“Come, Jed, what do you say? Are you tired fighting the battles of the Confederacy, and prefer those of home?”
“'Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,
Ellen and I will seek, apart,
The refuge of some forest cell,
There like the hunted quarry dwell,
Till on the mountain and the moor,
The stern pursuit be passed and o'er,'”
he quoted humbly. “I like ter read all 'bout fightin' well 'nough, but durn it, Cap, it kinder hurts whin they hits ye on ther head with a gun.” His face lit up suddenly. “'Sides, I sorter wanter hev Mariar git 'quainted with thet thar muel o' mine, Beelzebub.”
“But you've lost him.”
“Nary a durn loss; ye jist can't lose thet muel, he's too blame ornary. He's out thar now, hitched ter a tree, an' a eatin' fit ter bust his biler—never a durn mark on his hide fer all he wint through.”
“Well, I suppose I shall be compelled to let you and Beelzebub go, but it will prove a serious loss to the cause of the South,” I said, my thoughts instantly turned by mention of the mule to matters of more importance. “I expect there will be lively times up your way.”
“Ye kin jist bet thar will,” enthusiastically. “It'll be nip an' tuck, I reckon, but I 'm mighty hopeful o' Mariar. Thet dern muel he needs ter be took down a peg.”
Ebers was eating all this time with an eagerness which plainly exhibited his fear lest I should call him to halt before he had entirely filled the aching void in his interior department. I could not fail to note the deep anxiety in his eyes as he watched me furtively.
“Sergeant,” I said, and he started perceptibly.
“I vos not yet done, Captain,” he implored. “Mein Gott, but I vos so hongry as never vos.”