ravenous catfish would devour them.

"If I only had a balloon," he murmured to himself, "I might send 'em up in that. That's the only safe way I kin think of. Yes, there's another way. I've intended to put a stone foundation under that crib, and daub it well, so's to stop the drafts. It orter be done, but it's a hard day's work, even with help, and I'm mortal tired. But I s'pose it's the only way, and I've got to put in stones so big that a dog can't pull 'em out."

He secured a couple of negroes, at prices which would have paid for highly-skilled labor in Indiana, to roll up enough large stones to fill in the space under the crib, and then he filled all the crevices with smaller ones, and daubed over the whole with clay.

"There," he said, as he washed the clay from his hands, "I think them chickens are safe for to-night from the dogs, and probably from the men. Think of all that trouble for four footy chickens not worth more'n four bits in Injianny. They're as much bother as a drove o' steer'd be. I think I kin now lay down and take a wink o' sleep."

He was soon sleeping as soundly as only a thoroughly-tired man can, and would have slept no one knows how long, had not Shorty succeeded in waking him towards morning, after a shaking which exhausted the latter's strength.

"Wake up, Mister Klegg," said Shorty; "it must 've bin rainin' dogs, and they're tryin' to tear the shanty down."

The Deacon rubbed his eyes and hastened a moment to the clamor outside. It seemed as if there were a thousand curs surrounding them, barking, howling, snarling, fighting, and scratching. He snatched up a club and sprang out, while Shorty tottered after. He ran into the midst of the pack, and began laying about with his strong arms. He broke the backs of some, brained others, and sent the others yelping with pain and fright, except two particularly vicious ones, who were so frenzied with hunger that they attacked him, and bit him pretty severely before he succeeded in killing them. Then he went around to the end of the crib nearest his precious hoard, and found that the hungry brutes had torn away his clay and even the larger of the stones, and nothing but their fighting among themselves had prevented the loss of his chickens. "What in tarnation set the beasts onto us," inquired Shorty wonderingly. "They were wuss'n cats around catnip, rats after aniseed, or cattle about a spot o' blood. I've felt that me and Si wuz in shape to bring the crows and buzzards around, but didn't expect to start the dogs up this way."

"I've got four chickens hid under the underpinnin' there for you and Si," confessed the Deacon. "The dogs seemed to 've smelled 'em out and wuz after 'em."

He went to the hiding place and pulled out the fowls one after another. "They are all here," he said; "but how in the world am I goin' to keep 'em through another night?"

"You ain't a-goin' to keep 'em through another night, are you?" asked Shorty anxiously, as he gloated over the sight. "Le's eat 'em to-day."

"And starve to-morrer?" said the thrifty Deacon rebukingly. "I don't know where any more is comin' from. It was hard enough work gittin' these. I had calculated on cookin' one a day for you and Si. That'd make 'em provide for four more days. After that only the Lord knows what we'll do."

"Inasmuch as we'll have to trust to the Lord at last, anyway," said Shorty, with a return of his old spirit, "why not go the whole gamut? A day or two more or less won't make no difference to Him. I feel as if I could eat 'em all myself without Si's help."

"I tell you what I'll do," said the Deacon, after a little consideration. "I feel as if both Si and you kin stand a little more'n you had yesterday. I'll cook two to-day. We'll send a big cupful over to Capt. McGillicuddy. That'll leave us two for to-morrer. After that we'll have to trust to Providence."

"If ever there was a time when He could use His ravens to advantage," said the irreverent Shorty, "it's about now. They carried bread and meat to that old prophet. There's a lot o' mighty good men down here in this valley now in terrible want of grub, and nothin' but birds kin git over the roads to the rear very well."

"Don't speak lightly o' the Lord and His ways, Shorty," said the Deacon severely.

as the hymn says. Here, take these chickens in one hand and this pistol in the other, and guard 'em while I go down to the branch and wash and git some water. Then I'll cook your breakfast."

Again the savory smell of the boiling chickens attracted sick boys, who begged for a little of the precious food. Having double the quantity, the Deacon was a little more liberal, but he had to restrain Shorty, who, despite his own great and gnawing hunger, would have given away the bigger part of the broth to those who so desperately needed it.

"No, Shorty," said the prudent Deacon. "Our first duty is to ourselves. We kin help them by gittin' you and Si on your feet. We can't feed the whole Army o' the Cumberland, though I'd like to."

A generous cupful was set aside for Capt. McGillicuddy, which his servant received with gratitude and glowing reports of the good the former supply had done him.

With the daylight came the usual shells from the rebel guns on Lookout Mountain. Even the Deacon was getting used to this noisy salutation to the morn, and he watched the shells strike harmlessly in the distance with little tremor of his nerves. As the firing ceased, amid the derisive yells of the army, he said quietly:

"That last shell's saved me a good deal o' work diggin'. It, tore out a hole that'll just do to bury the carcasses of these dogs."

Accordingly, he dragged the carcasses over after breakfast, and threw the dirt back in the hole upon them.

The two remaining chickens were stowed in a haversack, and during the day hung outside from the ridge-pole of the crib, where they were constantly under the eye of either the Deacon or Shorty, who took turns watching them. That night the Deacon slept with them under his head, though they were beginning to turn a little, and their increasing gameness brought a still larger herd of dogs about. But the Deacon had securely fastened the door, and he let them rage around as they pleased.

When they were cooked and eaten the next morning the Deacon became oppressed with anxious thought. Where were the next to come from? The boys had improved so remarkably that he was doubly anxious to continue the nourishing diet, which he felt was necessary to secure their speedy recovery. Without it they would probably relapse.

He could think of nothing but to go back again to the valley where he got the chickens, and this seemed a most desperate chance, for the moment that either of the old couple set eyes on him he or she would give the alarm. He went to sleep thinking about the matter, and when he rose up in the morning, and had nothing to offer his boys but the coarse and uninviting hardtack, pork and coffee, he made up his mind to take the chances, whatever they might be. He set out again immediately after breakfast, and by cutting across the mountain came to the entrance to the valley a little after noon. Keeping close under cover of the woods, he approached within sight of the house, and carefully scanned it. What to do he had scarcely planned. He was only determined to have some fresh meat to take back to camp. He was going to get it as honestly and fairly as he could, but fresh meat he must have.

He could see no other house anywhere in the distance, and probably if he went farther he would run into rebel