A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of twoscore soldiers was deserted.

He sat mournfully down.

Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.
"It's a lie! that's all it is--a thunderin' lie!" said another private loudly.

His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers' pockets.

He took the matter as an affront to him.
"I don't believe the derned old army's ever going to move.