Canteen in hand, I sat down by the spring. Fully three minutes I sat and waited. Seeing how muddy I was, I took out my knife and began scraping the mud from my shoes and clothing.
I heard a step. I put my canteen into the water and held it down with one hand, continuing, to scrape mud with the other.
"Fill mine, too," said a voice.
I did not look up.
"Ain't this a swamp to read about? Did you ever see the likes o' mosquitoes?"
"I couldn't see 'em," said I; "supposing you mean whilst I was on vydette."
He laughed. "Bet you had to fight 'em, though. Say--you won't git that mud off that-away; let it dry."
I did not reply. He was standing almost over me, upon a sort of shelf in the side of the gully, as there was not room at the water for more than one man.
"Gimme your canteen," said I.
He handed it to me. It was a bright new tin canteen of the cheap Confederate make--uncovered. I knew at once that this man belonged to the fresh regiment. The old Confederates had supplied themselves, from battlefields and prisoners, and the greater capture of stores, with good Union canteens. Even while I was thinking this, he said, "What'll you take to boot 'twixt your canteen and mine?"