down here?"

"They sting the rebels, too," said Pennington.

"Yes, but they like newcomers best, the unacclimated. When we rode down
into that swamp I could hear them shouting, to one another: 'That fat
fellow is mine, I saw him first! I've marked the rosy-cheeked boy for
mine. Keep away the rest of you fellows!' I feel as if I'd been through
a battle. No more marshes for me."

Some of the provident produced bottles of oil of pennyroyal. Sergeant
Daniel Whitley, who rode a giant bay horse, was one of the most
foreseeing in this respect, and, after the boys had used his soothing
liniment freely, the fiery torment left by the mosquito's sting passed
away.

The sergeant seemed to have grown bigger and broader than ever. His
shoulders were about to swell through his faded blue coat, and the hand
resting easily on the rein had the grip and power of a bear's paw.
His rugged face had been tanned by the sun of the far south to the color
of an Indian's. He was formidable to a foe, and yet no gentler heart
beat than that under his old blue uniform. Secretly he regarded the
young lieutenants, his superiors in military rank and education, as brave
children, and often he cared for them where his knowledge and skill were
greater than theirs or even than that of colonels and generals.

"God bless you, Sergeant," said Dick, "you don't look like an angel,
but you are one--that is, of the double-fisted, fighting type."

The sergeant merely smiled and replaced the bottle carefully in his