"How's that?" said I.
"He saw a big pair of red leggings, with feet, hanging up before our tent. He never said a word, till he saw the leggings, and then he asked me what they were for. 'Them!' said I, 'them's General Banks's stockings.' He looked scared. 'He's a big man, is General Banks,' said I, 'but then he ought to be, the way he lives.' 'How?' said he. 'Why,' said I, 'his regular diet is bricks buttered with mortar.'"
The next day Billy got a present of a pair of stockings from a lady; a nice, soft pair, with his initials, in red silk, upon them. He was very happy. "Jimmy," said he, "just look at 'em," and he smoothed them down with his hand—"marked with my initials, too; 'B,' for my Christian name, and 'W' for my heathen name. How kind! They came just in the right time, too; I've got such a sore heel."
Orders came to "fall in." Billy was so overjoyed with his new stockings he didn't keep the line well.
"Steady, there!" growled the sergeant; "keep your place, and don't be moving round like the Boston post-office!"
We were soon put upon the double-quick. After a few minutes, Billy gave a groan.
"What is it, Billy?" said I.
"It's all up with 'em," said he.
I didn't know what he meant, but his face showed something bad had happened. When we broke ranks and got to the tent, he looked the picture of despair—shoes in hand, and his heels shining through his stockings like two crockery door-knobs.
"Them new stockings of yours is breech-loading, aint they, Billy?" said an unfeeling volunteer.