It was weary work, this tramping along the Tennessee shore, through mud, or fields of stubble, over rocks, or amid dripping trees; but the three kept on towards Chattanooga for a couple of hours, until all the good effects of their warming at Farmer Hare’s were quite vanished. Watson, having showed by his mother-wit and presence of mind that he was a man to be relied upon, had now resumed his privilege of growling, and gave vent to many angry words at the roughness and unutterable dreariness of the way.

“Why was America ever discovered by that inquisitive, prying old Christopher Columbus?” he grunted, after he had tripped over the stump of a cottonwood-tree, and fallen flat with his face in the slime. “If he had never discovered America there would never have been any United States; had there never been any United States there would never have been any war between North and South; had there never been any war between North and South I wouldn’t be making a fool of myself by being down here. I wish that fellow Columbus had never been born—or, if he was born, that he had never been allowed to sail off for America. Ugh!”

In a few minutes they reached a log cabin situated on an angle of land where a little stream emptied itself into the now stormy waters of the Tennessee River. There was no light nor sign of life about the mean abode, and the travelers were almost upon it before they saw its low outline in the dense gloom.

“Look here,” said Watson, calling a halt. “There’s no use in our trying to go further to-night. It’s too dark to make any sort of time. And we are far enough away now from Jasper to avoid any danger of pursuit—even if our amiable friend Mr. Hare should inform the Vigilants.”

“Don’t be afraid of that,” said Macgreggor and George in the same breath. Hare was not likely to relate a joke so much at his own expense as their clever escape had proved. Even if he did, they reasoned, the chances of capture were now rather slim, whatever they might have been when the three fugitives were nearer Jasper.

“Then let us get a few hours’ sleep in this cabin,” urged Watson. “Some negro probably lives here—and we can tell him our usual Kentucky story. Give the door a pound, George, and wake him up.”

George used first his hands and then his boots on the door, in a vain effort to make some one hear. He took Waggie out of his pocket, and the shrill little barks of the dog added to the noise as he jumped around his master’s feet.

“Let’s break the door down,” urged Macgreggor. “The seven sleepers must live here. We might pound all night and not get in.”

With one accord the three threw themselves vigorously against the door. They expected to meet with some resistance, due to a bolt or two; but, instead of that, the door flew open so suddenly that they were precipitated into the cabin, and lay sprawling on the ground. It had been latched but neither locked nor bolted.

“We were too smart that time,” growled Watson, as the three picked themselves up, to the great excitement of Waggie. “The place must be deserted. So much the better for us. We can get a little sleep without having to go into explanations.”

He drew from inside his greatcoat, with much care, three or four matches. By lighting, first one and then the others, he was able to grope around until he found the hearth of the cabin. Cold ashes marked the remains of a fire long since extinguished. His foot struck against something which proved to be a small piece of dry pine-wood. With the flame from his last match Watson succeeded in lighting this remnant of kindling. He carefully nursed the new flame until the stick blazed forth like a torch. Then the travelers had a chance to examine the one room which formed the whole interior of the lonely place. The cabin was deserted. It contained not a bit of furniture; nothing, indeed, save bare walls of logs, and rude mortar, and a clean pine floor.

“This palace can’t be renting at a very high price,” remarked Macgreggor, sarcastically.

“It will do us well enough for a few hours’ sleep,” said George.

Watson nodded his head in assent. “It’s a shelter from the rain, at least,” he said, “and that’s something on such a pesky night.” While he was speaking the rush of the rain without confirmed the truth of his words, and suggested that any roof was better than none. Ere long the pine stick burned itself out; the intruders were left in absolute darkness. But they quickly disposed themselves on the floor, where, worn out by the fatigues of the day and the stirring adventure of the evening, they were soon fast asleep. They had closed the door, near which Waggie had settled his little body in the capacity of a sentinel. George dreamed of his father. He saw him standing at the window of a prison, as he stretched his hands through the bars and cried out: “George, I am here—here! Help me!” Then the boy’s dream changed. He was back in the dark woods near Shelbyville, listening to Andrews as the leader outlined the expedition in which they were now engaged. In the middle of the conference some one cried: “The Confederates are on us!” George tried to run, but something pinned him to the ground—a wild animal was at his throat.

He awoke with a start, to find that Waggie was leaping upon his chest, barking furiously.

“Hush up, you little rascal!” ordered George. He felt very sleepy, and he was angry at being aroused. But Waggie went on barking until he had succeeded in awakening Macgreggor and Watson, and convincing his master that something was wrong.

“What’s the trouble?” demanded Watson.

“Listen,” said George, softly. He was on his feet in an instant, as he ran first to one and then to the other of the two windows which graced the cabin. These windows, however, were barricaded with shutters. He hurried to the door, which he opened a few inches. The rain had now stopped, and he could hear, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the sound of horses moving cautiously through the mud, along the river bank. In a twinkling Watson and Macgreggor were at his side, straining their ears.

“Can it be cavalry?” asked Macgreggor.

“Mounted men at least,” whispered Watson. “Perhaps the Vigilants are on our track, bad luck to them!”

“Can Hare have told them, after all?” queried George.

“Don’t know about that,” muttered Watson, “but I think we have the gentlemen from Jasper to deal with once again.”

“Let’s decamp into the darkness before it’s too late,” said Macgreggor.

“Come, come,” whispered Watson impatiently. “If they are on the scent, and we leave this hut, they will only run us to earth like hounds after a fox.”

The baying of dogs which were evidently accompanying the party gave a sudden and terrible effect to the force of Watson’s argument. And now the Vigilants, if such they were, came nearer and nearer. The three Northerners who listened so anxiously at the doorway could already detect the sound of voices.

“There’s but one thing for us to do,” quickly murmured Watson. “We must stay in this cabin.”

“But they won’t pass the place by,” urged Macgreggor. “If they know it to be deserted by a tenant this is the very reason for their looking in to see if we are hiding here. And when it comes to defending ourselves, how can we put up any sort of barricade?”

“When you can’t use force, or hide yourself, try a little strategy,” answered the soldier. “Can either of you fellows talk like a darky?”

“Not I,” said Macgreggor. Had he been asked if he could speak Hebrew, he would not have been more surprised.

“Can you, George?” asked Watson, as he shut the door.

“I might,” whispered George. “When I was up in Cincinnati we boys used——”

“Never mind what you boys did—only do as I tell you, and if you can give a good imitation you may save us from arrest, and worse!”

The horsemen now seemed to be within a few yards of the cabin. They had evidently halted for consultation. Meanwhile Watson was whispering some instructions to George. After he had finished he leaned against the door with his whole weight, and indicated to Macgreggor that he was to do the same thing. The latter obeyed in silence.

The horsemen without made a great deal of clatter. If they were pursuing the fugitives they did not seem to think secrecy of movement very necessary. “Whose cabin is this?” demanded one of them.

“It did belong to old Sam Curtis, but he’s moved away, down to Alabama,” some one answered.

“Some darky may live in it now, eh?” said the first voice.

“Perhaps it’s empty, and these tarnation spies are in it,” was the rejoinder in a lower tone.

The men moved their horses closer to the house, which they quickly surrounded. No chance now for any one to escape; it seemed as if the three men in the cabin must inevitably be caught like rats in a trap. Yet they waited courageously, breathlessly. It was a tense moment. Another minute would decide their fate. Would they remain free men, or would they fall into the hands of their pursuers, with all the consequences that such a capture implied?

Already one of the Vigilants, evidently the leader, had dismounted. Approaching the door of the cabin, he gave it a push as if he expected it would open at once. But there was no yielding; Watson and Macgreggor were still leaning firmly against the other side.

The leader began to knock on the door with a revolver. “Here, here,” he shouted; “if there’s any one in this cabin, come out—or we’ll have you out!”

At first there was no response, save a bark from Waggie. The leader rattled savagely at the door. “Let’s break in,” he cried to his companions, “and see if the place has any one in it!”

The Vigilants were about to follow the example of their leader, and dismount when there came a wheedling voice—apparently the voice of a negress—from within the cabin.

“What you gemmen want dis time o’ night wid poor Aunty Dinah?”

“A nigger’s living here,” muttered the leader, in surprise.

“What for you gwyne to disturb an ole niggah at dis hour?” asked the voice from within.

“It’s all right, aunty,” called out the leader. “We only want some information. Come to the door.”

“In one minute I be with you,” was the answer. “I’se a nursin’ my old man here—he done gone and took the smallpox—and——”

The smallpox! Had the voice announced that a million Union troops were descending upon the party the consternation would not have been half as great. The smallpox! At the mention of that dreaded name, and at the thought that they were so close to contagion, the Vigilants, with one accord, put spurs into their horses and rushed madly away. The leader, dropping his revolver in his excitement, and not even stopping to pick it up, leaped upon his horse and joined in the inglorious retreat. On, on, dashed the men until they reached the town of Jasper, tired and provoked. Like many other men, North or South, they were brave enough when it came to gunpowder, but were quickly vanquished at the idea of pestilential disease.

“Bah!” cried the leader, as they all reined up in front of the village tavern, which now looked dark and uninviting; “those three spies, if spies they are, can go to Guinea for all I care. I shall hunt them no more.”

There was a general murmur of assent to this fervent remark. One of the Vigilants said, in an injured tone: “I wish Jake Hare was at the bottom of the ocean!”

In explanation of which charitable sentiment it may be explained that Farmer Hare, on the departure of Watson, Macgreggor and George Knight, had run all the way to Jasper. Here he told the Vigilants that the three men had returned in the boat (which he had previously declared they had taken) and landed on the bank of the river. They could be easily caught, he said. He carefully suppressed any account of the way in which he had been outwitted by Watson. The fact was that Hare made up his mind, logically enough, that the fugitives would keep along the Tennessee until morning came, and as he had seen the direction they had taken he determined to set the Vigilants on their track. His scheme, as we have seen, was nearly crowned with success.

“A miss is as good as a mile,” laughed Watson, as he stood with his two companions in the pitch black interior of the cabin, listening to the last faint sounds of the retreating Vigilants.

“There’s nothing like smallpox, eh?” said George.

“Or nothing like a boy who can imitate a darky’s voice,” put in Macgreggor. “Where did you learn the art, George?”

“We boys in Cincinnati had a minstrel company of our own,” the boy explained, “and I used to play negro parts.”

“I’ll never call the minstrels stupid again,” said Watson. “They have been instrumental in saving our lives.”

“Rather say it was your own brains that did it,” interposed George.

So they talked until daybreak, for they found it impossible to sleep. Meanwhile the weather had changed. When the sun came peeping over the horizon, between tearful clouds, as if afraid that it was almost too damp for him to be out, the trio were pushing cautiously along the bank of the Tennessee, in the direction of Chattanooga.

“I don’t know who brought the Vigilants out for us the second time, unless it was our dear friend Hare, and I don’t know whether they will give us another chase this morning,” said Watson, as they were laboriously ascending one of the mountain spurs which led down to the river shore, “but we must go steadily on, and trust to luck. To delay would be fatal. This is Friday—and we must be in Marietta by this evening.”

On they trudged, over rocks and paths that would have taxed the ability of a nimble-footed chamois, as they wondered how the rest of their friends were faring, and where might be the intrepid Andrews. Sometimes Waggie scampered joyously on; sometimes he reposed in his master’s overcoat. The clouds had now cleared away; the sun was shining serenely over the swollen and boisterous waters of the crooked Tennessee. Nature was once more preparing to smile.

“I’m getting frightfully hungry,” cried George, about noon-time. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of breakfast.”

“There’s where we may get some,” said Macgreggor. He pointed to an old-fashioned colonial house of brick, with a white portico, which they could see in the centre of a large open tract about a quarter of a mile back of the river. The smoke was curling peacefully from one of the two great chimneys, as if offering a mute invitation to a stranger to enter the house and partake of what was being cooked within. In a field in front of the mansion cattle were grazing, and the jingle of their bells sounded sweetly in the distance. No one would dream, to look at such an attractive picture, that the grim Spectre of War stalked in the land.

“Shall we go up to the house, and ask for something?” suggested Macgreggor, who was blessed with a healthy appetite.

Watson looked a little doubtful. “There’s no use in our showing ourselves any more than is necessary,” he said. “Rather than risk our necks, we had better go on empty stomachs till we reach Chattanooga.”

But such a look of disappointment crept over the faces of George and Macgreggor, and even seemed to be reflected in the shaggy countenance of Waggie, that Watson relented.

“After all,” he said, “there’s no reason why there should be any more danger here than in Chattanooga or Marietta. Let’s make a break for the house, and ask for a meal.”

Hardly had he spoken before they were all three hurrying towards the mansion. When at last they stood under the portico, George seized the quaint brass knocker of the front door, and gave it a brisk rap. After some delay a very fat negress opened the door, and eyed the strangers rather suspiciously. Their tramp over the country had not improved their appearance, and her supercilious, inquisitive look was not strange, under the circumstances.

“What you folks want?” she asked, putting her big arms akimbo in an uncompromising attitude. Watson was about to reply when an attractive voice, with the soft accent so characteristic of the Southerners, called: “What is it, Ethiopia? Any one to see me?”

The next instant a kindly-faced gentlewoman of about fifty stood in the doorway.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked pleasantly.

Macgreggor proceeded to tell the customary story about their being on their way from Kentucky to join the Confederate army further south. His heart smote him as he did so, for she was so gentle and sympathetic in her manner that he loathed to practice any deception, however necessary; but there was no help for it. So he ended by asking for something to eat.

“Come in,” said the mistress of the mansion, for such she proved to be, “and take any poor hospitality I can offer you. My husband, Mr. Page, and both my children are away, fighting under General Lee, and I am only too glad to do anything I can for others who are helping the great cause.” She smiled sweetly at George, and patted his dog. The boy regarded her almost sheepishly; he, too, hated the idea of imposing on so cordial a hostess.

Mrs. Page led the party into a great colonial hallway, embellished with family portraits. “By-the-way,” she added, “there is a Confederate officer in the house now—Major Lightfoot, of the —th Virginia Regiment. He reached here this morning from Richmond and goes to Chattanooga this afternoon on a special mission.”

Watson bit his lip. “We’re coming to too close quarters with the enemy,” he thought, and he felt like retreating from the mansion with his companions. But it was too late. Such a move would only excite suspicion, or, worse still, lead to pursuit. “We must face the thing through,” he muttered, “and trust to our wits.”

Mrs. Page ushered the strangers, including the delighted Waggie, into a large, handsomely paneled dining-room on the left of the hallway. She made them gather around an unset table. “Sit here for a few minutes,” she said, “and the servants will bring you the best that Page Manor can offer you. In the meantime, I’ll send Major Lightfoot to see you. He may be able to help you in some way.”

She closed the door and was gone. “I wish this Major Lightfoot, whoever he is, was in Patagonia at the present moment,” whispered Watson. “It’s easy enough to deceive the Southern country bumpkins, and make them think you are Confederates, but when you get among people with more intelligence, like officers——”

“What difference does it make?” interrupted Macgreggor, looking longingly at a mahogany sideboard. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Page say the Major was a Virginian? He doesn’t know anything about Kentucky.”

“That’s lucky,” laughed Watson, “for we don’t either.”

“Hush!” came the warning from George. The door opened, and several negro servants began to bring in a cold dinner. What a meal it was too, when the time came to partake of it, and how grateful the three hungry travelers felt to the mistress of the house. When it had been disposed of, and the servants had left the dining-room, George said, almost under his breath: “Hadn’t we better be off? We have a good number of miles yet, between here and Marietta.”

Watson was about to rise from the table when the door opened to admit a tall, stalwart man of about thirty, whose cold, gray-blue eyes and resolute mouth denoted one who was not to be trifled with. He was dressed in the gray uniform of a Confederate officer, but he had, presumably, left his sword and pistols in another room. The visitors stood up as he entered.

“Glad to see you, my men,” he said, shaking hands with each one.

“Is this Major Lightfoot?” asked Watson, trying to look delighted, but not making a brilliant success of it.

“Yes,” returned the Major. “I hear you boys are Kentuckians.”

“We are,” said Macgreggor stoutly; “we are ready to die for our country, and so we are journeying southward to enlist.”

“You’re a pretty young chap to take up arms,” observed the Major, eyeing George keenly.

“One is never too young to do that,” answered the boy. He was determined to put a bold face on the affair, and he saw no reason why the Confederate officer should suspect him if he spoke up unhesitatingly.

“The South has need of all her loyal sons,” remarked Watson, who felt no compunction in deceiving the Major, whatever might have been his sentiments as to hoodwinking Mrs. Page.

“So you all come from Kentucky?” went on the officer. “That interests me, for I come from Kentucky myself!”

The jaws of the three strangers dropped simultaneously. Had a bomb fallen at their feet they could not have been more disconcerted. What did they know about Kentucky, if they had to be put through a series of cross-questions by a native! But there was no reason, after all, why the Major should dwell on the subject.

“I thought Mrs. Page said you belonged to a Virginia regiment,” exclaimed Macgreggor, almost involuntarily.

“So I do,” replied the Major, “but I only settled in Virginia two years ago. I was born and bred in Kentucky, and there’s no state like it—now is there?”

“No!” cried the trio, with a well-feigned attempt at enthusiasm. They felt that they were treading on dangerous ground, and resolved to play their parts as well as they could.

“Do you all come from the same part of Kentucky?” queried the Major, as he sat down on a chair, evidently prepared for a pleasant chat.

“From Fleming County,” said Watson carelessly, quite as if he knew every other county in the State. “I fear, sir, we must be moving on towards Chattanooga. We are in a hurry to enlist, and we have already been delayed too long.”

The Major completely ignored the latter part of this sentence. “From Fleming County,” he said. “Well, that’s pleasant news. I know Fleming County like a book. There is where my father lived and died. What part of the county do you come from?”

Had the Major asked them to tell the area of the United States in square inches he could not have propounded a more puzzling question.

“Dunder and blitzen;” thought Watson. “If I only knew more of Kentucky geography I might get myself out of this scrape.”

“We come from the southeastern part of the county,” said Macgreggor, after an awkward pause.

“Near what town?”

Another pause. Oh, for the name of a town in the southeastern part of Fleming County, Kentucky. The Major was looking at the visitors curiously. Why this sudden reticence on their part?

At last Watson spoke up, although evasively. “We were a long distance from any town; we worked on adjoining farms, and when the call to arms came we determined to rush to the rescue of our beloved Southland.”

The Major gave Watson one searching look. “Humph!” said he, “that’s all very pretty, and I’m glad you are so patriotic—but that won’t do. What is the nearest town to the places you live in?”

The name of Carlisle flashed through Watson’s mind. He recalled that it was somewhere in the part of Kentucky in which Fleming County was situated. A man he knew had once lived there. He would risk it.

“The nearest town is Carlisle,” he said shortly. “And now, Major, we really must be off! Good-bye!”

He started for the door, followed by George and Macgreggor, who were both devoutly wishing that such a state as Kentucky had never existed.

“Wait a second,” suddenly commanded the Southerner, stepping in front of the door to bar the way. “You seem to be strangely ignorant of your own county. Carlisle happens to be in the adjoining county.”

“Here, sir, we’re not here to be examined by you, as if we were in the witness box,” cried Watson, who hoped to carry the situation through with a strong hand. He would try a little bluster.

A sarcastic smile crossed the firm face of Major Lightfoot. “Don’t try to bluff me,” he said quietly but sternly; “for it won’t work. I see very clearly that you fellows have never been in Fleming County, nor do I think you have ever been in Kentucky at all, for the matter of that. You certainly talk more like Yankees than Kentuckians.”

“Then you don’t believe us?” asked Macgreggor, trying to assume an air of injured innocence.

“Certainly not,” answered the Major. He folded his arms, and regarded the visitors as if he were trying to read their inmost thoughts. “You are lying to me! And as you’ve lied to me about coming from Kentucky, it’s quite as likely you’ve lied to me about your being on your way to enlist in the Confederate army. For all I know you may be Union spies. In short, my friends, you are acting in the most suspicious way, and I put you under arrest!”

George’s heart sank within him. He was not afraid of being arrested, but to think that he might never take part in the bridge-burning expedition. Lightfoot turned the key in the door.

Watson walked up to the Major, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Look here,” he said, in the tone of a man who is quite sure of his position. “You talk about putting us under arrest, but you’re only playing a game of bluff yourself. We are three to your one—and I’d like to know what is to prevent our walking out of this house, and knocking you down, too—or, if you prefer, shooting you—if you attempt to stop us?”

Lightfoot laughed, in a superior sort of way. “Go, if you want,” he said curtly; “but I don’t think you’ll go very far.” His eyes glistened, as if he thought the whole scene rather a good joke. “Half a mile back of this mansion there’s a squadron of Confederate cavalry picketed. If I give them the alarm they’ll scour the whole countryside for you, and you’ll all be in their hands within an hour.”

Watson turned pale. It was the paleness of vexation rather than of fear. “Why were we fools enough to come to this house,” he thought. He knew how quickly they could be caught by cavalrymen.

The Major smiled in a tantalizing manner. “I think you will take my advice and surrender,” he said, sitting down carelessly in a chair and swinging one of his long legs over the other. “If, on investigation, it proves that you are not spies, you will be allowed to go on your way. If there’s any doubt about it, however, you will be sent to Richmond.”

Macgreggor, with a bound, leaped in front of the Confederate, and, pulling out a revolver, pointed it at Lightfoot’s head. “Unless you promise not to have us followed, you shan’t leave this room alive!” he cried with the tone of a man daring everything for liberty. George fully expected to see the officer falter, for he had seen that the Major was unarmed.

But Lightfoot did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he gave one of his provoking laughs. “Don’t go into heroics,” he said, pushing Macgreggor away as though he were “shoohing” off a cat. “You know I would promise anything, and the second your backs were turned I’d give the alarm. You don’t think I would be fool enough to see you fellows walking away without making a trial to get you back?”

Macgreggor hesitated, as he looked at George and Watson. Then he answered fiercely, handling his pistol ominously the meanwhile: “We’ve but one chance—and we’ll take it! We will never let you leave this room alive, promise or no promise. You are unarmed, and there are three of us, armed.”

The Major did not seem to be at all startled. He merely changed the position of his legs, as he answered: “Killing me wouldn’t do you any good, my boy! If you do shoot me before I can escape from the room the shooting would only alarm the house—the cavalry would be summoned by Mrs. Page, and you would find yourself worse off even than you are now.”

Watson touched Macgreggor on the shoulder. “The Major’s right,” he said; “we would only be shooting down a man in cold blood, and gaining nothing by it. He has trapped us—and, so long as those plagued cavalrymen are so near, we had better submit. I think I’ve got as much courage as the next man, but I don’t believe in butting one’s head against a stone wall.”

Macgreggor sullenly replaced his pistol. He could not but see the force of Watson’s reasoning. The Major rose to his feet. He was smiling away again, as if he were enjoying himself.

“We surrender!” announced Watson with a woebegone expression on his strong face.

“You’ll admit,” said Lightfoot, “that I was too clever for you?”

There was no answer. George picked up Waggie. “Can I take my dog along with us, wherever we go?” he asked.

The Major suddenly advanced towards George, and patted the tiny animal. “Hello! Waggie, how are you, old man?” he cried.

George gasped. “How on earth did you know Waggie’s name?” he asked. For Waggie had been chewing at a bone on the floor ever since the entrance of the Confederate, and his master had not addressed a word to him during that time.

“I know his name almost as well as I do yours, George Knight,” said Lightfoot.

In his excitement George dropped Waggie on a chair. The three Northerners heard this last announcement with open-mouthed astonishment.

Lightfoot burst into a great laugh that made the mystery the more intense. “Why, comrades,” he cried, “I ought to go on the stage; I had no idea I was such a good actor. Don’t you know your friend, Walter Jenks?” The Southern accent of the speaker had suddenly disappeared.

The listeners stood dumfounded. Then the whole situation dawned upon them. They had been most gloriously and successfully duped. This Major Lightfoot was none other than Walter Jenks, a sergeant from General Mitchell’s camp, whom Andrews had sent out on the bridge-burning party. He had shaved off his beard, and assumed a Southern accent (something he was able to do because he was a Marylander), so that the guests at the Page mansion had failed to recognize him.

Jenks shook the three warmly by the hand. “It was a mean trick to play on you fellows,” he explained, lowering his voice, “but for the life of me I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“How on earth did you turn up here in the guise of a Confederate officer?” asked Watson, who now felt a sense of exhilaration in knowing that he might yet join Andrews at Marietta.

“It is too long a story to tell,” whispered Jenks. “I’ll only say here that I got lost from the other two fellows I was traveling with—was suspected of being a spy in one of the villages I passed through—and, to avoid pursuit, had to shave off my beard and disguise myself in this Confederate uniform, which I was lucky enough to ‘appropriate.’ I was nearly starved—stumbled across this place or my way down—told a plausible story (Heaven forgive me for deceiving so delightful a lady as Mrs. Page)—and here I am! And the sooner we set off from here, the sooner we will meet at the appointed town.”

“When the war’s over,” remarked Macgreggor, “you can earn a fortune on the stage.”

Half an hour later the four Northerners had taken a grateful farewell of the unsuspecting Mrs. Page, and were hurrying along the bank of the Tennessee. By four o’clock in the afternoon they had reached a point directly opposite Chattanooga. Here they found a ferryman, just as they had been given to expect, with his flat “horse-boat” moored to the shore. He was a fat, comfortable-looking fellow, as he sat in tailor-fashion on the little wharf, smoking a corncob pipe as unconcernedly as though he had nothing to do all day but enjoy tobacco.

Watson approached the man. “We want to get across the river as soon as possible,” he explained, pointing to his companions. “This officer (indicating Walter Jenks, who retained his Confederate uniform) and the rest of us must be in Chattanooga within half an hour.”

The ferryman took his pipe from his mouth and regarded the party quizzically. “You may want to be in Chattanooga in half an hour,” he said, in a drawling, lazy fashion, “but I reckon the river’s got somethin’ to say as to that!” He waved one hand slowly in the direction of the stream, which was, without a shadow of doubt, an angry picture to gaze upon. Its waters were turbulent enough to suggest that a passage across them at this moment would be attended by great risk.

But to the anxious travelers any risk, however great, seemed preferable to waiting. If they missed the evening train from Chattanooga to Marietta their usefulness was ended. No bridge-burning adventure for them!

“I tell you we must get over to-night,” urged Jenks, who hoped that his uniform would give him a certain prestige in the eyes of the ferryman. “I am Major Lightfoot, of the —th Virginia, and I’m on an important mission. Every minute is precious!”

“That may be true enough, Colonel,” replied the man, ignoring the title of “major,” and taking a whiff from his pipe. “That may be true enough, but I calculate nature’s got somethin’ to say in this world. And I calculate I ain’t a-going to risk my life, and the happiness of my wife and five children, by tryin’ to stem the Tennessee in this turmoil.”

George’s heart sank within him. To be so near the realization of his dream of adventure, and to be stopped at the eleventh hour by this stupid, cautious boatman! Waggie, who had been frisking near him, suddenly became solemn.

Watson pulled from his coat a large pack of Confederate money. “There’s money for you,” he cried, “if you’ll take us over!”

The ferryman eyed him in a sleepy way, and took another pull at that provoking pipe.

“Money!” he said, after a long pause, during which the Northerners gazed at him as if their very lives depended on his decision. “Money! What’s the use to me of money, if we all get drowned crossing over?”

As he spoke the river roared and rushed downwards on its course with a heedlessness that quite justified him in his hesitation. “Wait till to-morrow morning, and the Tennessee will be quieter. Then I’ll help you out.”

“Wait till doomsday, why don’t you say?” thundered Jenks. “We must take the risk—and I order you to take us over, at once!”

“You may be a very big man in the army,” answered the ferryman, “but your orders don’t go here!” He produced a small tin box from the tail of his coat, leisurely poured from it into his pipe some strong tobacco, and slowly lighted the stuff. Then he arose, walked to the edge of the wharf, and beckoned to a lad of nine or ten years old who was half asleep in the boat. The boy jumped up, leaped upon the wharf, and ran off along the river’s bank in the opposite direction from which the four strangers had come. He had received a mysterious order from the ferryman.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Macgreggor, who had a strong desire to knock down this imperturbable fellow who refused to be impressed even by a Confederate uniform.

“Nothing,” replied the man, stolidly. He sat down again, crossed his legs, and took a long pull at the pipe.

“For the last time,” shouted Jenks, shaking his fist in the smoker’s face, “I order you to take out that boat, and ferry us across the river!”

“For the last time,” said the man, very calmly, “I tell you I’m not going to risk my life for four fools!”

George walked up closer to Watson, and whispered: “Let’s seize the boat, and try to cross over ourselves!”

Watson beckoned to his two companions, and told them what the boy suggested.

“We will be taking our lives in our hands,” said Jenks, “but anything is better than being delayed here.”

“Besides,” added Macgreggor, “although the river is pretty mischievous-looking, I don’t think it’s any more dangerous than waiting here.”

Jenks took out his watch, and looked at it. “I’ll give you just five minutes,” he said, addressing the ferryman, “and if by that time you haven’t made up your mind to take us over the river, we’ll take the law into our own hands, seize your boat, and try the journey ourselves.” Waggie began to bark violently, as if he sympathized with this speech.

The man smiled. “That will be a fool trick,” he answered. “If it’s dangerous for me, it’ll be death for you uns. Better say your prayers, partner!”

“Only four minutes left!” cried Jenks, resolutely, keeping an eye on the watch.

The ferryman closed his eyes and resumed his smoking. The others watched him intently. Meanwhile George was thinking. Two minutes more passed. The boy was recalling a saying of his father’s: “Sometimes you can taunt an obstinate man into doing things, where you can’t reason with him.”

“Time is up!” said Jenks, at last. “Come, boys, let’s make a break for the boat!”

The ferryman placed his pipe on the ground with the greatest composure. “Take the boat if you want,” he observed, rising to his feet, “but you fellows won’t get very far in it! Look there!”

He pointed up the river’s bank. The boy who had been sent away a few minutes before was coming back to the wharf; he was now, perhaps, a quarter of a mile away, but he was not alone. He was bringing with him five Confederate soldiers, who were walking briskly along with muskets at right shoulder.

“You fellows looked kind o’ troublesome,” explained the ferryman, “so as there’s a picket up yonder I thought I’d send my son up for ’em!”

Watson made a move towards the boat. “Better stay here,” cried the ferryman; “for before you can get a hundred feet away from the bank in this contrary stream those soldiers will pick you off with their muskets. D’ye want to end up as food for fishes?”

The men groaned in spirit. “It’s too late,” muttered Jenks. He could picture the arrival at Marietta of all the members of the expedition save his own party, and the triumphal railroad escapade the next day. And when the Northern newspapers would ring with the account of the affair, his own name would not appear in the list of the brave adventurers.

Suddenly George went up to the ferryman, and said, with much distinctness: “I see we have to do with a coward! There’s not a boatman in Kentucky who wouldn’t take us across this river. Even a Yankee wouldn’t fear it. But you are so afraid you’ll have to get your feet wet that you actually send for soldiers to protect you!”

George’s companions looked at him in astonishment. The boatman, losing his placidity, turned a deep red. “Take care, young fellow,” he said, in a voice of anger; “there’s not a man in Tennessee who dares to call Ned Jackson a coward!”

“I dare to call you a coward unless you take us over to Chattanooga!” answered the boy, sturdily. “You’re afraid—and that’s the whole truth!”

Jackson’s face now underwent a kaleidoscopic transformation ranging all the way from red to purple, and then to white. All his stolidity had vanished; he was no longer the slow countryman; he had become the courageous, impetuous Southerner.

“If you weren’t a boy,” he shouted, “I’d knock you down!”

“That wouldn’t prove your bravery,” returned George, regarding him with an expression of well-feigned contempt. “That would only show you to be a bully. If you have any courage in your veins—the kind of courage that most Southerners have—prove it by taking us across the river.”

The soldiers were gradually drawing near the wharf. Meanwhile George’s companions had caught his cue. He was trying to goad Jackson into ferrying them over the riotous stream.

“Humph!” said Macgreggor; “a good boatman is never afraid of the water; but our friend here seems to have a consuming fear of it!”

“He ought to live on a farm, where there is nothing but a duck pond in the shape of water,” added Jenks. Jackson was actually trembling with rage; his hands were twisting nervously.

Watson eyed him with seeming pity, as he said: “It’s a lucky thing for you that you didn’t enlist in the Confederate army. You would have run at the first smell of gunpowder!”

Jackson could contain his wrath no longer. “So you fellows think I’m a coward,” he cried. “Very well! I’ll prove that I’m not! Get into my boat, and I’ll take you across—or drown you all and myself—I don’t care which. But no man shall ever say that Ned Jackson is a coward!” He ran to the boat, leaped into it and beckoned to the Northerners. “Come on!” he shouted. Within a minute George, Macgreggor, Watson and Jenks were in the little craft, and the ferryman had unmoored it from the wharf.

“Never mind,” he cried, waving his hand to the soldiers, who had now reached the wharf. “I don’t want you. I’m going to ferry ’em over the river—or go to the bottom! It’s all right.”

Already were the voyagers in midstream, almost before they knew it. It looked as if Jackson, in his attempt to prove his courage, might only end by sending them all to the bottom. Waggie, who was now reposing in a pocket of George’s coat, suddenly gave a low growl. George produced from another pocket a bone which he had brought from Mrs. Page’s house, and gave it to the dog.

“Well,” laughed Watson, in unconcern, “if Wag’s to be drowned, he’ll be drowned on a full stomach—and that’s one consolation.”

“He’s the only critter among you as has got any sense,” snarled the ferryman; “for he’s the only one who didn’t ask to be taken across this infarnal river!”