Then the regimental humorists began to get in their work:
"Sing 'em the 'Battle Cry o' Freedom.'"
"They've struck for more grub. Promise 'em double rations till we get to Shelbyville."
"Stop swearin', there, you fellers. You've frozen 'em stiff with your bad language. Pray with 'em."
"Read them the Emancipation Proclamation."
"Call 'em pet names. You can do anything with kindness. Even a mule has, a heart."
"Bring up the band and serenade 'em."
Shorty was raging around the team, kicking and striking first at one mule and then at another, and swearing like a pirate, alternately at the team and then at the jeering crowds. Si was following suit to the best of his ability, but his pious education had left him out of sight of Shorty when it came to using language that the occasion seemed to justify. He had, however, yanked Groundhog out of the saddle and driven him up the bank, where he sat down and grinned at the confusion which had overtaken his enemies.
Setting a man at the head of each mule to coax and encourage him, and the rest of the company to pushing and prying on the wagon, Si had mounted the wheel-mule himself and put forth his mule-knowledge in one feverish effort, which was as futile as it was desperate, for the mules did not seem to change their positions for a rest, even, when the wagon was forced forward on them.
A very dapper young Aid, fresh from West Point, and with that high appreciation for himself that can only be acquired at the United States Military Academy, galloped up, sternly ordering everybody to make way for him, and,