My first "find" of any importance was a young Pennsylvania Zouave, who was lying dead near the bridge that crossed the Creek.

His clothes were all badly worn, except his baggy, dark trousers, which were nearly new.

I removed these, scraped out from each of the dozens of great folds in the legs about a half pint of lice, and drew the garments over my own half-frozen limbs, the first real covering those members had had for four or five months.

The pantaloons only came down about half-way between my knees and feet, but still they were wonderfully comfortable to what I had been--or rather not been--wearing.

I had picked up a pair of boot bottoms, which answered me for shoes, and now I began a hunt for socks.