"So," he thought, as he went through the camp, "Given is here, and near. I shall be glad to see a face from home, whatever kind of a face it may be, and Given's is a good one; it will be a pleasant rememberance."
"Whither away?" called a voice behind him.
"To the 29th," he answered the questioner, one of his officers and friends, who, coming up, took his arm,—"in pursuit of a man."
"What's his name?"
"Given,—christened James. What are you laughing at? do you know him?"
"No, I don't know him, but I've heard some funny stories about him; he's a queer stick, I should think."
"Something in that way.—Helloa! Brooks, back again?" to a fine, frank-looking young fellow,—"and were you successful?"
"Yes, to both your questions. In addition I'll say, for your rejoicing, that I give in, cave, subside, have nothing more to say against your pet theory,—from this moment swear myself a rank abolitionist, or anything else you please, now and forever,—so help me all ye black gods and goddesses!"
"Phew! what's all this?" cried Whittlesly, from the other side of his Colonel; "what are you driving at? I'll defy anybody to make head or tail of that answer."
"Surrey understands."