“Faith! an’ if ye were a friend of the divil and had no counthersign ye couldn’t pass this way—not on no account, sor.”
“But I tell you I am a friend of your chaplain, and I forgot to ask him for the countersign. Don’t you see?”
“Is that it, sor? Then, be jabers! what’s to prevint me giving to ye the counthersign, eh?”
“Nothing, I suppose, if you will be so kind.”
“Come closer, and, be jabers! I’ll just whisper it in your ear. There! Now stand and answer. Who comes here?”
“A friend.”
“A friend! Right! and maybe ye have the counthersign?”
“I have; it is ‘Good-night, mother.’”
“Quite correct, sor. Pass on, and good luck to ye!”
A long siege is such dull work that the Northerners used to amuse themselves by chaffing the young negroes when they caught them in the lines. Perhaps they would give the nigger-boy a bit of food, then suddenly say: