"Let's make her good and strong, Si," said Shorty, putting in some more tobacco; "for the fellers are sock-dolagers, and it will take a horse dose to kill 'em. They'll just enjoy a little taste o' terbacker. Make it strong enough to bear up an aig. Now, let's git our clothes off while it's coolin' down. You drench me, and I'll drench you, and we'll salivate these gallinippers in a way that'll surprise 'em."
The surprise seemed to be mostly on the other side. Shorty's skin was raw from head to foot from the depredations of the various tribes of "epizoa," as the physicians generalize them. He gave a yell that could be heard through the whole regiment as the acrid, biting tobacco-juice struck a thousand little punctures in his skin inside of a second. Everybody rushed up to see what was the matter, and stood around, laughing and commenting, while scratching and slapping at their own colonies of tormentors. Then Shorty began the most vehement stream of profanity, and showered maledictions on everything in the State of Tennessee, which was only a breeding place for fleas, woodticks, jiggers, graybacks, niggers, rebels, traitors, bushwhackers, guerrillas, thieves, robbers and murderers, and other spawn of Jeff Davisism. Presently he grew violently sick at the stomach, turned deathly white, and fainted. Frightened, Si rushed for the Surgeon.
"Only tobacco poisoning," said the latter, after he had looked Shorty over carefully. "You made that solution too strong, and the lot of little punctures took it directly into his circulation. You might have killed him if you had made it stronger, or got more of it on him. I never saw such rapscallions as you boys are. You are always trying to kill yourselves or one another, in spite of all that I can do or tell you. A man that's Surgeon of this regiment has to earn his money, I tell you. He will come out all right pretty soon, only he will be very weak. I'll send you down some whisky to give him."
"Real old rye, Doctor?" said Shorty, very faintly, and opening his eyes feebly. "None of your Commissary stuff. This is a powerful bad case, and I need the best."
"You shall have it," laughed the Surgeon. "I know you. You are all right when you are all right. But you won't be able to march with the column to-day. I'll give you an excuse from duty. And you (to Si) had better stay with him. I'll speak to your Captain."
The bugles were sounding the "assembly" every where, and the men, slapping and scratching as if they would tear their flesh and their clothes off, were hastily swallowing their last mouthfuls of hot coffee and bread and pork, snatching up their guns and blankets and falling in.
"Shelbyville is only six miles away," said the Orderly-Sergeant as he lined up Co. Q, and clawed around his clothes at his persecutors. "There'll be a circus to-day, and no postponement on account o' the weather. It'll either be the gol-darnedest fight that the 200th Injianny Volunteers ever got into or the cussedest foot-race that ever wuz run. Here, Biles, consarn you, leave that fire and your munching, and fall in. You're like a cow's tail always behind."
Shorty made a violent effort to rise up and join the company, but he was manifestly too weak. Si was in sore distress. He didn't want to leave him, but he was anxious to be with his company.
"Corporal Klegg," said the Captain, coming down the line, and giving a frequent furtive scratch at himself, "Shorty can't possibly go with us to-day. I'm awfully sorry, but there is no use talking about it. You must stay behind and take care of him, and take care of these sore-footed men who will be unable to keep up. The Colonel orders you to command the whole outfit. You keep them together, keep up as well as you can, and if you see any place that you can be useful, go in. I know and the Colonel knows that you can be trusted to do that."
This made Si more reconciled to being left behind, and he mentally resolved that, though he might not be with his beloved regiment, he would manage to do his full share in the impending battle for Shelbyville.