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Updated: June 27, 2025
The Captain didn't know very much about drilling himself, but he had been reading up "Hardee," and thought he could handle the company; but it was a good deal like the blind trying to lead the blind. "Right Face!" Not quite half the men faced the wrong way, turning to the left instead of the right, which was doing pretty well for a starter. "Get around there, Klegg, and the rest of you fellows!
Raising his gun to a "ready" he ordered the man to come in or he would put a hole through him. The best thing to do under the circumstances was to obey. The forager, who belonged to Si's company, crept up to Corporal Klegg and in a conciliatory tone opened negotiations. "You jest let me pass, and you may have your pick of this stuff," said he, holding up a fowl in one hand and a ham in the other.
"I don't seem to see anything treasonable so far," said the General. "Sergeant, take the rest of your prisoners up to the Provost-Marshal, and leave this man with me." "Gen. Rosecrans," said a familiar voice, "you ordered us to report to you this mornin' at 10 o'clock. We're here." The General looked up and saw Corporal Si Klegg and Shorty standing at a "salute."
"Si Klegg, go off and mind your own business, and let me attend to mine," yelled Shorty, struggling to free himself from his partner's iron grasp. "Am I goin' to be run over by every pin-feather snipe from West Point? I'll break him in two." "Sergeant," commanded the Aid, reaching to take the field-glasses from Shorty's hand; "buck and gag that man at once. Knock him down if he resists.
The Lieutenant abused me for being a partner in sellin' whisky to the soldiers me, Josiah Klegg, Patriarch of the Sons o' Temperance, and a Deacon. While I wuz tryin' to tell him he jabbed his sword into the can o' peaches, and what do you suppose was in that?" "Whisky," yelled Si and Shorty, with another burst of laughter. "That's jest what it wuz.
The answering yell that went up seemed to indicate that nearly all in the car belonged to McCook's Corps. There was a general peeling off of overcoats, and a rush forward of answerers to his bold challenge. A few yelled, "Hooray for Miller's Brigade!" "Hooray for Crittenden's Corps!" "Hooray for Pap Thomas!" and started in to help out the Miller man. Mr. Klegg rose to his feet in dismay.
Corporal Klegg was anxious that not only his person, but all his belongings, should make as good an appearance as possible. He put on the best and cleanest garments he had, and then betook himself to fixing his knapsack so it would pass muster. "Them duds is a bad lot," he said to Shorty, casting rueful glances at the little heap of soiled and ragged clothes.
I want them arrested and punished." "Fall back there, both of you," said the General severely, as Si and Shorty came to a present arms. "Sergeant, who are you, and where do you belong?" "I'm Serg't Klegg, sir, of Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteer Infantry." "Who are you, Corporal?" "I'm Corp'l Elliott, sir, of Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteer Infantry." "Now, officer, who are you?" "I'm Lieut.-Col.
He has a way of sitting on people. He wouldn't like it if people did it to him. He jumps the words out of your mouth; he takes hold of what you have to say before you have had time to express it properly." Pause. "I suppose he's frightfully clever," said Miss Klegg. "He's a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can't be much over thirty," said Miss Klegg. "He writes very well," said Ann Veronica.
The Deacon walked straight to the nearest tent, lifted the flap and inquired: "Does anybody here know where there is a boy named Si Klegg, of Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteers?" "Pap, is that you?" said a weak voice in the far corner. "Great, jumpin' Jehosephat, the Deacon!" ejaculated a tall skeleton of a man, who was holding a cup of coffee to Si's lips.
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