“A nice set of fellows you are,” he exclaimed.  “I shouldn’t want you stationed at my gun in action.”

“Why not?” inquired Frank.

“Why, because you can’t tell the difference between a mule and a secesh.”

Frank made no reply to this, for, although he was very much relieved to find that it was a mule, and not a man, that he had killed, he was a good deal mortified at first, for he expected to be made the laughing-stock of his companions.  But he consoled himself with the thought that he was not to blame.  The corporal had said that he had seen guerrillas in the woods, and he had, as in duty bound, done his best to drive them away; besides, he would not have fired his gun had he not been ordered to do so.

“It’s no matter,” said Simpson, who noticed that Frank looked a little crest-fallen; “It was the corporal’s fault.”

“I know it,” said Frank.  “But that’s poor consolation.  I killed the mule, and shall probably be laughed at for it.”

“What’s the odds?” asked Simpson.  “I’ve seen many a better man than you laughed at.  But let us be going, for we have a long way to walk.”

They accordingly retraced their steps to the vessel, and Woods awoke one of the corporals, who had volunteered to row them over into Kentucky.  The dingy, which was kept fastened to the stern of the Illinois, was hauled alongside, and, in a few moments, they reached the opposite shore.  Our four hunters sprang out, and, bidding the corporal good-by, shouldered their muskets, and disappeared in the forest.  Woods, who was well acquainted with the “lay of the land,” led the way.  Just at sunrise they reached a ridge covered with hickory and pecan-trees.

“Here we are,” he exclaimed, as he leaned on his gun, and wiped his forehead with his coat-sleeve.  “There are plenty of squirrels around here.  But I’m hungry; we have plenty of time to eat some breakfast before we begin.”

They seated themselves under the branches of some small hickories, and Simpson produced from a basket some salt pork, hard crackers, and a bottle of cold coffee.  Their long walk had given them good appetites, and the meal, homely as it was, was eaten with a relish.  After they had rested a few moments, they started off in different directions, to commence the hunt.  As Frank walked slowly along, with his gun on his shoulder, he could not help thinking of the many times he had been on such excursions about his native village.  What a change a year had made!  The “Boys of Lawrence” were no longer amateur sportsmen.  They were scattered all over the country, engaged in the work of sustaining the integrity of the best government on earth.  Would they ever all meet again?  It was not at all likely.  Perhaps some had already been offered up on the altar of their country; and if he should ever live to return home, there would be some familiar faces missing.  In short, Frank was homesick.  Finding himself once more in his favorite element had made him think of