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218 outlines of several cabins. That must be Camp No. 10. Pulling my limping steed after me by the bridle, I made my way slowly and painfully down to the nearest cabin, and knocked at the door. "Git!" was the response which came to the third or fourth knock. I repeated the knocking. "Git! you drunken son of a gun! You have been yelling around here long enough! Leave—or I'll put a bullet through you!" came in decided and most emphatic tones from within. I called out that I was the doctor from Camp—, not the man they mistook me for, and wanted to know if that was Camp No. 10, and if John Smith was there—John Smith, who was dying, and wanted the doctor so bad. There was a moment's debate in whispers, between two or more persons inside; then I heard the scratching of matches and the shuffling of heavy slippers over the floor, and at last the door was opened, "Be you the doctor? Well, you are a powerful weak-looking young chicken for a doctor!" said John Smith—for it proved to be he—after he had held the candle to my face, and deliberately scrutinized my person for some seconds.

"You sent for me, I think, Mr. Smith?"

"Well, yes, I did send for you; but I'm kinder sorry now that I did, for I have concluded to go over thar to-morrow on business, anyhow."

"But the messenger said you were dying, or the next thing to it—almost dead, I think he said."

"Well, yes, I was pretty considerable scared at the time. You see I had a eruption come out right bad on my leg, and I was afraid it might be pleurisy, or