Scouting parties were no novelty in and near the village of Snagtown, for this village lay about half way between the two hostile forces, and the scouts of both armies frequently entered it. These parties, not always made up of the most honorable men, kept the good citizens in the vicinity in a constant state of alarm. Hen roosts were robbed, apple orchards devastated, and melon patches stripped, vines and all.
Oleah's party, however, attempted no exploits of this kind, for his men knew that he would regard it as base and dastardly an act to filch from an unoffending citizen as to fly from an enemy.
Our friend Diggs was of the party, and when Oleah stationed his men in a grove, about a mile distant, and set out to visit his home, Mr. Diggs volunteered to accompany him. Oleah was annoyed, but, having no good excuse for refusal, submitted with what grace he could to the infliction. The short-legged soldier was now all smiles and satisfaction, being, in his own estimation, the favored of his captain.
"I tell you—hem, hem, hem!" said Diggs, as he kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse—not January, but a spiteful little mustang—to keep up with the fierce black charger on which the captain was mounted. "I tell you—hem, hem!—this reminds me more of the return of the knights of old after a battle, or a crusade, than any thing in my experience."
Diggs' conversation was not noted for brilliancy or point, but Oleah thought he never knew him to be so flat and pointless as on this occasion.
"I can't for the life of me, Diggs," he said, "see that we bear any possible likeness to knights or crusaders."
"Why, you see, they left their homes, and so did we. We are alike there."
Oleah made no answer. He was probably convinced.
Mr. Diggs went on triumphantly: