The next morning Watson and George Knight, with the faithful Waggie (who was destined to remain with his master throughout all these adventures, in which he had played his own little part), were taken by the detachment of Confederates to Chattanooga. Here they were placed in the jail, and here also, in the course of a few days, were brought Andrews and the other members of the ill-fated expedition. For they were all captured, sooner or later, as might have been expected. The whole South rang with the story of the engine chase, and every effort was made to track and capture the courageous Northerners.

After a stay of several weeks in Chattanooga the party were taken by railroad to Madison, in Georgia, for it was feared that General Mitchell was about to take possession of the former place. In a few days, however, when the danger had passed, they were returned to Chattanooga. It was not until September of 1863 that this city fell into the hands of a Union force.

Of the movements and separation of the prisoners after their return to Chattanooga, or of the experiences of some of them in Knoxville, it is not necessary to make detailed mention. Andrews, after a trial, was executed in Atlanta as a spy, dying like a brave man, and seven of his companions, condemned by a court-martial, shared the same fate. It was the fortune of war. George could never dance, as he had promised, at his leader’s wedding.

Let us change the scene to the city prison of Atlanta, where the remaining fourteen members of the expedition were to be found in the following October. Among them were Watson, George Knight, Jenks and Macgreggor. Waggie, too, was still in evidence, but he would have found life rather dreary had not the kind-hearted jailer allowed one of his family to take the dog many a scamper around the city.

“Poor Andrews,” said Watson, one afternoon, “it is hard to realize that he and seven others of us have gone.”

The party were occupying a well-barred room on the second floor of the prison. This second floor comprised four rooms for prisoners, two on each side of a hallway. In the hallway was a staircase which led to the first story, where the jailer and his family had their quarters. Outside the building was a yard surrounded by a fence about nine feet high, and here and there a soldier, fully armed, was on guard.

“I don’t want to be doleful, boys,” said Macgreggor, “but I think we will soon follow Andrews. As the days rolled on and we heard no more of any trial or execution I began to hope that the Confederate Government had forgotten the rest of us. I even thought it possible we might be exchanged for the same number of Confederates in Northern prisons, and thus allowed to go back to our army. But I’ve kept my eyes and ears open—and I have now become anxious.”

“Why so?” asked George. The boy looked thin and very pale, after his long confinement.

“I heard some one—I think it was the Provost-Marshal—talking to the jailer this morning, at the front door of the prison. I was looking out of the window; you fellows were all playing games. ‘Keep a very strict eye on those engine-stealers,’ the marshal said; ‘a court is going to try them—and you know what that means—death! A trial will be nothing more than a formality, for the whole fourteen of them are spies, under the rules of war. They were soldiers who entered the enemy’s line in civilian disguise. So don’t let them get away.’”

Macgreggor’s listeners stirred uneasily. This was not what might be called pleasant news.

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” asked Jenks.

“I hadn’t the heart to,” returned Macgreggor. “You boys were all so cheerful.”

Watson cleared his voice.

“I tell you what it is, boys,” he whispered, as he gave Waggie a mournful pat; “if we don’t want to be buried in an Atlanta graveyard we must escape!”

George’s white face flushed at the thought. The idea of liberty was dazzling, after so many weary days.

“Well,” said one of the men, in the same low tone, “it’s better to escape, and run the risk of failing or of being re-captured, than to rot here until we are led out to be hanged.”

“Let’s invent a plan that will enable us not only to get out, but to stay out,” laughed Jenks.

There was dead silence for nearly ten minutes. The men, who had been sitting on the floor watching two of their number at a game of checkers, were deep in thought. At last Watson opened his lips.

“I have a plan,” he whispered. “Tell me what you think of it. You know that about sunset the darkies come into the rooms to leave us our supper. The jailer stands outside. Then, later, the jailer comes and takes away the dishes. He is then alone. Suppose we seize him, gag him, take his keys, unlock all the doors on this floor, and release all the prisoners. As you know, there are a number besides our own party—whites and negroes. All this must be quietly done, however, if it is to prove successful. Then we can go down-stairs, without making any noise, overpower the seven sentinels, take their guns, and make off, after locking up these gentlemen.”

Watson went further into details, to show the probable workings of his scheme. It was finally agreed that the dash was well worth the trial. As Jenks remarked: “It’s either that or a few feet of cold rope, and a coffin!”

The late afternoon of the next day was fixed upon for the escape. In addition to the fourteen remaining adventurers, a Union captain from East Tennessee, who shared the room with them, was to be associated in this daring enterprise. It seemed to George as if the hour would never come; but as the sun began to sink gradually towards the horizon on the following afternoon he realized, from the feverish restlessness of the whole party, that there was not much longer to wait.

“Keep up your nerve, fellows,” said Watson, who had become the leader of the party, “and remember that all depends upon the quietness with which we conduct things on this floor, so that the guard below won’t take the alarm.”

As he spoke there was a rattling of keys and a creaking of locks. The heavy door of the room opened, and in walked Waggie. He had been having a walk, with a daughter of the jailer, and one of the negro servants had taken him up-stairs and unlocked the door. The next moment the key was turned; the prisoners were again shut in from the world.

“Poor little Waggie,” said Macgreggor. “Is he going too?”

“I’ve taken him through too much to leave him behind now,” said George fondly. “Look. This is as good as a kennel.” He pointed to an overcoat, which the East Tennessee Captain had given him, and showed on one side a large pocket. The side of the latter was buttoned up closely to the coat.

The minutes dragged along. Finally Watson said, with a sort of mournful impressiveness: “Boys, let us all bid each other good-bye. For some of us may never meet again!”

The men clasped one another by the hand. In the eyes of most of them were tears—not timid tears, but the tears of soldiers who had become attached to one another through suffering and hoping together. It was a solemn scene which the rays of the dying sun illumined, and George would never forget it.

Watson brushed a drop from his cheek.

“I feel better, now,” he said cheerfully; “I’m ready for anything. Remember one thing. Treat the jailer as gently as possible. He has been a kind fellow where some would have been the reverse.”

“Aye,” murmured his companions. It was an order which had their hearty sympathy.

In a little while there was the long-expected creaking at the door. It was supper time! Two negroes entered and placed some pans containing food upon the table. Then they retired, and the door was locked.

“Eat, boys,” whispered Watson; “we don’t know when we may get our next square meal.”

The men soon disposed of the food. Hardly had they finished before the door was thrown open, and the jailer, an elderly, bearded man, appeared.

“Good-evening, men,” he said, in a pleasant, unsuspicious voice. He halted at the doorway with the keys in his right hand.

It was a terrible moment. George felt as if he were living ten years in that one instant.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Watson, approaching the jailer. “It’s such a very pleasant evening that we intend to take a little walk.” He threw back the door as he spoke.

The jailer was unprepared for this move. He did not even divine what was intended.

“How—what do you mean——” he faltered.

“We’ve had enough of prison life,” said Macgreggor, in a calm, even voice, “and we are going to leave you. Now give up the keys, and keep very quiet, or you’ll find——”

“Keep off!” cried the jailer, as he tightened his hold on the bunch of keys. He was about to call for help, but Watson placed his left hand over the man’s mouth, and with his right clutched the unfortunate’s throat. Then Macgreggor seized the keys, after a sharp but decisive struggle, and hurried into the hallway, where he began to release the general prisoners. He quickly unlocked in succession the doors of the three other rooms on the second floor. The men thus freed did not understand the significance of it all, but they saw unexpected liberty staring them in the face, and they ran out of their quarters like so many sheep.

Meanwhile the members of the engine expedition, with the exception of Watson and Macgreggor, had run almost noiselessly down the staircase, through the jailer’s quarters on the first floor, and thus out into the prison yard. Some of them threw themselves upon the three soldiers in the rear of the yard, wrenched from them their muskets, crying out at the same time: “Make a movement or a cry and we’ll shoot you down!” The rest of the party, among whom were George Knight and Jenks, tore into the front part of the yard, where four guards were patroling near the main door of the jail. Two of these guards were quickly disarmed. But the other two, seeing the oncoming of the prisoners, ran out of the gate of the picket fence, uttering loud cries as they went. Their escape was entirely unexpected.

The general prisoners now came tumbling into the yard, headed by Watson and Macgreggor. Watson, warned that there was no time to lose, had released his hold upon the astonished jailer. He did not know that two of the sentinels had escaped, but he arrived down-stairs just in time to see the result of their disappearance. A large reserve guard of Confederates, warned of the jail delivery by these two soldiers, came rushing madly into the yard.

“Look out, boys!” cried Watson. Other members of the engine party, seeing the arrival of the troops, released the five remaining sentinels, threw down their newly acquired muskets, and began to scale the prison fence. There came the sharp crack of rifles from the reserve guard. Whiz! The bullets rattled all around the heads of the fence-climbers, the whistling noise having for accompaniment the cries of the angry Confederates. Whiz! Another volley! Yet no one was hit. On the fugitives went, as they descended on the other side of the fence, and made for some woods at a distance of nearly a mile from the prison.

“After ’em, men,” came the word of command to the Confederates. Soldiers were running hither and thither, while the general prisoners, who had been released by Macgreggor, were soon safely housed in their old rooms. The bullets were flying thick and fast within and without the prison yard; the scene was one of pandemonium. Ere long five of the engine party had been captured, three inside of the yard and two immediately outside. Among these were Jenks and Macgreggor who were both uninjured, but both very much disheartened. Soon there was the clatter of hoofs, and a troop of cavalry dashed up to the front of the jail.

“No more chance of escape!” said Jenks bitterly, as he looked out of the barred window. He could hear the cavalry colonel excitedly crying: “Hunt down the fellows till you have every one of them!”

“I hope some of the boys will get off,” remarked Macgreggor. “Any one who is captured is sure to be hung now.” Afterwards another prisoner was captured. There were now six of the party back in jail.

Where were Watson and George during this escapade? No sooner had the former cried out his warning, on the approach of the reserve guard, than he made directly for George, who was in the back part of the yard.

“Come on,” he said, in tones of suppressed excitement, “over the fence with us. It’s our only chance—now!”

Imitating the example of others the man and boy were soon balanced on top of the wooden fence. Whirr! George was conscious of a whistling sound, and a bullet flew by him as it just grazed the tip of one ear.

“Hurry up!” urged Watson. In another second the two had dropped from the fence and were running like mad over a large field.

“Halt!” cried some voices behind them. Looking back they could see that about a dozen soldiers were in hot pursuit. A ball sped by George, dangerously near the capacious pocket in which Waggie was ensconced; a second bullet would have ended the life of Watson had it come an inch nearer the crown of his head.

“Look here,” said Watson. “These men are fresh—we are weakened by imprisonment—they will get up to us in the end. Let’s try a trick. The next time the bullets come we’ll drop as if we were dead.”

At that moment another volley rattled around and over them. Watson threw up his arms, as if in agony, and sank on the grass. George uttered a loud cry, and went down within a few feet of his companion.

All but one of the Confederates halted, upon seeing the apparent success of their aim, and turned to pursue in a new direction. The remaining soldier came running up to the two prisoners, and after taking one look which convinced him that they were either dead or dying he scurried back to rejoin his detachment. There was no use in wasting time over corpses when living enemies remained to be caught.

The “corpses” waited until all was quiet around them. Then they arose, and kept on towards the woods. These they reached when darkness had fallen upon the trees—a circumstance which aided them in one way, as it lessened the danger of pursuit. But in another way the night impeded their progress for they could not get their bearings. They groped from tree to tree, and from bush to bush, like blind men. Once they heard a great rustling, and were convinced that it was caused by some of their companions, but they dared not speak, for fear of a mistake. At last they stumbled out upon a deserted highroad.

“Where are we?” whispered George.

“I don’t know,” returned Watson. “Hark! Do you hear anything?”

A sound, at first very faint, became more and more distinct as they listened. Galloping horsemen and the rattle of sabres proclaimed the approach of cavalry.

“Back into the woods,” urged Watson. “We may be putting ourselves in a trap—but for the life of me I don’t know where else to go!”

They hurried into the wood, where they crawled under a scrubby pine bush, and anxiously awaited the outcome. On rushed the horsemen until they reached the outskirts of the wood. Here they halted. The hiders under the pine bush could hear one of the officers say: “The infantry will soon be here to relieve us.”

“We’ve had a great time to-night,” growled another officer. “These Yankees, not content with troubling us on the battle-field, must even stir things up when they are prisoners.”

“I don’t wonder those locomotive-stealers wanted to escape,” laughed the first officer. “They know what the punishment of a spy always is.”

In a few minutes a company of infantry marched to the scene. After a short conference between their officers and those of the cavalry the horsemen galloped away. The infantry were now formed into squads, and sent to keep guard in the woods.

“Things are getting rather warm!” whispered Watson. George murmured an assent. Well might he do so, for a sentry had soon been posted within fifty feet of the two fugitives. The situation was fraught with the greatest danger. Watson and George realized that the soldiers would patrol the woods until morning, when discovery would be inevitable.

Watson sank his voice so low that it could just be heard by his companion.

“We can’t afford to stay here until daylight,” he whispered. “We must wriggle out of here until we come to the edge of the road. Then we must make a break and run.”

“Run where?” asked George.

“Providence alone knows,” answered Watson. “We must trust to chance. But anything is better than remaining here, to be caught like rabbits by dogs.”

“I’m ready,” replied George. He already saw himself back in the Atlanta prison, and he even pictured himself with a rope around his neck; but he was prepared for any adventure, whatever might be the result.

“The sooner the better,” whispered Watson. Without any more words the two began to wriggle along the ground and kept up this snake-like motion until they reached the edge of the wood. It was slow work and very tiresome, but it was their one chance of escape. Then they stood up, and bounded across the highroad.

“There they go!” shouted one of the soldiers in the wood. At once there was an uproar, as the sentries ran out into the road, and began to fire their guns in wild confusion. It was pitch dark, and they could see nothing. Over the road and into an open field tore the two fugitives. They felt like blind men, for they could hardly distinguish any object before them; moreover they were wholly ignorant of their surroundings. They ran on, however, and finally reached another field in which were several large trees. Watson made straight for one of them.

“Up we go,” he said, and, suiting the action to the order, he had soon clambered up the tree, and seated himself across one of its branches. George was quick to follow; he climbed up with even more celerity than Watson, and settled himself on a neighboring branch.

They could hear the cries of the sentries, mingled with an occasional shot. Two of the soldiers passed directly under the tree occupied by the Northerners.

“They have gotten off,” one of them was saying.

“I’m not surprised,” rejoined the other sentry. “Any fellows who could do what they did at Big Shanty are not easy customers to deal with.”

In a little while the two sentries returned, and, again passing under the tree, evidently went back to the woods. The uproar had ceased; there was no more firing; it was plain that the chase had been abandoned.

After the lapse of half an hour Watson and George descended from their uncomfortable perches. Once upon the ground the boy released Waggie from his pocket, and the little party pushed on in the darkness for about a mile. Here they found a hayrick in a field, alongside of which they laid their weary bones and slept the sleep of exhaustion. When daylight came they had awakened, feeling much refreshed and ready for more adventures.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Watson. “There’s a chance for us yet, provided we try a new means of getting away from the South.”

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“If we try to move northward,” continued Watson, “we are sure to be caught. Every countryman between Atlanta and Chattanooga will be on the lookout for us. Instead of that, let us strike out towards the Gulf of Mexico, where we should reach one of the ships of the Union blockading squadron. New Orleans is in the hands of the North, and many of our vessels must be patroling the Gulf. Once we reach the coast we are practically free.”

“The very thing!” cried the boy. “You’re a genius!”

Watson smiled.

“Not a genius,” he said, “but I have what they call horse-sense up our way—and I’m not anxious to return to the delights of the Atlanta prison.”

Acting upon this new theory the wanderers began their long journey. This they pursued amid many hardships, not the least of which was hunger. Even poor Waggie grew emaciated. First they reached the banks of the Chattahoochee River, after which they secured a boat and rowed their way down via the Apalachicola River, to Apalachicola, Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico. Here they found, to their great delight, that a Federal blockading squadron was patroling on the Gulf, near the mouth of Apalachicola Bay.

The two fugitives now pushed their little boat out into the open sea. They were a sorry looking couple, with their old clothes fairly dropping from them, and their thin, gaunt figures showing the consequences of many days of privation. Watson was feverish, with an unnatural glitter in his eyes, while George’s face was a sickly white. Waggie reposed at the bottom of the rickety craft, as if he cared not whether he lived or died.

“Look!” cried Watson, who was at the oars. He pointed out towards the south, where were to be seen a collection of masts and smoke-stacks, rising above long black hulls.

“It’s the Federal fleet,” said George. He was glad to have a look at it—glad to know that deliverance was at hand—but he felt too exhausted to put any enthusiasm into his voice.

“Can you see any flag?” he asked, wearily. “Perhaps we have been fooled after all. The ships may belong to the Confederate navy.”

Soon they could detect, as they drew nearer, a flutter of bunting from the vessel nearest to them.

“It’s the old flag!” cried George, jumping from his seat in the stern with a precipitancy that threatened to upset the boat. “See the blue—and the red and white stripes! Hurrah!” But he was too weak for much enthusiasm even now and he soon had to sit down once more.

Watson uttered a cry which was meant to be triumphant, although it came like a hoarse croak from his parched throat. Then the tears gushed into his eyes as he gazed again upon the flag. It almost seemed as if he were home again.

Nearer and nearer they rowed to the squadron. There were four ships of war, and now they could see the sailors walking the decks and the guns in the portholes.

“We’ll be there in ten minutes now,” said Watson, “and I think I can eat a——” He gasped and failed to finish the sentence. He half rose from his seat, relinquished the oars, with a despairing cry, and then, losing all consciousness, pitched over the gunwale into the sunlit waters of the Gulf.

George jumped up from the stern and stretched out his arm to seize the inanimate body of his friend. But the movement was too much for the equilibrium of the frail boat and for the balance of the boy. Out into the water shot George, overturning the craft until its keel was in the air.

George struck out for Watson and succeeded in grabbing him by the hair of his head just as he was about to disappear beneath the waves. Then he changed his hold upon the man, and with his left hand clutching the neck of Watson’s coat he pulled to the side of the upturned boat. To this he held with his right hand like grim death, as he put his left arm around Watson’s waist. The boy was panting for breath, and as weak as if he had been swimming for miles. Not until now had he thoroughly realized how hunger, exposure and privation had done their work. The next instant he felt a gentle paddling near him; he looked down and there was Waggie’s wet but plucky little face.

“Hello! old boy,” said George. “I would rather drown myself than see you go under. So here goes!”

He released his hold of Watson and by a quick movement swung Waggie to the upturned bottom of the boat, near the keel. The tiny animal gave a bark that said “Thank you,” as plainly as if he had spelled out every letter of the two words. George again seized Watson and clung to the boat more tightly than before. The soldier gradually came back to consciousness.

“What have I done?” he asked, staring wildly at the hot sun above him.

“Nothing!” answered George. “Only try to hold on to the boat. For I’m so worn out that it’s all I can do to keep myself up.”

Watson clawed frantically at the gunwale. At last he managed to grasp it with his tired, bony fingers.

“I can’t hold on much longer!” suddenly said George, in a faint voice. His hands were numb; he felt as if he had not one particle of strength left in his emaciated body. His mind began to wander. He forgot that he was in the Gulf of Mexico; he thought he was holding on to a horse. By and by the horse began to move. Could he keep his grasp on the animal? No; not much longer. The horse started to canter, and the boy felt himself slipping backward. In reality he had let go his hold upon the boat. So, too, had Watson. The next moment was a blank. The sun came burning down on poor Waggie, perched on top of the craft, as he growled piteously at the sight of master and friend drifting helplessly away.

When George recovered his senses he was lying on the deck of one of the war-vessels, and Waggie was barking in an effort to awaken him. Near him sat Watson, with a happy smile on his wan face. Around him was a group of officers.

“By Jove,” one of the latter was saying. “Those poor fellows had a narrow escape. It was well we saw their plight and sent a boat after them. It got there just in time.”

“Well, my boys,” asked an older officer (who was evidently the captain of the vessel), in a gruff but not unkindly tone, “what on earth are you, and where did you come from? You don’t appear to have been gorging yourselves lately.”

When George and Watson were a little stronger they told the story of their adventures, in brief but graphic terms, to the interested group of officers. When they had finished the Captain came up to them, and put a hand upon the shoulder of each.

“You fellows want a good round meal!” he said emphatically. “And after that some clothes will not come amiss, I guess.”

To this they readily assented. How delicious the food tasted when it was served to them at the officers’ mess; and how comfortable but strange they felt when, an hour later, they were arrayed in all the glory of clean underclothes, shoes, nice suits and naval caps. When they came on deck again, how the sailors did cheer. And Waggie! How fine and cheerful he looked, to be sure, all decked out in ribbons provided by the tars; and how pleased he felt with the whole world since he had eaten—but it would take too long to detail the menu with which the dog had been regaled. The wonder was that he survived the spoiling that he received during the next four days.

At the end of that time he accompanied his master and Watson, who were sent on a government vessel to New York. From New York they traveled by rail to Washington, where they were to relate their experiences, and the result of the railroad chase, to President Lincoln.

First they saw Mr. Stanton, the Secretary of War, who made them dine and spend the night as his guests, and who the next morning took them to the White House. George trembled when he was ushered into the private office of Mr. Lincoln. He felt nervous at the thought of encountering the man who, more than any one else, held in his hand the destiny of the nation. But, when a tall, gaunt person, with wonderful, thoughtful eyes and a homely face, illumined by a melancholy but attractive smile, walked up to him and asked: “Is this George Knight?” all the boy’s timidity vanished. As he answered, “Yes, I am George Knight,” he felt as if he had known the President for years.

Mr. Lincoln listened to the narrative of the two fugitives—now fugitives no longer—and put to them many questions. When the recital was over the President asked: “Do you know that poor General Mitchell has died from yellow fever?”

They answered in the affirmative, for Mr. Stanton had given them this unwelcome information upon their arrival in Washington.

Mr. Lincoln pulled a paper from one of the pockets of his ill-fitting black coat and handed it to Watson.

“Here is a commission for you as a Captain in the regular army,” he explained. “I know of no one who could deserve it more than Captain Watson.”

“How can I ever thank you, Mr. President?” cried Watson.

“The thanks are all on my side,” answered the President, smiling. “That reminds me of a little story. When——”

Mr. Stanton, who was standing immediately behind his chief, began to cough in a curious, unnatural way.

A gleam of humor came into the unfathomable eyes of the President.

“Mr. Stanton never appreciates my stories,” he said, quizzically, “and when he coughs that way I know what he means.” Then, turning to George, he continued: “My lad, you are one of the heroes of the war! I had intended giving you, too, a commission, but I find you are too young. But I suppose you want to see more of the war?”

“Indeed I do, Mr. Lincoln!” cried George.

“Well, since poor Mitchell is dead, how would you like to go as a volunteer aid on the staff of one of our generals?”

“The very thing!” said the boy, with ardor.

Mr. Lincoln faced his Secretary of War.

“You don’t always let me have my own way, Mr. Secretary,” he observed, dryly, “but I think you must oblige me in this.”

“The boy’s pretty young,” answered the Secretary, “but I fancy it can be arranged.”

“Very good,” said the President. “And now, George, if you behave with half the pluck in the future that you have shown in the past, I’ll have no fear for you. Do your duty, and some day you may live to see—as I may not live to see—a perfect reunion between North and South; for God surely does not intend that one great people shall divide into two separate nations.”

George left the White House in a perfect glow of enthusiasm. The very next day he was ordered to join the staff of General George H. Thomas, and he joyfully obeyed the summons to leave Washington. His only regret was in parting from Waggie, whom he was obliged to entrust to the care of a friend of Secretary Stanton’s. The boy saw plenty of army life throughout the rest of the war. When the conflict was over he hurried back to Washington, found Waggie alive and well, and then went home with him to Cincinnati. Here he had a startling but delightful reunion with his father, whose mysterious disappearance had been due to his capture by the Confederates, and an incarceration for many months in an out-of-the-way Southern prison.

There were many things of interest which George did not learn until after the last gun of the war had been fired. One was that Watson had made a brilliant record for himself as a regular army officer, and had come out of the war with a sound skin and the rank of Colonel. Another piece of news concerned the fortunes of the soldiers who escaped from the Atlanta jail. Eight of the engine party and the East Tennessee Captain (this number including Watson and George), managed to escape, and finally reached the Northern lines in safety. The six prisoners who were recaptured, among them Macgreggor and Jenks, escaped hanging, and were exchanged for the same number of Southern prisoners. Jenks was killed at the battle of Gettysburg; Macgreggor served through the war, was honorably discharged as a Major of Volunteers, and finally developed into a successful physician in the growing city of Chicago.

Waggie has been gathered to his canine forefathers these many years. But it is comforting to reflect that he lived to a fine old age, and died full of honors. He was known far and wide as the “Civil War Dog”—a title which caused him to receive much attention, and a good many dainty bits of food in addition to his regular meals. Let it be added, however, that his digestion and his bright disposition remained unimpaired until the end.

George Knight is now a prosperous merchant, happily married, and living in St. Louis. He is proud in the possession of a son who saw active service in the Spanish-American War as an officer in the navy. Before we say good-bye to our hero let us record that he never forgot the kindness of the Rev. Mr. Buckley, who had saved his life as a boy. Many a Christmas-time gift testified to the gratitude of the Northerner.

In the desk in George Knight’s office is a bundle of letters from the old clergyman. The last of these to be received reads as follows: