I sharpened a reed and introduced its point into the wound; an obstacle
was met at once--but how to get it out? The hole was so small that I
conjectured the wound had been made by a buck-shot, the rebels using,
as we ourselves, many smooth-bore muskets, loaded with buck-and-ball
cartridges.

"Willis," said I, "I think I'd better not undertake this job; suppose I
get the ball out, who knows that that will be better for you? Maybe
you'd lose too much blood."

"I want it out," said Willis.

"But suppose I can't got it out; we might lose an hour and do no good.
Besides, I must insist that I don't like it. I think my business is to
let your leg alone; I'm no surgeon."

"Take your knife," said Willis, "and cut the hole bigger."

The wound was bleeding afresh, but I did not tell him so.

"No," said I; "your leg is too valuable for me to risk anything of that
kind."

"You refuse?"

"I positively refuse," said I.

We had eaten enough. The sun was almost down. Far away a low rumbling
was heard, a noise like the rolling of cars or of a wagon train.