This sort of performance went on for an hour or more, with the knockdowns and other casualities pretty evenly divided between the two.  Then it became apparent that the Infant was getting more than he had storage room for.  His interest in the skillet was evidently abating, the leering grin he wore upon his face during the early part of the engagement had disappeared long ago, as the successive “hot ones” which the Chicken had succeeded in planting upon his mouth, put it out of his power to “smile and smile,” “e’en though he might still be a villain.”  He began coming up to the scratch as sluggishly as a hired man starting out for his day’s work, and finally he did not come up at all.  A bunch of blood soaked rags was tossed into the air from his corner, and Bradley declared the Chicken to be the victor, amid enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.

We voted the thing rather tame.  In the whole hour and a-half there was not so much savage fighting, not so much damage done, as a couple of earnest, but unscientific men, who have no time to waste, will frequently crowd into an impromptu affair not exceeding five minutes in duration.

Our next visit to the N’Yaarkers was on a different errand.  The moment they arrived in camp we began to be annoyed by their depredations.  Blankets—­the sole protection of men—­would be snatched off as they slept at night.  Articles of clothing and cooking utensils would go the same way, and occasionally a man would be robbed in open daylight.  All these, it was believed, with good reason, were the work of the N’Yaarkers, and the stolen things were conveyed to their camp.  Occasionally depredators would be caught and beaten, but they would give a signal which would bring to their assistance the whole body of N’Yaarkers, and turn the tables on their assailants.

We had in our squad a little watchmaker named Dan Martin, of the Eighth New York Infantry.  Other boys let him take their watches to tinker up, so as to make a show of running, and be available for trading to the guards.

One day Martin was at the creek, when a N’Yaarker asked him to let him look at a watch.  Martin incautiously did so, when the N’Yaarker snatched it and sped away to the camp of his crowd.  Martin ran back to us and told his story.  This was the last feather which was to break the camel’s back of our patience.  Peter Bates, of the Third Michigan, the Sergeant of our squad, had considerable confidence in his muscular ability.  He flamed up into mighty wrath, and swore a sulphurous oath that we would get that watch back, whereupon about two hundred of us avowed our willingness to help reclaim it.