“A mule, sir, which has taken a fit of kicking. I will straighten them out in a moment.”
I wheeled, and peered into the rolling, surging mass of dust, out of which there arose such a hubbub of sounds as to make the noise of battle tame by comparison.
“Catch the brute by the bridle, two of you,” I roared stoutly. “Craig, Whortley, what are you hanging back for? Go in there! Take hold of the devil from in front; there is no danger at that end.”
The stern words of command, the return of discipline, seemed to steady that seething, fighting mass in an instant; there was a squeal, a curse, a slight settling down of the dust cloud, and two red-faced, perspiring troopers emerged from the jam, dragging the yet reluctant mule by main strength behind them. As they cleared the line of the column, Bungay rolled off the animal's back, and, in his eagerness, came down on all fours.
“Well,” I said sarcastically, “what do you think of your mule now?”
“By Jinks, Cap,” and his face lit up with intense admiration as he surveyed the animal, “durned if I don't take him hum. Gee! whut a scrap Mariar an' thet muel kin have!”
The Major pushed through the curious line of troopers and faced him angrily.
“What do you mean by running your dod-gasted old mule into this column?” he thundered. “Who are you, anyhow? Blamed if the little fool hasn't done more damage than a Yankee battery.”
Jed faced him ruefully.
“I didn't go ter dew it, mister,” he explained. “Ther muel wus jist pinted ther wrong way. I never knowed ther mean ol' cuss wint back'ards like thet.”