After a moment he called out:—
“Say, Bob, here’s a conundrum. What’s the difference between a bounty-jumper and a—”
“Oh, button up!” replied Bob, who was studying out a peculiarly difficult infantry formation, and did not wish to be interrupted.
“All right! now you’ll never know,” responded his comrade.
For a few moments there was silence, then the voice in the tent was again heard singing rude rhymes of war.
“We are goin’ to drop our thunder,
Johnny Reb, Johnny Reb;
You had better stand from under,
Johnny Reb, Johnny Reb;
You will see the lightnin’ flash,
You will hear the muskets crash,
It will be the Yankees comin’,
Johnny Reb, Johnny Reb;
And we’ll git you while you’re runnin’,
Johnny Reb.”
Above the tent, below it, all about it, from Warrenton to Turkey Run, was encamped Meade’s great army. There were seasoned veterans, raw volunteers, conscript regiments, all accepting and enduring with philosophic fortitude the hardships and vicissitudes of army life. Here and there camp-fires had been lighted, here and there a belated meal was being eaten. It was an hour for rest and relaxation from the stern duties of war, only the picket force being thrown to the front in triplicate lines, to protect the army from surprise.
Bob Bannister looked well in his suit of army blue. He bore himself with soldier-like precision, and a dignity befitting his occupation. Young, enthusiastic, good-natured, intensely patriotic, he had at once become a favorite with the men of his company. His every duty, performed with intelligence and alacrity, marked him in the eyes of the officers as one destined to promotion. As he sat there in the twilight, still studying his book, an orderly approached him and inquired:—
“Are you private Bannister?”