"In '62, I suppose?" said I.
"Yes,—at Boonsboro'."
Here the conversation ended as suddenly as it had opened. It was very clear that the Sergeant had said his last word for some time. But I was convinced in my own mind that at length more good would fall to my lot.
He pondered the matter some ten minutes, and then quite overwhelmed me with his story.
"One of your boys," he began, "lay wounded by me on the field,—of a ball in the lungs,—and wanted some water. Whenever he spoke, he threw out blood, and wasn't likely to live, nohow. I said,——
"'Yank, will you take my tin?'—for there was a drop in it yet, and I rolled on my side and gave it him.
"'I am goin' to die,' he said.
"'Yes,' says I.
"'They'll treat you well,' he said; 'they'll carry you to the hosp't'l, and I hope you'll live to git home.'
"'Thank you,' says I.