"The Union pickets are at Wartrace," said Wilson, as they plodded down the road.

"We ought to pass them tonight," Tom added. "Have we any way of identifying ourselves?"

"No," replied Wilson. "We'd better try to avoid them."

"What I hope," remarked Shadrack, with a chuckle, "is that our pickets are sleepy—dreaming of a nice warm fire at home, instead of keeping on the alert. Whew! what a storm!"

The steady pelting of the rain made conversation impossible. The road was becoming a slippery gumbo into which their feet sank deeply, and they put all their strength into the laborious task of walking. Finally, after an hour, they stopped to rest.

"I don't think we've gone more than two miles," said Tom.

"The railroad track runs along here to the left some place," Wilson remarked. "If we could reach it, we'd find better walking."

"You'll have to swim to get there," muttered Shadrack. "Those fields will be mud up to our necks."

"Be quiet!" Tom whispered. "Someone's coming."

"Probably some of our own men," said Wilson.

They stood silently as two men passed them on the road. It was impossible to see them in the darkness, but they caught a broken sentence, "…find a barn … too much mud…."

"That's about the best thing that we can do," said Shadrack, after the men had gone by. "Find a barn some place, and stay there for the night."

"I'd like to push on," replied Tom. "What do you think, Wilson?"

"Let's try to reach the railroad."

"All right."

Shadrack grunted his assent, and they trudged along the road, looking for an opening to the left. Presently a flash of lightning showed them a field. They climbed the fence and started across. Their feet sank in mud that seemed bottomless, and water oozed in over their shoe-tops.

"Can you make it?" asked Wilson.

"Yeh—go on," answered Tom, panting.

"I'm coming," muttered Shadrack.

It took them a half-hour to cross the field; then they sat on the fence exhausted. No lightning came to show them the way, so they climbed the fence, crossed another road, and entered a second field. The mud here was worse.

"Bogged!" exclaimed Shadrack.

They retreated to the road.

"Let's follow this road," suggested Tom. "It seems to go in the general direction of the railroad tracks."

"Probably goes to a farmhouse," replied Wilson.

"Suits me exactly," said Shadrack.

During the next twenty minutes they made their way slowly along the road, slipping in the mud, sometimes falling. Twice Tom went down on his hands and knees. Shadrack sprawled face downward, and got up muttering something about "eating the filthy stuff."

Ahead of them a dog commenced to bark; then a door opened, and a man stood looking out.

"Call your dog off," yelled Wilson.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" demanded the farmer. The dog continued to bark, but he did not approach them.

"We're on our way to Wartrace," answered Wilson, "and we're lost in the storm. Can you give us a place to sleep?"

"Are you soldiers?"

Wilson paused a moment, then answered, "No."

"Come on up here then, and let's look at ye," answered the farmer. "Here,
Shep, shut up that barking! Come here!"

They saw the dog curl up at its master's feet, and they went forward.

"How far are we from Wartrace?" asked Wilson, as they approached the door.

"'Bout two miles," answered the farmer. "Wait there, and I'll take a look at ye." He reached to one side and took a lamp. Then, shielding his eyes from the light, he held it up and glanced from one to the other. The dog came toward them, whining and growling. "Shut up, Shep. All right—come on in."

They entered the shanty. In one corner of the room a dilapidated stove was glowing; in another corner there was a bed, made of rough boards, with a pile of dirty bedding on the straw. A table and one chair completed the furniture. Near the door some farm implements were stacked. A rusty, battered pan on the floor caught the water that dripped in through a leak in the roof.

Now, for the first time, the three adventurers had an opportunity of seeing each other. Tom, as he took off his cape and water-soaked coat, glanced first at Wilson, then at Shadrack. Wilson was a tall man, nearly forty, with a serious face. His mouth was stern, and he had sharp gray eyes. Shadrack was short and plump. He was still blowing and puffing from his exertions in the mud, but he laughed as he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He had, in truth, been eating mud, for his face was streaked with it. "Had my mouth open when I fell," he explained.

The farmer stood at the door, watching them silently as they took off their shoes and put them by the stove. Finally he asked, "What are you going to Wartrace for?"

Tom had been wondering what story they had better tell him. They were still north of their own lines, even though they were in enemy country, and he felt that there might be some danger in saying that they were on their way to join the Southern army. He decided to leave the response to Wilson, who, because of his age and experience, was the natural leader. But, before Wilson could speak, Shadrack replied:

"We're from Fleming County, Kentucky, and we're going through the lines to join the Confederate army."

Wilson frowned and shook his head at Shadrack.

"So?" asked the farmer. "Goin' to fight the Yanks, eh?"

"Yep," answered Shadrack, "an' we're goin' to give 'em a good licking!
That's what they need! We've seen all we want to see of Yanks."

"Well, I'll tell you right now that you're going to waste yer time," replied the farmer. "An' maybe you'll waste more than that."

Shadrack sat down on the floor near the fire, and Tom squatted beside him.

"You have some pretty bad rainstorms in this part of the country, don't you?" Wilson asked.

While Wilson was speaking, Tom nudged Shadrack, and muttered, "Be careful—don't talk too much." Shadrack's eyes lighted in puzzled surprise.

After a long silence, the farmer spoke: "You men better turn around again an' go back to yer homes. Yer folks need you more than the South does. The North is going to win this war."

In their hearts they were elated to hear a Southerner say that their own troops would be victorious; but, having told one story, they decided not to change.

"No," said Wilson solemnly, "we must go on."

Presently the farmer arose and stretched, "I'll go out an' see if the chickens are all right," he said, and left the shanty.

"Don't be a fool," said Wilson earnestly, "Don't be a better rebel than the
Southerners."

"I'm sorry," replied Shadrack. "That's what we were told to say…."

"I know," interrupted Wilson, "but we have to be careful in the way we tell that story. For one thing, remember that we're still inside our own lines."

"Yes," replied Shadrack ruefully.

"I think you'd better do the talking for us," suggested Tom to Wilson.
"We'll just agree to what you say."

"Now, that's a good idea!" exclaimed Shadrack. "We'll just nod our heads an' say, 'That's right!' I'll not say a word after this."

A half-hour passed before the farmer returned. Without speaking, he took off his boots and coat, and lay down on his bed. The others arranged themselves on the floor about the stove, and Tom blew out the light. The floor was hard, but the stove was warm—and they were dry. Sleep came almost immediately.

They were awakened at dawn by the door opening, and a man shouting, "Get up there! Hold you hands up! Strike a light, Johnson."

Tom jumped to his feet. In the half-light of morning he saw the glint of a revolver. Wilson and Shadrack were beside him, and the farmer was sitting on the edge of his bed. They put their hands up—all except the farmer. The bluish flame of a sulphur match sputtered, then grew bright. Three Union soldiers stood before them with drawn revolvers, while a fourth lighted the lamp.

"These are the men, I presume, Smith?" asked the Sergeant.

The farmer grunted.

Tom and Shadrack looked to Wilson to speak, but he said nothing. So the farmer had sent word to Union troops! When he had gone out to look after his chickens, he had sent a messenger with the news that three ardent Southerners were to be captured at his house if the soldiers would come and get them! Captured by their own troops!

"Pull on your boots," ordered the Sergeant. "Wait a minute! Look through their clothes and see if they're armed, Martin."

The soldier who had lighted the lamp approached, and ran his hands through their pockets. He produced three revolvers and laid them on the table. The Sergeant picked them up, glanced at them to be sure they were loaded; then distributed them among the soldiers.

"That's all, Sergeant," said the soldier addressed as Martin.

"All right, get on your boots. You did a good night's work, Smith."

"I told 'em they'd better go back home," said the farmer dully.

Tom, Wilson, and Shadrack sat on the floor pulling on their heavy, water-laden boots. When they stood up, the Sergeant said: "Call Jim and Max." Two more soldiers appeared, making six in all.

"Two of us to a prisoner. Come on."

They left the shanty. The farmer was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at them.