"Humph! though it is hot enough without, I shouldn't mind being at one more fire!" said Webster, who, like most New Yorkers of a certain age, had once in his time "run wid der masheen."
"But where is that gentleman from the South?" asked Crawford. "He may give us a pop directly—look out!"
"The no-coated devil!" said Webster. "He was dodging behind that big oak a moment ago. I think I see the edge of his shirt—yes!"
He did see the tip of the Southerner's shirt, and some one else felt him; for at that instant "crack!" went the long rifle, and John Crawford gave vent to an "Ough!" that partook of the mingled characters of an oath and a yell, staggering up against the nearest tree at the same moment, with a rifle-bullet through his left fore-arm, and feeling that sentiment of disgust at the stomach which is inseparable from the forcible entrance of any substance into the human body, in the shape of a wound.
"Hallo, Jack! Eh, you did it, did you?—d—n you!" sputtered Webster, as he heard the report and saw the effect. Of course the first part of his remark was addressed to his comrade, and the last to the rebel, who had made such a capital shot that he allowed too much of his figure to be exposed while making his survey. In an instant, Webster's piece was drawn up, and a second "crack!" rang out through the trees.
"Ten to one I hit him!" cried Webster. "For the first time I got a fair view of one side of his dirty white shirt. But how badly are you hurt, Jack? Where are you hit?"
"Hurt a good deal, but not seriously, I think," answered Crawford, a little faintly. "He hit me here in the left arm, below the elbow. I think the bullet went through, and maybe the bone is broken."
"Too bad! tut! tut!" said his brother Zouave. "Never mind—I will bind it up in a moment. Do you think you can lean against that tree and keep from fainting until I run and see whether my little joker went in the right direction?"
"Nary faint!" said Crawford, making a strong effort to overcome the pain he was suffering. "Go ahead, Bob, and hurry!"
Webster did hurry, and Crawford had scarcely more than time to enjoy half-a-dozen exquisite throbs of agony and observe that the light through the trees, Northward, was growing brighter and brighter, when he came running back, very jubilant.