He put his belt with the pistols in it around his neck and stepped in
boldly. His feet sank in the mud. The water rose to his knees and then
to his waist. It was, in truth, deeper than he had expected--one could
never tell about these yellow, opaque streams. He took another step and
plunged into a hole up to his shoulders.
Angry that he should be wet through and through, and with such muddy
water too, he crossed the stream.
He looked down with dismay at his uniform. The sun would soon dry it,
but until he got a chance to clean it, it would remain discolored and
yellow, like the jeans clothes which the poorer farmers of the South
often wore. And yet the accident that he bemoaned, the bath in water
thick with mud, was to prove his salvation.
Dick shook himself like a big dog, throwing off as much of the water as
he could. He had kept his pistols dry and he rebuckled his belt around
his waist. Then he returned to his errand. Among the thickets he saw
but little. Vicksburg, the Mississippi, and the Union camp disappeared.
He beheld only a soft soil, many bushes and scrub forest.
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