"The sounds of muskets, I hope; and the earlier the better," says the valiant Jack. "Dang that shoe! I believe I've roasted it! Bah! look at Abe there, diving into his Testament, sure's you live."

And Winch, perceiving that At.w.a.ter paid no attention to the sneer, flung his shoe at him. The soldier was reading by the light of the flames, when the missile came, striking the book from his hands.

"Shame, shame!" cried Frank, indignantly. "Jack Winch, that is too mean."

"O, you go to"----France,--only Jack used a worse word,--"with that red rag on your arm! I don't have any thing to say to non-combatants."

Frank might not have been able to stifle his indignation but for the grave example of At.w.a.ter, who gave no more heed to Jack's shoe than he had given to his base taunt, but, silently gathering up his book again, brushed the sand from it, found his place, and resumed his reading, as composedly as if nothing had happened. Neither did Frank say any thing.

But Ellis, near whom the shoe had fallen, tossed it back with a threat to consign it to the fire if it came that way again.

"Wonder if my pocket-book got wet any," said Harris, taking out his money and examining it.

"O, you feel mighty proud of your winnings!" said Jack, who seemed bent on picking a quarrel with some one.

"Yes, I do," said Harris. "I'm just so proud of it as this,"--reaching something towards the drummer boy. "Here, Frank, is all the money, I believe, that I've won off you. We're going into a fight to-morrow, and n.o.body knows how we shall come out of it. I want to stand right with every body, if I can."

Frank was too much astonished to accept the money. He seemed to think there was some joke in it.

"I'm in earnest," insisted Harris. "The truth is, I've been ashamed of winning your money, ever since. You didn't mean it, but you've acted in a way to _make_ me ashamed."

"I have! How?" Frank was more amazed than ever.

"Because you gave over play, though you had a chance to try again, and acted as if you had got above such foolish things. It's time we all got above them. You're a good-hearted fellow, Frank,--you've shown that,--and n.o.body shall say I've robbed you."

Frank took the money with a heart too full for thanks. He thought Harris a fellow of unexampled generosity, never considering how much his own example had had to do with bringing about this most gratifying result.

At.w.a.ter stopped reading, and looked over his book at Harris with a smile of pleasure and approval clear as daybreak. But the silent man did not speak.

"Well! the idea of a battle makes some folks awful pious all at once!"

was Winch's comment.

n.o.body heeded him. As for Frank, with triumph in his heart and money in his fist, he ran barefoot to where Seth Tucket lay sprawled before the blazing rails, feeling of his stockings, to see if they were dry enough to put on.

"h.e.l.lo, young chap! how goes it? 'Stranger what dost thou require? Rest, and a guide, and food and fire.' Get down here and have a toasting. It comes cheap."

Frank sat down, and began counting the money.

"What's all that?" demanded Seth.

"All I owe you, and a little to spare!" cried Frank, elated.

"Sho, ye don't say! See here, Frank! I never meant you should trouble yourself about that. I'm all right, money or no money. I'm an independent sort of nabob--don't need the vile stuff. 'Kings may be great, but Seth is glorious, o'er all the ills of life victorious!' So put it away, and keep it, Frank."

But when the drummer boy told him how he had come by the money, and that it was his wish to settle his accounts before the battle, Tucket screwed up his face with a resigned expression, and received back the loan.

A great weight was now lifted from Frank's mind. The vexing problem, how he was to retain the watch and yet satisfy Seth's rightful claims, was thus happily solved. He could have danced for joy, barefooted, in the gra.s.sy sand. And he yearned more than ever now to see Mr. Sinjin, and make up with him.

A few rods off, in the rear of the soldiers' bivouacs, the old drummer could be seen, sitting with a group of officers around a fire of their own. His stockings were hung upon the end of a rail, and he was busy roasting a piece of pork on the end of a stick, held out at arm's length to the fire. Frank saw that it was no time to speak with him then; so he returned to his place, and sat down to put on his shoes and join those who had not yet been to supper, over their rations.

XXV.

At.w.a.tER.

As the evening wore on, At.w.a.ter was observed sitting apart from the rest, unusually silent and grave even for him; gazing at the fire, with the book he had been reading closed and folded thoughtfully between his hands.

Now Frank, following his example, had lately formed the resolution to read a little in the Testament every night,--"if only for his mother's sake." But to-night his Testament was in his knapsack, and his knapsack was on board the schooner.

"I'll borrow At.w.a.ter's," he thought; and with this purpose he approached the tall private.

"Sit down here, Frank," said At.w.a.ter, with a serious smile. "I want to talk with you."

It was so extraordinary for the phlegmatic Abe to express a wish to talk with any body, that Frank almost felt awed by the summons. Something within him said that a communication of no trivial import was coming. So he sat down. And the tongue of the taciturn was that night, for once in his life, strangely loosened.

"I can't say it to the rest, Frank; I don't know why. But I feel as if I could say it to you."

"Do," said Frank, thrilling with sympathy to the soldier's mysterious emotion. "What is it, Abe?"

For a minute At.w.a.ter sat gazing, gazing--not at the fire. Then he lifted from the book, which he held so tenderly, his right hand, and laid it upon Frank's. And he turned to the boy with a smile.

"I've liked you from the first, Frank. Did you know it?"

"If you have, I don't know why," said Frank, deeply touched.

"Nor do I," said the private. "Some we like, and some we don't, without the reason for it appearing altogether clear. I liked you even when you didn't please me very well."

"You mean when----" began Frank, stammeringly.

"Yes, you know when. It used to hurt me to see and hear you--but that is past."

"I hope so," said Frank, from his heart.

"Yes. And I like you better than ever now. And do you know, Frank, I don't think I could say to you what I am going to, if you hadn't been in trouble yourself, lately? That makes me feel I can come near you."

"O! are you in trouble, Abe?"

"Yes,"--with another mild, serious smile. "Not just such trouble as you were in, though. It is nothing on my own account. It is on _hers_." And the soldier's voice sunk, as it always did, when he alluded to his wife.

"You have heard from her?" asked Frank, with sympathizing interest.

"Nothing but good news; nothing but good news," said At.w.a.ter, pressing the pocket where his letters were. "I wish you could know that girl's heart. I am just beginning to know it. She has blessed me! She is a simple creature--not so smart as some; but she has, what is better than all that, a heart, Frank!"

Frank, not knowing what else to say, answered earnestly, that he was sure of it.

"She has brought me to know this book," the soldier continued, his features tremblingly alive with emotion. "I never looked into it much before. I never thought much about it--whether it was true or not. But whether it is true or not, there is something in it that reaches me here,"--laying his hand on his heart,--"something that sinks into me. I can't tell how. It gives me comfort."