“Poor boy,” muttered Watson. “He is done out.” He saw that George’s collapse was due to a fainting spell, which in itself was nothing dangerous. But when he heard the distant baying of the dog, and heard, too, the voices of men—no doubt some of the armed Southerners from the pursuing train—he saw the peril that encompassed both himself and the boy. Here they were almost on top of a hill, near the enemy, and with no means of escape should they be unfortunate enough to be seen by the Southerners or tracked by the hound. If George could be gotten at once to the other side of the hill he would be screened from view—otherwise he and Watson would soon——But the soldier did not stop to think what might happen. He jumped quickly to his feet, seized the unconscious George, and ran with him, as one might have run with some helpless infant, to the top of the hill, and then down on the other side. Waggie came barking after them; he seemed to ask why it was that his master had gone to sleep in this sudden fashion. Watson paused for a few seconds at the bottom of the hill, and placed his burden on the wet grass. There was as yet no sign of returning life. Once more came that uncanny bay. The man again took George in his arms.

“We can’t stay here,” he said. He himself was ready to drop from the fatigue and excitement of the day, but hope of escape gave him strength, and he ran on through an open field until he reached some bottom-land covered by a few unhealthy-looking pine-trees. Here he paused, panting almost as hard as the poor vanished “General” had done in the last stages of its journey. He next deposited his charge on the sodden earth. They were both still in imminent danger of pursuit, but for the time being they were screened from view.

Watson bent tenderly over the boy, whilst Waggie pulled at his sleeve as he had been accustomed to do far away at home when he wanted to wake up his master. George finally opened his eyes and looked around him, first dreamily, then with a startled air.

“It’s all right, my lad,” whispered Watson cheerily. “You only fainted away, just for variety, but now you are chipper enough again.”

George stretched his arms, raised himself to a sitting posture, and then sank back wearily on the ground.

“I’m so tired,” he said. “Can’t I go to sleep?” He was utterly weary; he cared not if a whole army of men and dogs was after him; his one idea was rest—rest.

“This won’t do,” said Watson firmly. “We can’t stay here.” He produced from his pocket a little flask, poured some of the contents down the boy’s throat, and then took a liberal drink himself. George began to revive, as he asked how he had been brought to his present resting-place.

“In my arms,” exclaimed Watson. “But I can’t keep that sort of thing up forever. We must get away from here. Every moment is precious.”

As if to emphasize the truth of this warning, the baying of the dog and the cries of men began to sound nearer. Watson sprang to his feet. The increase of the danger gave him new nerve; he no longer looked the tired, haggard man of five minutes ago.

“We can’t stay here,” he said, calmly but impressively; “it would be certain capture!”

George was up in an instant. The draught from the flask had invested him with new vigor.

“Where shall we go?” he asked. “I’m all right again.”

“To the river,” answered Watson. He pointed eagerly to the right of the pines, where they could see, in the darkening light of the afternoon, a swollen stream rushing madly past. It might originally have been a small river, but now, owing to the spring rains and freshets, it looked turbulent and dangerous. It was difficult to cross, yet for that very reason it would make a barrier between pursued and pursuers. Should the former try the experiment?

“Can you swim?” asked Watson.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll risk it. After all, the water’s safer for us than the land.”

Out through the pines they ran until they were at the water’s edge. The sight was not encouraging. The river foamed like an angry ocean, and a strong current was sweeping down to the northward.

The soldier looked at the boy in kindly anxiety. “The water is a little treacherous, George,” he said. “Do you think you’re strong enough to venture across?”

“Of course I am!” answered George, proudly. He felt more like himself now; he even betrayed a mild indignation at the doubts of his friend.

“Well,” began Watson, “we had—but listen! By Jove, those rascals have discovered us! They’re making this way!”

It was true; the barking of the dog and the sound of many voices came nearer and nearer. Waggie began to growl fiercely, quite as if he were large enough to try a bout with a whole Confederate regiment.

“Take off your shoes, George,” cried Watson. “Your coat and vest, too.”

Both the fugitives divested themselves of boots, coats and vests; their hats they had already lost in their flight from “The General.” In their trousers pockets they stuffed their watches and some Confederate money.

A sudden thought crossed George’s mind. It was a painful thought.

“What’s to become of Waggie?” he asked. “I can’t leave him here.” He would as soon have left a dear relative stranded on the bank of the river.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave him,” said Watson.

“I can’t,” replied George. There was a second’s pause—but it seemed like the suspense of an hour. Then the lad had a lucky inspiration. He leaned down and drew from a side pocket of his discarded coat a roll of strong cord which had been used when he climbed the telegraph poles. Pulling a knife from a pocket in his trousers he cut a piece of the cord about two yards in length, tied one end around his waist and attached the other end to Waggie’s collar. The next instant he had plunged into the icy water, dragging the dog in after him. Watson followed, and struck out into the torrent with the vigor of an athlete.

George found at once that his work meant something more than keeping himself afloat. The current was rapid, and it required all his power to keep from being carried down the river like a helpless log. Waggie was sputtering and pawing the water in his master’s wake.

“Keep going,” shouted Watson. “This current’s no joke!” Even he was having no child’s play.

Just then George had his mouth full of water; he could only go on battling manfully. But he began to feel a great weakness. Was he about to faint again? He dared not think of it. There was a loosening of the cord around his waist. He looked to his left and there was Waggie floating down the stream like a tiny piece of wood. His head had slipped from his collar.

Watson tried to grab the dog as he floated by, but it was too late. He might as well have tried to change the tide.

“Go on, George, go on!” he urged, breathlessly. The boy struggled onward, but he had already overtaxed his strength. He became dizzy; his arms and legs refused to work.

“What’s the matter?” sputtered his companion, who was now alongside of him.

“Go on; don’t mind me,” said George, in a choking voice.

“Put your hand on my belt,” sternly commanded Watson. The young swimmer obeyed, scarcely knowing what he did. Watson kept on like a giant fish, sometimes in danger of being swept away, and sometimes drawing a few feet nearer to the opposite bank.

The next thing that George knew was when he found himself lying on the river’s edge. Watson was peering at him anxiously.

“That’s right; open your eyes,” he said. “We had a narrow escape, but we’re over the river at last. I just got you over in time, for when we neared shore you let go of me, and I had to pull you in by the hair of your head.”

“How can I ever thank you,” said George, feebly but gratefully.

“By not trying,” answered Watson. “Come, there’s not a second to lose. Don’t you hear our enemies?”

There was no doubt as to the answer to that question. Across the river sounded the baying and the harsh human voices. Almost before George realized what had happened Watson had pulled him a dozen yards away to a spot behind a large boulder.

“Keep on your back!” he ordered. “The men are on the other bank.”

None too soon had he executed this manoeuvre. He and George could hear, above the noise of the rushing stream, the tones of their pursuers. They had just reached the river, and must be searching for the two Northerners. More than once the hound gave a loud whine, as if he were baffled or disappointed.

“They can’t be here,” came a voice from across the river. “We had better go back; they may be down the railroad track.”

“Perhaps they swam across the stream,” urged some one else.

“That would be certain death!” answered the first voice.

There was a whining from the dog, as if he had discovered a scent. Then a simultaneous cry from several sturdy lungs. “Look at these coats and boots!” “They did try to cross, after all.” “Well, they never got over in this current!” “They must have been carried down the Chickamauga and been drowned!” Such were the exclamations which were wafted to the ears of the two fugitives behind the rock.

“The Chickamauga,” said Watson, under his breath. “So that’s the name of the river, eh?”

There was evidently some heated discussion going on among the unseen pursuers. At length one of them cried: “Well, comrades, as there’s not one of us who wants to swim over the river in its present state, and as the fools may even be drowned by this time, I move we go home. The whole countryside will be on the lookout for the rest of the engine thieves by to-morrow—and they won’t escape us before then.”

“Nonsense,” interrupted a voice, “don’t you know night’s just the time which they will take for escape?”

“Are you ready, then, to swim across the Chickamauga?”

“No.”

“Then go home, and don’t talk nonsense! To-morrow, when the river is less angry, we will be up by dawn—and then for a good hunt!”

Apparently the advice of the last speaker was considered wise, for the men left the river bank. At last their voices could be no longer heard in the distance. The shades of twilight began to fall, and the rain ceased. Then Watson and his companion crawled cautiously from behind the boulder. They were two as dilapidated creatures as ever drew breath under a southern sky. With soaking shirts and trousers, and without coats, vests, or shoes, they looked the picture of destitution. And their feelings! They were hungry, dispirited, exhausted. All the pleasure seemed to have gone out of life.

“We can’t stay in this charming spot all night,” said Watson, sarcastically.

“I suppose a rock is as good as anything else we can find,” answered the boy gloomily. “Poor Waggie! Why did I try to drag him across the river?”

“Poor little midget,” said Watson. “I’ll never forget the appealing look in his eyes as he went sailing past me.”

“Do you hear that?” cried George.

“Hear what? Some one after us again?”

“No; it’s a dog barking!”

“Why, it sounds like Waggie, but it can’t be he. He’s gone to another world.”

“No, he hasn’t,” answered George. He forgot his weakness, and started to run down the bank, in the direction whence the sound proceeded. Watson remained behind; he could not believe that it was the dog.

In the course of several minutes George came running back. He was holding in his hands a little animal that resembled a drowned rat. It was Waggie—very wet, very bedraggled, but still alive.

“Well, if that isn’t a miracle!” cried Watson. He stroked the dripping back of the rescued dog, whereupon Waggie looked up at him with a grateful gleam in his eyes.

“I found him just below here, lying on a bit of rock out in the water a few feet away from the bank,” enthusiastically explained George. “He must have been hurled there, by the current.”

Watson laughed.

“Well, Waggie,” he said, “we make three wet looking tramps, don’t we? And I guess you are just as hungry as the rest.”

Waggie wagged his tail with great violence.

“Think of a warm, comfortable bed,” observed the boy, with a sort of grim humor; “and a nice supper beforehand of meat—and eggs——”

“And hot coffee—and biscuits—and a pipe of tobacco for me, after the supper,” went on Watson. He turned from the river and peered into the rapidly increasing gloom. About a mile inland, almost directly in front of him, there shone a cheerful light.

George, who also saw the gleam, rubbed his hands across his empty stomach, in a comical fashion.

“There must be supper there,” he said, pointing to the house.

“But we don’t dare eat it,” replied his friend. “The people within fifty miles of here will be on the lookout for any of Andrews’ party—and the mere appearance of us will be enough to arouse suspicion—and yet——”

Watson hesitated; he was in a quandary. He was not a bit frightened, but he felt that the chances of escape for George and himself were at the ratio of one to a thousand. He knew actually nothing of the geography of the surrounding country, and he felt that as soon as morning arrived the neighborhood would be searched far and wide. Had he been alone he might have tried to walk throughout the night until he had placed fifteen or twenty miles between himself and his pursuers. But when he thought of George’s condition he realized that it would be a physical impossibility to drag the tired lad very far.

Finally Watson started away towards the distant light.

“Stay here till I get back,” he said to George; “I’m going to explore.”

In less than an hour he had returned to the river’s bank.

“We’re in luck,” he said joyously. “I stole across to where that light is, and found it came from a little stone house. I crept into the garden on my hands and knees—there was no dog there, thank heaven—and managed to get a glimpse into the parlor through a half-closed blind. There sat a sweet-faced, white-haired old gentleman, evidently a minister of the gospel, reading a chapter from the scriptures to an elderly lady and two girls—his wife and children I suppose. He can’t have heard anything about our business yet—for I heard him ask one of the girls, after he stopped reading, what all the blowing of locomotive whistles meant this afternoon—and she didn’t know. So we can drop in on them to-night, ask for supper and a bed, and be off at daybreak to-morrow before the old fellow has gotten wind of anything.”

Soon they were off, Watson, George and Waggie, and covered the fields leading to the house in unusually quick time for such tired wanderers. When they reached the gate of the little garden in front of the place George asked: “What story are we to tell?”

“The usual yarn, I suppose,” answered Watson. “Fleming County, Kentucky—anxious to join the Confederate forces—et cetera. Bah! I loathe all this subterfuge and deceit. I wish I were back fighting the enemy in the open day!”

They walked boldly up to the door of the house and knocked. The old gentleman whom Watson had seen soon stood before them. The lamp which he held above him shone upon a face full of benignity and peacefulness. His features were handsome; his eyes twinkled genially, as if he loved all his fellow-men.

Watson told his Kentucky story, and asked food and lodgings for George and himself until the early morning.

“Come in,” said the old man, simply but cordially, “any friend of the South is a friend of mine.”

The minister (for he proved to be a country preacher who rode from church to church “on circuit”), ushered the two Northerners and the dog into his cozy sitting-room and introduced them to his wife and two daughters. The wife seemed as kindly as her husband; the daughters were pretty girls just growing into womanhood.

“Here, children,” said the old man, “get these poor fellows some supper. They’re on a journey to Atlanta, all the way from Kentucky, to enlist. And I’ll see if I can’t rake you up a couple of coats and some old shoes.”

He disappeared up-stairs, and soon returned with two half-worn coats and two pairs of old shoes, which he insisted upon presenting to the fugitives.

“They belong to my son, who has gone to the war,” he said, “but he’d be glad to have such patriots as you use them. How did you both get so bare of clothes?”

“We had to swim across a stream, and leave some of our things behind,” explained Watson. He spoke but the simple truth. He was glad that he did, for he hated to deceive a man who stood gazing upon him with such gentle, unsuspecting eyes.

It was not long before Watson and George had gone into the kitchen, where they found a table laden with a profusion of plain but welcome food. Waggie, who had been given some milk, was lying fast asleep by the hearth.

George looked about him, when he had finished his supper, and asked himself why he could not have a week of such quiet, peaceful life as this? Yet he knew that he was, figuratively, on the brink of a precipice. At any moment he might be shown in his true light. But how much better he felt since he had eaten. He was comfortable and drowsy. The minister and his family, who had been bustling around attending to the wants of their guests, began to grow dim in his weary eyes. Watson, who was sitting opposite to him, looked blurred, indistinct. He was vaguely conscious that the old gentleman was saying: “These are times that try our souls.” Then the boy sank back in his chair, sound asleep. He began to dream. He was on the cowcatcher of an engine. Andrews was tearing along in front on a horse, beckoning to him to come on. The engine sped on faster and faster, but it could not catch up to the horseman. At last Andrews and the horse faded away altogether; and the boy was swimming across the Chickamauga River. He heard a great shout from the opposite bank—and awoke.

Watson had risen from the table; the pipe of tobacco which the minister had given him as a sort of dessert was lying broken on the hearth. There was a despairing look on his face. It was the look that one might expect to see in a hunted animal at bay. Near him stood the old man, who seemed to be the incarnation of mournful perplexity, his wife, who was no less disturbed, and the two daughters. One of the latter, a girl with dark hair and snapping black eyes, was regarding Watson with an expression of anger. On the table was an opened letter.

“I am in your power,” Watson was saying to the minister.

What had been happening during the half hour which George had devoted to a nap?

“Poor, dear boy, he’s dropped off to sleep,” murmured the minister’s wife, when she saw George sink back in his chair. She went into the sitting-room and returned with a cushion which she proceeded to place under his head. “He is much too young to go to the war,” she said, turning towards Watson.

“There was no keeping him from going South,” answered his companion. “He would go.” Which was quite true.

The minister handed a pipe filled with Virginia tobacco to Watson, and lighted one for himself.

“It’s my only vice,” he laughed pleasantly.

“I can well believe you,” rejoined the Northerner, as he gratefully glanced at the spiritual countenance of his host. “Why should this old gentleman and I be enemies?” he thought. “I wish the war was over, and that North and South were once more firm friends.” He proceeded to light his pipe.

They began to talk agreeably, and the minister told several quaint stories of plantation life, while they smoked on, and the women cleared off the food from the table.

At last there came a knocking at the front door. The host left the kitchen, went into the hallway, and opened the door. He had a brief parley with some one; then the door closed, and he reentered the room. Watson thought he could distinguish the sound of a horse’s hoofs as an unseen person rode away.

“Who’s coming to see you this kind of night?” asked the wife. It was a natural question. It had once more begun to rain; there were flashes of lightning and occasional rumbles of thunder.

“A note of some kind from Farmer Jason,” explained the clergyman. “I hope his daughter is not sick again.”

“Perhaps the horse has the colic,” suggested one of the girls, who had gentle blue eyes like her father’s, “and he wants some of your ‘Equine Pills.’”

“Who brought the letter?” enquired the wife.

“Jason’s hired man—he said he hadn’t time to wait—had to be off with another letter to Farmer Lovejoy—said this letter would explain everything.”

“Then why don’t you open it, pa, instead of standing there looking at the outside; you act as if you were afraid of it,” spoke up the dark-eyed girl, who was evidently a damsel of some spirit.

“Here, you may read it yourself, Cynthia,” said her father, quite meekly, as if he had committed some grave offense. He handed the envelope to the dark-eyed girl. She tore it open, and glanced over the single sheet of paper inside. Then she gave a sharp cry of surprise, and darted a quick, penetrating glance at Watson. He felt uneasy, although he could not explain why he did.

“What’s the matter?” asked the minister. “Anything wrong at the Jasons’?”

“Anything wrong at the Jasons’,” Miss Cynthia repeated, contemptuously. “No; there’s something wrong, but it isn’t over at Jasons’. Listen to this!” She held out the paper at arm’s length, as if she feared it, and read these lines:

After Miss Cynthia finished the reading of this letter there was a silence in the room almost tragic in its intensity. Watson sprang to his feet, as he threw his pipe on the hearth. Waggie woke up with a whine. The Reverend Mr. Buckley looked at Watson, and then at the sleeping boy in a dazed way—not angrily, but simply like one who is grievously disappointed. So, too, did Mrs. Buckley and her blue-eyed daughter.

Finally Miss Cynthia broke the silence.

“So you are Northern spies, are you?” she hissed. “And you come here telling us a story about your being so fond of the South that you must travel all the way from Kentucky to fight for her.” She threw the letter on the supper-table, while her eyes flashed.

Watson saw that the time of concealment had passed. His identity was apparent; he was in the very centre of the enemy’s country; his life hung in the balance. He could not even defend himself save by his hands, for the pistol which he carried in his hip-pocket had been rendered temporarily useless by his passage across the river. Even if he had possessed a whole brace of pistols, he would not have harmed one hair of this kindly minister’s head.

“I am a Northerner,” said Watson, “and I am one of the men who stole a train at Big Shanty this morning. We got within a few miles of Chattanooga, and then had to abandon our engine, because we were trapped. We tried to burn bridges, but we failed. We did no more than any Southerners would have done in the North under the same circumstances.”

It was at this point that George awoke. He saw at once that something was wrong but he prudently held his tongue, and listened.

“You are a spy,” reiterated Miss Cynthia, “and you know what the punishment for that must be—North or South!”

“Of course I know the punishment,” said Watson, with deliberation. “A scaffold—and a piece of rope.”

The minister shuddered. “They wouldn’t hang the boy, would they?” asked his wife anxiously.

Mr. Buckley was about to answer, when Miss Cynthia suddenly cried, “Listen!”

Her sharp ears had detected some noise outside the house. She left the room, ran to the front door, and was back again in a minute.

“Some of the neighbors are out with dogs and lanterns, looking, I’m sure, for the spies,” she announced excitedly, “and they are coming up the lane!”

The first impulse of Watson was to seize George, and run from the house. But he realized, the next instant, how useless this would be; he could even picture the boy being shot down by an overwhelming force of pursuers.

“They are coming this way,” said Mr. Buckley, almost mournfully, as the sound of voices could now be plainly heard from the cozy kitchen.

“We are in your hands,” said Watson, calmly. He turned to the minister.

“You are fighting against my country, which I love more dearly than life itself,” answered Mr. Buckley. “I can have no sympathy for you!” His face was very white; there was a troubled look in his kindly eyes.

“But they will be hung, father!” cried the blue-eyed daughter.

“I’m ashamed of you, Rachel,” said Miss Cynthia. Mrs. Buckley said nothing. She seemed to be struggling with a hundred conflicting emotions. Waggie ran to her, as if he considered her a friend, and put his forepaws on her dress.

“Are you going to give us up?” asked Watson.

“I am a loyal Southerner,” returned the minister, very slowly, “and I know what my duty is. Why should I shield you?”

Watson turned to George.

“It was bound to come,” he said. “It might as well be to-night as to-morrow, or the next day.” The pursuers were almost at the door.

“All right,” said George, pluckily.

“Father,” said Miss Cynthia, “the men are at the door! Shall I let them in?”

Mrs. Buckley turned away her head, for there were tears in her eyes.