"Judas Priest! He's one o' them sneks et tuk me when you was
fightin' t' other feller over there 'n the woods."

"Looks rather bad for us," I remarked.

"Does hev a ruther squeaky luk tew it," said he. "All we got t'
dew is t' keep breathin' jest es nat'ral 'n' easy es can be till we
fergit how. May fool 'em fust they know."

I had a high notion, those days, of the duty of a soldier. My
father had always told me there was no greater glory for anybody
than that of a brave death. Somehow the feeling got to be part of
me. While I had little fear of death, I dreaded to be shot like a
felon. But I should be dying for my country, and that feeling
seemed to light the shadows. When I fell asleep, after much worry,
it was to dream of my three countrymen who had fallen to their
faces there by the corn. I awoke to find the guard in our cell,
and D'ri and he whispering together. He had come with our
breakfast.

"All I want," D'ri was saying, "is a piece of iron, with a sharp
end, half es long es yer arm."

He made no answer, that big, sullen, bull-dog man who brought our
food to us. When he had gone, D'ri lay over and began laughing
under his breath.

"His thinker's goin' luk a sawmill," he whispered. "Would n't
wonder ef it kep' 'im awake nights. He was askin' 'bout thet air
tew thousan' dollars. Ef they 'll let us alone fer three days, we