Early next morning when we emerged from our quarters the first person we
saw was the odd-appearing individual that had joined up with us the
night before, with his inevitable note book in his hand. He was still
busily sucking his indelible pencil in the corner of his mouth, and, in
the light of the morning sun, there was nothing about his mug that was
any more prepossessing than appeared in the twilight of the previous
night. He also had on the sleeve of his coat a crown, indicating that he
was to be our acting Sergeant-Major in the absence of the regular
officer, and when not so acting, he was to be the First Sergeant of the
section.

The official activity of our new friend commenced to be evidenced in a
number of ways; he lost no time in making us understand that he was
First Sergeant. "Sergeant Grant, detail two men for the cookhouse!" Then
to the gunners, "Here, you, clean up your wagons and take off all that
mud; it's filthy"; this was absolutely unnecessary and the fellows swore
vehemently under their breath; to the drivers,--"Clean up that 'ere
'arness and get that mud hoff it"; he also compelled us to burnish the
steel and made the gunners scrub the paint off the brass and sandpaper
it up. This necessitated the men going to a shop and purchasing the
sandpaper themselves, as disobedience of the order meant a sojourn in
the clink and the excuse that he had no sandpaper would not go.

By the time old Sol had reached the meridian, the First Sergeant had
succeeded in getting himself thoroughly hated, and many and earnest and
unique were the resolutions to "get even." This feeling was intensified
by his order to gather up some scantlings of hard wood and bring them to
his quarters; he was a sort of a one-horse carpenter by trade and had
started manufacturing for his own especial use and benefit a wooden