"Dear Brother,—I wish I was to home to-night, with you all sitting in the kitchen, and mother reading to us the way she used to, rather than being here. I am writing this by moonlight mostly, as it is getting late. We have had a big fight all day, but drove the Rebs back across a crick into a swamp, where we captured a lot of them stuck in the mud. I am dreadful sorry to say that Tom Ditchard was killed. Poor Tom! I suppose the home papers will tell all about it; he was shot fording the crick. I have his watch; he gave it to me to bring back home. I hope I shall do so. To-morrow we will move westward to head off Morgan, I guess; I hope we won't march far, for my boots are all worn out, and my feet are sore. But I am well; love to all, and kiss mother. I wrote her two days ago.
"Your affec brother,
Alfred.
"P.S.—The Fourth of July will soon be here. I suppose you will have no fireworks, though perhaps we shall. Good-by."
"I don't know as I'd like to be a soldier," said the boy with the gunpowder bottle—he was also the proud possessor of the long rifle. "'Tisn't so much fun, I guess. Think so, Skinny?"
"You're a 'fraid-cat," returned the boy with the belt. "That's what you are, Will Tevis."
The other flushed, but said nothing; he was by far the smallest of the three.
"How do you know Alfred was captured?" said the thin one, after a silence of a minute.
"He was on the missing list—that's all we know," said Hosmer, putting the letter back into his pocket.
"It will be the Fourth in two days, now," remarked Skinny, as if to change the subject. "But I hain't heard any talk about any celebration."
"Let's have one all to ourselves," suggested Hosmer.