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 structure large enough to house himself.

The idiosyncrasies of our newfound friend manifested themselves variously, the first and chief characteristic by which he came to acquire the sobriquet of “Hambone Davis,” was his habit of heading for the cookhouse each morning before the men were dismissed from the horse lines—­which was necessary before we could appease our always ravenous appetites—­so that he could garner for himself an edible that was longed for and looked for by every man who could get it, i.e., the ham bone, because there were always more or less pickings on it and he was a lucky fellow indeed who was successful in capturing the prize.  But, in his official capacity, Davis was able to get out and get over there ahead of us every morning and during his entire stay in our crowd, he was the only man who each morning got the ham bone.  Hence his cognomen.

Long, earnest and secret conferences were had as to the way we had best settle our grievances.  Among the conspirators were Dynamite Pete, so-called because of his habit of taking shells, fuses and bombs apart and examining and prying into their contents.  One time his curiosity came nearly getting him a quick passage West.  He was examining a bomb and, taking out the pin, was holding it in his hand, looking at it for a brief instant.  Providentially an officer was standing beside him who saw his mad act and, grabbing the bomb from his hand, flung it into the field—­and just in time!  It exploded before it had well gotten on its way.

Pete’s answers to the officer, while respectful, were tantalizing to a degree: 

“What did you do that for?”

“What are they here for?”

“Why did you take the pin out?”

“Because it is made to come out.”

“Did you want to kill yourself?”

“If I did it would have been my own funeral.”

“How about the others?”

“They had no business here.”

“Think it over in the clink—­ten days.”

I could think of nothing else but the fellow who was passing a private residence one day with a pitchfork on his shoulder, and a big dog came rushing out at him, and he jammed the dog through with his pitchfork, killing him.  The owner came out in a great rage.

“What did you do that for?”

“What did your dog run at me for?”

“Why didn’t you hit him with the other end?”

“Why didn’t he come at me with his other end?”