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"The first thing they know'd," says he, "we bit right into the depot and took charge." "I don't mind," Stephe remarked, "I don't mind life, nor yit death; but whenever I see a Massachusetts boy, I stick by him, and if them Secessionists attackt us to-night, or any other time, they'll git in debt." Whistle, again! and the train appears. We are ordered to ship our howitzer on a platform car.
The engine pushes us on. This train brings our light baggage and the rear guard. A hundred yards farther on is a delicious fresh spring below the bank. While the train halts, Stephe Morris rushes down to fill my canteen. "This a'n't like Marblehead," says Stephe, panting up; "but a man that can shin up them rocks can git right over this sand." The train goes slowly on, as a rickety train should.
Some of the worm-fences are new, and ten rails high; but the farming is careless, and the soil thin. Two of the Massachusetts men come back to the gun while we are standing there. One is my friend Stephen Morris, of Marblehead, Sutton Light Infantry. I had shared my breakfast yesterday with Stephe. So we refraternize. His business is, "I make shoes in winter and fishin' in summer."
He gives me a few facts, suspicious persons seen about the track, men on horseback in the distance. One of the Massachusetts guard last night challenged his captain. Captain replied, "Officer of the night" Whereupon, says Stephe, "The recruit let squizzle and jest missed his ear." He then related to me the incident of the railroad station.
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