“Abe had a thunderin’ hard time ter begin with,” chuckled Pete reminiscently. “The fust time he give an order ez Cap’n, a feller answered, “Go hop in the river!””
“Must be some hard eggs in your outfit,” interposed Ben. “It takes backbone to handle men like that.”
“Wall, some o’ the boys wuz a mite obstrep’rous. But Abe didn’t let ’em skeer him. He stuck tew it; although, ez yer say, he didn’t know no more ’bout drillin’ than a monkey duz ’bout playin’ the fiddle. One day he wuz drillin’ tew platoons an’ we come ter a narrer gate. Abe wuz in a pickle. He didn’t know the order that would get ’em inter a column, tew by tew, fer passin’ through the gate. So what did he do—this’ll make yuh split—but give a command, ‘Comp’ny fall out fer tew minnits; then fall in ag’in tother side o’ gate!’”
“I hear yer company has a pig fer a mascot, Pete,” announced Bill Brown, with a wide grin. “I’ve heard tell o’ most every kind of a mascot, but that takes the prize.”
“Well, siree,” said Perkins, sharing in the general laughter, “a young white sow j’ined our outfit ’bout the time we crossed the Sangamon County line; an’ she’s bin with us ever since. An’ say, she’s jest the smartest critter in the hull pig tribe. Marched with us, swum the cricks, waded the swamps, an’ foraged fer food. An’ what do yer reckon we do, ter keep her from bein’ stole?”
“Couldn’t guess,” said Ben.
“Why, the cook—this’ll give yuh cramps—greased the leetle animule. She slips loose from anybody what tries ter hold her. We’re savin’ her, ourselves, fer a nice, juicy roast-pig feed, when ol’ Black Hawk fin’ly gits it in the neck.”
It was only the next afternoon, following Pete Perkin’s visit, that Tom and Ben Gordon had a chance to observe big Abe Lincoln in action. It came about this way. The boys were fishing for suckers at the river bank, when Jim Martin hurried up, his face tense and pale from anxiety.
“Come quick!” he called. “They mean to hang Bright Star!”
“No?” exclaimed Ben, as if not crediting his ears.