least murfreesboro. to his dismay, he saw the same sutler's shanty, mule-corral, pile of baled-hay, and the embalmer's sign on a tree which had been opposite them while standing on the track at bridgeport.

shorty swore volubly, and for once the deacon did not check him, but was sinfully conscious in his heart of approving the profanity.

"swearin's awful wicked and low," he said to himself. "a sensible man can get along without it ordinarily, by the grace o' god and hard tryin', though i've knowed a yoke o' dumbed steers in a stumpy field to purty nigh overcome me. but the army's no common experience, and i s'pose a man's justified in bustin' out in a time like this. old job was lucky that he didn't have to ride on an army railroad."

in despair, the deacon turned to a major. 77

his railroad friend again came up with some hot coffee and broiled meat, and explained that after the train had reached a station some miles out it got orders to run back and clear the track for some trains of troops from the army of the potomac which were being rushed through. the deacon's heart almost sank in despair, but he took the coffee and meat, and helped the boys to it. as they were all eating they heard a voice outside which struck on the chords of their memories:

"where is that yard-boss? where is that yard-boss? find him and send him to me, immediately."

"that sounds like levi rosenbaum," said shorty.

si nodded affirmatively.

the deacon looked out,' and recognized levi dressed in the hight of fashion. on his jetty curls sat a glossy silk hat, his clothes looked as if just taken from the tailor's shop, and they fitted him to perfection. a large diamond flashed from his scarfpin, and another gleamed in a ring on his right hand as he waved it in giving orders to the men around. every eye was fixed on him, and when he spoke there was hastening to obey. the yard-boss was coming at a run.

"why are those cotton-cars still standing there this morning, after the orders i gave you yesterday?" asked levi, in tones of severest reprehension, as that official came up.

"why, mr. rosenbaum," said that official apologetically—he was the same man who had so severely snubbed the deacon the day before—"you see i had the train made up and all ready to start, when there came orders—"

"whose orders?" demanded levi. "who dares give orders that over-ride mine? you go at once and have an engine—the best one you have—hitched on. couple on my car, and be ready to start in 15 minutes. fifteen minutes i give you," continued he, looking at his watch. "tell the train dispatcher to clear everything into switches until we get to murfreesboro, and have the operator at murfreesboro lay by everything till we get to nashville."

the yard-boss rushed off to execute the order.

"great jehosephat, what's come over levi?" muttered shorty. "has he become the high-muk-a-muk of the whole army? have they put him in gen. rosecrans's place?"

"will i dare to speak to such a high-flyer?" said the deacon, doubtfully.

levi's eyes, flashed from one point to another, rested on the deacon for a moment, and the latter wreathed his face with a grin of recognition. then levi's stern countenance relaxed with a still broader grin.

"hello, 'squire," he shouted joyously. "is that you? where are the boys?" and he rushed forward with outstretched hand.

"i've got 'em in here, badly hurt," answered the deacon, jumping to the ground and grasping the outstretched hand in his own horny palm. "i'm very glad to see you, mr. rosenbaum."

"glad ain't no name for it," said levi. "did you say you'd got the boys in there? here, you men, bring me two or three of those cracker-boxes."

by the aid of the cracker-boxes levi climbed into the car, and shook the boys' hands, and cried and talked mingled gladness and sympathy in his broken english.

"what place have you got, and what are you doin' down here, mr. rosenbaum," the deacon asked in the first lull.

"o, i'm special agent of the treasury in charge of the cotton business. you see, these rascals have been stealing the treasury blind, in cotton, and they had to have an honest man down here, who was up to all their tricks, and wouldn't stand no nonsense. they sent me, and gave me orders which make me boss of the whole outfit. none of them outrank me about these trains."

"so i see," said the deacon. "wisht i'd had a handful of your authority yesterday."

"here, we're wasting time," said levi suddenly. "you're tryin' to get these boys back home. i'll see that they get as far as the ohio river as fast as the train'll go. here, six or eight of you men pick up these boys and carry them over to my car there. handle them as if they were eggs, for they're my friends."

there was no lack of willing hands to execute this order. that was long before the days of private cars, even for railway magnates, but rosenbaum had impressed a caboose for himself, which he had had fitted up with as many of the comforts of a home as were available at that era of car-building. he had a good bed with a spring mattress for himself and another for his friends, table, chairs, washroom and a fairly-equipped kitchen, stored with provisions, for he was as fond of good living as of sumptuous raiment. all this and more he was only too glad to place at the disposal of the deacon and the boys. the deacon himself was not more solicitous about their comfort.

the train started as levi had ordered, and sped along on a clear track to nashville. cotton was needed at the north almost as much as rations were needed at the front, and a train loaded with treasury cotton had superior rights to the track which must not be disregarded. at nashville a friend of levi's, a surgeon of generally recognized skill, and whom levi had telegraphed for, came aboard with a couple of skilled nurses, who bathed the boys, dressed their wounds, and replaced their soiled, torn clothes with new, clean ones, including fine, soft underwear from levi's own wardrobe.

"say, doc," said shorty, after this was finished and he had devoured a supper cooked under levi's special care, "i feel so much better that i don't believe there's any need o' my goin on any further. i'll jest lay by here, and go into convalescent camp for a few days, and then go back to the front with a squad, and help clean up our cracker line. i'd like awfully well to have a hand in runnin' them rebels offen lookout mountain. they've bin too infernally impudent and sassy for any earthly use."

"indeed you won't," said the surgeon decisively. "you'll go straight home, and stay there until you are well. you won't be fit for duty for at least a month yet, if then. if you went out into camp now you would have a relapse, and be dead inside of a week. the country between here and chattanooga is dotted with the graves of men who have been sent back to the front too soon."

the journey to louisville was delightful. at louisville levi tried hard to get his caboose taken across the river and attached to a train on the other side, so that the boys could go clear home in it. but a special treasury agent had but little of the importance north of the ohio river that he had south of it. still, levi managed to get the crew of an accommodation train interested in the boys, whom he had driven across the river on a light wagon, lying on his spring mattress. they were placed in a comfortable caboose, and soon were speeding on the last stretch of the journey.

the day was bright and sunny, and the boys were propped up, so that they could look out of the windows and enjoy the scenery. that they were nearing home made si nervous and fidgety. it seemed to him that the train only crawled, and stopped interminably at every station and crossing. the deacon became alarmed lest this should unfavorably affect him, and resorted to various devices to divert his mind. he bought a cincinnati gazette, and began reading it aloud. si was deeply interested in all the war news, particularly that relating to the situation at chattanooga, but he would not listen to the merits of spalding's prepared glue.

the day wore away towards evening.

"ain't we most there, pap?" si asked querulously.

"about 25 mile away, i think," answered his father. "i disremember just how fur that last stop is from the crick, but i think it's betwixt 25 and 30 mile."

just then the whistle blew for a stop.

"what'n the world are they stoppin' here for?" groaned si. "some woman's got a dozen aigs or a pound o' butter that she wants to send to town. i s'pose we'll stop here until she finishes churnin', or gits another aig to make up a dozen. i never did see sich putterin' along."

the deacon was deeply absorbed in an editorial on "president lincoln's duty in this crisis," and paid no attention. shorty craned his long neck out of the window.

"some gal's stopped the train to git on," he reported to si. "she's apparently been payin' a visit to a house up there a little ways, and they've brung her down in a buggy with her trunk. she's dressed up fit to kill, and she's purtier than a peach-blossom. jehosephat, si, i believe she's the very same gal that you was castin' sheep's eyes at when you was home. yes, it is."

"annabel?" gasped si.

"what's that?" said the deacon, rousing to interest, but carefully putting his thumb down to mark the place where he left off.

"shorty thinks annabel is out there gittin' on the train."

"eh," said the deacon, shoving up his spectacles and taking a good look. "it certainly is. she's been down here to see the robinses, who live out here somewhere. i'll jest go out and bring her in here."