“Know ’em all except these new ones,” said he.

“That’s the Forty-fifth Georgia,” said I; “but I hear that more are coming.  I heard that the Twelfth North Carolina is near by, and is under Branch.”

“Yes; an’ it’s a fact,” said he.

“Your regiment is bigger than ours, I believe,” said I.

“Well, I dunno about that; how many men in your’n?”

“About seven or eight hundred, I reckon.”

“Not much difference, then; but, I tell you what, that old Twenty-eighth is a whopper—­a thousand men.”

I said nothing; I could hear the gurgling of the water as it ran down the neck of the canteen.  The man chuckled, “Branch’s brigade ort to have a branch; blowed if it ortn’t.”  He was pleased with himself for discovering something like a pun or two.

For two reasons it was policy for me to go back, or start back, with this man; first, I wanted him to talk more; second, if I should linger at the water, he might think my conduct strange.

Going up the hill, he asked me to take the lead.  I did so, venturing the remark that these two new regiments made Branch’s brigade a very big one.

“Yes,” said he; “but I reckon they won’t stay with us forever.”

“Wonder where they came from,” said I.

“Too hard for me,” he replied; “especially the Twelfth; the Forty-fifth was at Goldsborough, but not in our brigade.”

We reached the street of the Seventh.  I stepped aside.  “I stop here,” said I.

“Well,” said he, “I’m much obleeged to you for showin’ me that branch—­that branch that belongs to Branch’s brigade,” and he went his way.

And now I tried to take some rest.  I thought it more prudent to stay at one of the camp-fires, fearing that if I concealed myself I should be stumbled upon and suspected, so I went up to one of the fires of the Twenty-eighth, wrapped my gum-blanket around me and lay down.  But I found it impossible to sleep.  The newness of the experience and the danger of the situation drove sleep as far from me as the east is from the west.  I believe that in romances it is the proper thing to say that a man in trying situations sleeps the sleep of the infant; but this is not romance.  I could not sleep.

Some time before day a man lying near my fire stretched himself and sat up.  I watched him from the corner of my eye.  I wanted no conversation with him; I was afraid he might question me too closely, and that my replies would not prove satisfactory to him.  I kept quiet; I knew enough—­too much to risk losing.

Suddenly he looked toward me.  I was afraid that he had become aware of a foreign element thrown into his environment.  My fears were confirmed.  He opened his mouth and said, “Who—­in—­the—­hell—­that—­is.”  The utterance was an assertion rather than an inquiry.  I made no response.  He continued to look at me—­shook his head—­nodded it—­then fell back and went to sleep.