"Shorty," he said, with a sadness in his tone that would almost have moved a mule to tears, "who'd a-thought rd ever git as low down 's this, to have them all-fired graybacks, 's ye call 'em, crawlin' over me. How'd mother feel if she knew about 'em. She wouldn't sleep a wink fer a month!"
"Ye'll have to come to it. Si. All the soljers does, from the Major-Gin'rals down to the tail-end of the mule-whackers. Ye mind them 'Sconsin chaps we was lookin' at a little bit ago?"
"Yes," said Si.
"Well, graybacks was what ailed 'em. The fellers with their shirts on their knees was killin' 'em off. That's what they calls 'skirmishin'. There's other kinds o' skirmishing besides fitin' rebels! Ye'd better git rid of that one on yer arm, if he hasn't got inside already; then there'll be one less of 'em."
Si found him after a short search, and proposed to get a chip, carry him to the fire and throw him in.
"Naw!" said Shorty in disgust, "that's no way. Lemme show yer how!"
Shorty placed one thumb-nail on each side of the insect. There was a quick pressure, a snap like the crack of a percussion cap, and all was over.
Si shuddered, and wondered if he could ever engage in such a work of slaughter.