HE IS CAUGHT WITH THE GOODS ON HIM AND IS RESCUED JUST IN TIME.

With the Deacon’s assistance, the chimney was soon rebuilt, better than ever, and several homelike improvements were added.  The lost utensils were also replaced, one by one.  The Deacon was sometimes troubled in his mind as to where the pan, the camp-kettle, etc., came from.  Si or Shorty would simply bring in one of them, with a sigh of satisfaction, and add it to the house hold stock.  The Deacon was afraid to ask any questions.

One day, however, Shorty came in in a glow of excitement, with a new ax in his hand.

“There; isn’t she a daisy,” he said, holding it up and testing the edge with his thumb.  “None o’ your old sledges with no more edge than a maul, that you have to nigger the wood off with.  Brand new, and got an edge like a razor.  You kin chop wood with that, I tell you.”

“It’s a tolerable good ax.  Wuth about 10 bits,” said the Deacon, examining the ax critically.  “Last ax I bought from Öl Taylor cost 12 bits.  It was a better one.  How much’d you give for this?  I’ll pay it myself.”

“Do you know Jed Baskins thinks himself the best eucher player in the 200th Ind.,” said Shorty, forgetting himself in the exultation of his victory.  “Jed Baskins the Rev. Jared Baskins’s son a eucher player,” gasped the Deacon.  “Why, his father’d no more tech a card than he would a coal o’ fire.  Not so much, for I’ve often heard him say that a coal o’ fire kin only burn the hands, while cards scorch the soul.”

“Well, Jed,” continued Shorty, “bantered me to play three games out o’ five for this here ax agin my galvanized brass watch.  We wuz boss and hoss on the first two games; on the saw-off we had four pints apiece.  I dealt and turned up the seven o’ spades.  Jed ordered me up, and then tried to ring in on me a right bower from another deck, but I knowed he hadn’t it, because I’d tried to ketch it in the deal, but missed it an’ slung it under the table.  I made Jed play fair, and euchered him, with only two trumps in my hand.  Jed’s a mighty slick hand with the pasteboards, but he meets his boss in your Uncle Ephraim.  I didn’t learn to play eucher in the hay lofts o’ Bean Blossom Crick for nothin’, I kin tell you.”

An expression of horror came into Deacon Klegg’s face, and he looked at Shorty with severe disapproval, which was entirely lost on that worthy, who continued to prattle on: 

“Jed Baskins kin slip in more cold decks on green horns than any boy I ever see.  You’d think he’d spent his life on a Mississippi steamboat or follerin’ a circus.  You remember how he cleaned out them Maumee Muskrats at chuck-a-luck last pay-day?  Why, there wuzn’t money enough left in one company to buy postage stamps for their letters home.  You know how he done it?  Why, that galoot of a citizen gambler that we tossed in a blanket down there by Nashville, and then rid out o’ camp on a rail, learned him how to finger the dice.  I was sure some o’ them Maumee smart Alecks’d git on to Jed, but they didn’t.  I declare they wouldn’t see a six-mule team if it druv right across the board afore ’em.  But I’m onto him every minit.  I told him when he tried to ring in that jack on me that he didn’t know enough about cards to play with our Sunday school class on Bean Blossom Crick.”

“Josiah Klegg,” said the Deacon sternly, “do you play cards?”

“I learned to play jest a little,” said Si deprecatingly, and getting very red in the face.  “I jest know the names o’ the cards, and a few o’ the rules o’ the game.”

“I’m surprised at you,” said the Deacon, “after the careful way you wuz brung up.  Cards are the devil’s own picture-books.  They drag a man down to hell jest as sure as strong drink.  Do you own a deck o’ cards?”

“No, sir,” replied Si.  “I did have one, but I throwed it away when we wuz goin’ into the battle o’ Stone River.”

“Thank heaven you did,” said the Deacon devoutly.  “Think o’ your goin’ into battle with them infernal things on you.  They’d draw death to you jest like iron draws lightnin’.”

“That’s what I was afeared of,” Si confessed.

“Now, don’t you ever touch another card,” said the Deacon.  “Don’t you ever own another deck.  Don’t you insult the Lord by doin’ things when you think you’re safe that you wouldn’t do when you’re in danger and want His protection.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Si very meekly.  The Deacon was so excited that he pulled out his red bandanna, mopped his face vigorously, and walked out of the door to get some fresh air.  As his back was turned, Si reached slily up to a shelf, pulled down a pack of cards, and flung them behind the back-log.

“I didn’t yarn to Pap when I told him I didn’t own a deck,” he said to Shorty.  “Them wuzn’t really our cards.  I don’t exactly know who they belonged to.”

The good Deacon was still beset with the idea of astonishing the boys with a luxurious meal cooked by himself, without their aid, counsel or assistance.  His failure the first time only made him the more determined.  While he conceded that Si and Shorty did unusually well with the materials at their command, he had his full share of the conceit that possesses every man born of woman that, without any previous training or experience, he can prepare food better than anybody else who attempts to do it.  It is usually conceded that there are three things which every man alive believes he can do better than the one who is engaged at it.  These are: 

1.  Telling a story;

2.  Poking a fire;

3.  Managing a woman.

Cooking a meal should be made the fourth of this category.

One day Si and Shorty went with the rest of Co.  Q on fatigue duty on the enormous fortifications, the building of which took up so much of the Army of the Cumberland’s energies during its stay around Murfreesboro’ from Ja to June 24, 1863.  Rosecrans seemed suddenly seized with McClellan’s mania for spade work, and was piling up a large portion of Middle Tennessee into parapet, bastion and casemate, lunet, curtain, covered-way and gorge, according to the system of Vauban.  The 200th Ind. had to do its unwilling share of this, and Si and Shorty worked off some of their superabundant energy with pick and shovel.  They would come back at night tired, muddy and mad.  They would be ready to quarrel with and abuse everybody and every thing from President Lincoln down to the Commissary-Sergeant and the last issue of pickled beef and bread especially the Commissary-Sergeant and the rations.  The good Deacon sorrowed over these manifestations.  He was intensely loyal.  He wanted to see the soldiers satisfied with their officers and the provisions made for their comfort.

He would get up a good dinner for the boys, which would soothe their ruffled tempers and make them more satisfied with their lot.

He began a labored planning of the feast.  He looked over the larder, and found there pork, corned beef, potatoes, beans, coffee, brown sugar, and hard tack.

“Good, substantial vittles, that stick to the ribs,” he muttered to himself, “and I’ll fix up a good mess o’ them.  But the boys ought to have something of a treat once in a while, and I must think up some way to give it to ’em.”

He pondered over the problem as he carefully cleaned the beans, and set them to boiling in a kettle over the fire.  He washed some potatoes to put in the ashes and roast.  But these were too common place viands.  He wanted something that would be luxurious.

“I recollect,” he said to himself finally, “seein’ a little store, which some feller ’d set up a little ways from here.  It’s a board shanty, and I expect he’s got a lots o’ things in it that the boys’d like, for there’s nearly always a big crowd around it.  I’ll jest fasten up the house, and walk over there while the beans is a-seethin’, and see if I can’t pick up something real good to eat.”

He made his way through the crowd, which seemed to him to smell of whisky, until he came to the shelf across the front, and took a look at the stock.  It seemed almost wholly made up of canned goods, and boxes of half-Spanish cigars, and play ing-cards.

“Don’t seem to ba much of a store, after all,” soliloquized the Deacon, after he had surveyed the display.  “Ain’t a patchin’ to Öl Taylor’s.  Don’t see anything very invitin’ here.  O, yes, here’s a cheese.  Say, Mister, gi’ me about four pounds o’ that there cheese.”

“Plank down your $2 fust, olé man.” responded the storekeeper.  “This is a cash store cash in advance every time.  Short credits make long friends.  Hand me over your money, and I’ll hand you over the cheese.”

“Land o’ Goshen, four bits a pound for cheese,” gasped the Deacon.  “Why, I kin git the best full-cream cheese at home for a bit a pound.”

“Why don’t you buy your cheese at home, then, old man?” replied the storekeeper.  “You’d make money, if you didn’t have to pay freight to Murfreesboro’.  Guess you don’t know much about gettin’ goods down to the front.  But I hain’t no time to argy with you.  If you don’t want to buy, step back, and make room for someone that does.  Business is lively this mornin’.  Time is money.  Small profits and quick returns, you know.  No time to fool with loafers who only look on and ask questions.”

“Strange way for a storekeeper to act,” muttered the Deacon.  “Must’ve bin brung up in a Land Office.  He couldn’t keep store in Posey County a week.  They wouldn’t stand his sass.”  Then aloud:  “You may gi’ me two pounds o’ cheese.”

“Well, why don’t you plank down the rhino?” said the storekeeper impatiently.  “Put up your money fust, and then you’ll git the goods.  This ain’t no credit concern with a stay-law attachment.  Cash in advance saves bookkeeping.”

“Well, I declare,” muttered the Deacon, as he fished a greenback out of a leather pocketbook fastened with a long strap.  “This is the first time I ever had to pay for things before I got ’em.”

“Never went to a circus, then, old man, or run for office,” replied the storekeeper, and his humor was rewarded with a roar of laughter.  “Anything else?  Speak quick or step back.”

“I’ll take a can o’ them preserved peaches and a quart jug o’ that genuine Injianny maple molasses,” said the Deacon desperately, naming two articles which seemed much in demand.

“All right; $2 for the peaches, and $2 more for the molasses.”

“Sakes alive!” ejaculated the Deacon, producing the strapped pocketbook again.  “Five dollars gone, and precious little to show for it.”

He took his jug and his can, and started back to the cabin.  A couple of hundred yards away he met a squad of armed men marching toward the store, under the command of a Lieutenant.  He stepped to one side to let them pass, but the Lieutenant halted them, and asked authoritatively: 

“What have you got there, sir?”

“Jest some things I’ve been buyin’ for the boys’ dinner,” answered the Deacon.

“Indeed!  Very likely,” remarked the Lieutenant sarcastically.  He struck the jug so sharply with his sword that it was broken, and the air was filled with a powerful odor of whisky.  The liquor splashed over the Deacon’s trousers and wet them through.  The expression of anger on his face gave way to one of horror.  He had always been one of the most rigid of Temperance men, and fairly loathed whisky in all shapes and uses.

“Just as I supposed, you old vagabond,” said the Lieutenant, contemptuously.  “Down here sneaking whisky into camp.  We’ll stop that mighty sudden.”

He knocked the can of peaches out of the Deacon’s arms and ran his sword into it.  A gush of whisky spurted out.  The Sergeant took the package of cheese away and broke it open, revealing a small flask of liquor.

“The idea of a man of your age being engaged in such business,” said the Lieutenant indignantly.  “You ought to be helping to keep the men of the army sober, instead of corrupting them to their own great injury.  You are doing them more harm than the rebels.”

The Deacon was too astonished and angry to reply.  Words utterly failed him in such a crisis.

“Take charge of him, Corporal,” commanded the Lieutenant.  “Put him in the guard-house till tomorrow, when we’ll drum him out of camp, with his partner, who is running that store.”

The Corporal caught the Deacon by the arm roughly and pulled him into the rear of the squad, which hurried toward the store.  The crowd in front had an inkling of what was coming.  In a twinkling of an eye they made a rush on the store, each man snatched a can or a jug, and began bolting away as fast as his legs could carry him.

The storekeeper ran out the back way, and tried to make his escape, but the Sergeant of the provost squad threw down his musket and took after him.  The storekeeper ran fast, inspired by fear and the desire to save his ill-gotten gains, but the Sergeant ran faster, and presently brought him back, panting and trembling, to witness the demolition of his property.  The shanty was being torn down, each plank as it came off being snatched up by the soldiers to carry off and add to their own habitations.  The “canned fruit” was being punched with bayonets, and the jugs smashed by gun-butts.

“You are a cheeky scoundrel,” said the Lieutenant, addressing himself to the storekeeper, “to come down here and try to run such a dead-fall right in the middle of camp.  But we’ll cure you of any such ideas as that.  You’ll find it won’t pay at all to try such games on us.  You’ll go to the guard house, and to-morrow we’ll shave your head and drum you and your partner there out of camp.”

“I ain’t no partner o’ his,” protested the Deacon earnestly.  “My name’s Josiah Klegg, o’ Posey County, Injianny.  I’m down here on a visit to my son in the 200th Injianny Volunteer Infantry.  I’m a Deacon in the Baptist Church, and a Patriarch of the Sons o’ Temperance.  It’d be the last thing in the world I’d do to sell whisky.”

“That story won’t wash, old man,” said the Lieutenant.  “You were caught in the act, with the goods in your possession, and trying to deceive me.”

He turned away to order the squad forward.  As they marched along the storekeeper said to the Deacon:

“I’m afraid they’ve got me dead to rights, old man, but you kin git out.  Just keep up your sanctimonious appearance and stick to your Deacon story, and you’ll git off.  I know you.  I’ve lived in Posey County myself.  I’m going to trust you.  I’ve already made a clean big profit on this venture, and I’ve got it right down in my pocket.  In spite of all they’ve spiled, I’d be nigh $500 ahead o’ the game if I could git out o’ camp with what I’ve got in my sock.  But they’ll probably search me and confiscate my wad for the hospital.  You see, I’ve been through this thing before.  I’m goin’ to pass my pile over to you to take keer of till I’m through this rumpus.  You play fair with me, an’ I’ll whack up with you fair and square, dollar for dollar.  If you don’t I’ll follow you for years.”

“I wouldn’t tech a dirty dollar of yours for the world,” said the Deacon indignantly; but this was lost on the storekeeper, who was watching the Lieutenant.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered; “he’s got his eye on us.  There it is in your overcoat pocket.”

In the meantime they had arrived at the guard house.  The Sergeant stepped back, took the store keeper roughly by the shoulders, and shoved him up in front of a tall, magisterial-looking man wearing a Captain’s straps, who stood frowning before the door.

“Search him,” said the Captain briefly.

The Sergeant went through the storekeeper’s pockets with a deftness that bespoke experience.  He produced a small amount of money, some of it in fractional currency and Confederate notes, a number of papers, a plug of tobacco, and some other articles.  He handed these to the Captain, who hastily looked over them, handed back the tobacco and other things and the small change.

“Give these back to him,” he said briefly.  “Turn the rest of the money over to the hospital fund.  Where’s our barber?  Shave his head, call up the fifers and drummers, and drum him out of camp at once.  I haven’t time to waste on him.”

Before he had done speaking the guards had the storekeeper seated on a log, and were shearing his hair.

“General,” shouted the Deacon.

“That’s a Cap’n, you fool,” said one of the guards.

“Captain, then,” yelled the Deacon.

“Who is that man?” said the Captain severely.

“He’s his partner,” said the Lieutenant.

“Serve him the same way,” said the Captain shortly, turning to go.

The Deacon’s knees smote together.  He, a Deacon of the Baptist Church, and a man of stainless repute at home, to have his head shaved and drummed out of camp.  He would rather die at once.  The guards had laid hands on him.

“Captain,” he yelled again, “it’s all a horrible mistake.  I had nothin’ to do with this man.”

“Talk to the Lieutenant, there,” said the Captain, moving off.  “He will attend to you.”

The Lieutenant was attentively watching the barbering operation.  “Cut it close closer yet,” he admonished the barber.

“Lieutenant!  Lieutenant!” pleaded the Deacon, awkwardly saluting.

“Stand back; I’ll attend to you next,” said the Lieutenant impatiently.  “Now, tie his hands behind him.”

The Lieutenant turned toward the Deacon, and the barber picked up his shears and made a step in that direction.  Just in the extremity of his danger the Deacon caught sight of the Captain of Co.  Q walking toward Headquarters.

“Capt.  McGillicuddy!  Capt.  McGillicuddy! come here at once!  Come quick!” he called in a voice which had been trained to long-distance work on the Wabash bottoms.

Capt.  McGillicuddy looked up, recognized the waving of the Deacon’s bandanna, and hastened thither.  Fortunately he knew the Provost officers; there were explanations all around, and profuse apologies, and just as the fifes and drums struck up the “Rogue’s March” behind the luckless storekeeper, who had to step off in front of a line of leveled bayonets, the Deacon walked away arm-in-arm with the Captain.

“I’m not goin’ to let go o’ you till I’m safe back in our own place,” he said.  “My gracious! think of havin’ my head shaved and marched off the way that feller’s bein’.”

He walked into the cabin and stirred up the beans.

“The water’s biled off,” said he to himself, “but they hain’t been in nigh as hot a place as I have.  I guess the boys’ll have to do with a plain dinner to day.  I’m not goin’ to stir out o’ this place agin unless they’re with me.”

He put his hand into his pocket for his bandanna and felt the roll of bills, which he had altogether forgotten in his excitement.

His face was a study.