At midnight the road ascended a roll in the plain, and became once more hard and smooth. The driver urged the team into a series of brief and spasmodic trots, which lasted a couple of hours, when we again descended to a lower level, where the wearily slow gait was resumed. With the slower pace our hopes fell and our thirst increased. As Private Tom Clary expressed it to the driver:
"In a place like this a gallon of Black Tank's water would be acciptible without a strainer, and no riflictions passed upon the wigglers."
"That's so, Tom," called Henry from the depths of his blankets; "I could drink two quarts of it—half and half."
"Half and half—what do you mean?" I asked.
"Half water and half wigglers," was the answer.
"I thought you were asleep."
"Can't sleep, sir; I'm too thirsty. Did drop off once for two or three minutes, and dreamed of rivers, waterfalls, springs, and wells that I could not reach."
"I've not slept at all," said Frank; "just been thinking whether I ever rode over a mile in Vermont without crossing a brook or passing a watering-trough."
"It's beginning to grow light in the east," observed the driver. "By the time we reach the top of the next roll we can see whether we are near the wells."
"You may stop the team, Marr," said I. "We will wait for the escort to close up."