LITMIR.BIZ

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      It was the Thursday afternoon succeeding the Monday night described in the former chapter. On the north bank of the Tennessee River, not far from the town of Jasper, three drenched figures might be discerned. They were looking somewhat longingly in the direction of a white frame house not fifty yards away from the stream, which, swollen by the recent storms, was in a particularly turbulent mood. There was nothing very attractive about the building save that it suggested shelter from the rain without, and that the smoke curling up from its large chimney held forth vague hopes of a palatable supper. Certainly there was little in the landscape itself to tempt any one to remain outdoors. The three wanderers seemed to be of this opinion, for they suddenly made a move towards the house. They were roughly dressed, their clothes were soaking, and their high boots bore the evidence of a long, muddy tramp across country.

      “Well,” grumbled one of them, a thick-set, middle-aged man, with a good-humored expression and a four-days’ growth of iron-gray beard on his face; “why did I leave home and home cooking to enlist in the army and then wander over the earth like this?”

      “Mr. Watson!” exclaimed the person next to him, in a tone of boyish surprise; “how can you talk like that? Why, I am having the time of my life.”

      The speaker was George Knight. There was mud on his face, and the natty drummer boy in blue uniform had given place to a young fellow who outwardly resembled an ordinary farm hand. But there could be no doubt, from the light which shone in his bright eyes, that he was enjoying himself to the full.

      “Humph!” returned Watson. “When you get as old as I am, my boy, you won’t take such keen delight in walking through mire.”

      The boy laughed, and turned to the third member of the party. “Are you tired, too, Macgreggor?” he asked.

      Macgreggor, a compactly built, athletic young man of twenty-seven or thereabouts, with a light-brown beard and mustache which made him look older than he really was, shook the rain from his hat and said cheerily, “I’ve done a good deal of mountain climbing since Tuesday morning, but I’m not too tired to eat a good supper, if we are lucky enough to find one in this place.”

      It need hardly be repeated that Watson and Macgreggor were the two men in whose care Andrews had placed George Knight. They were both brave, resourceful men. During their long trudge across the mountainous country between Shelbyville and the Tennessee, Watson had uttered many a grumble, but his complaints meant nothing more than a desire to hear himself talk. When it came to fording a stream, climbing a precipice, or fairly wading through the slush, he was quite as willing and energetic as the other two members of his party.

      George knocked loudly at the door of the house, as he and his companions hastily sheltered themselves under the little piazza which ran along the front of the place.

      “Be on your guard, boys,” whispered Watson. “Stick to your story about our being Kentuckians, and say nothing imprudent that may arouse suspicion. Remember! we must be in Marietta by to-morrow night.”

      The meeting at Marietta had, at the very last moment, been postponed by Andrews from Thursday night to Friday night. “It is well he did postpone it,” thought Macgreggor; “we are far enough from Marietta as it is.”

      The door was suddenly thrown open by an old negro “aunty” behind whom stood a neat, bustling little white woman. The latter was evidently engaged in the business of preparing supper, if one might judge from the fact that her bare arms were almost encaked in flour.

      “We are three Kentuckians from Fleming County on our way to enlist in Chattanooga,” spoke out Macgreggor, in a voice which seemed to have the ring of truth in it. “Can we spend the night here, so that we can cross the river in the morning?”

      The expression of the woman, which had at first been one of surprise and irritation at being stopped in her work, softened immediately. “Come in,” she said, quickly; “my husband’s only a farmer, and we can’t give you anything very fine, but it was never said of Mandy Hare that she turned away from her house any loyal friend of the South.”

      With that she led her gratified visitors through a scantily-furnished parlor into a kitchen which seemed to them like a Paradise. Over the roaring fire in the great hearth several vessels were simmering and emitting the most delightful odors, while a table near by was already set for the coming meal. On a chair facing the fire a fat, white cat was purring blissfully. The room was delightfully warm; the whole scene had an irresistible attraction and air of domesticity.

      “Make yourselves at home,” commanded Mrs. Hare, cheerfully. “My husband will be home from Jasper in a few minutes, and then you’ll have something to eat—such as ’tis.”

      At this instant there was a querulous little bark, which appeared to come from the region of George Knight’s heart. Mrs. Hare looked around in surprise; the white cat stirred uneasily. The next second the boy had shaken his overcoat, and from out of a large side pocket jumped the diminutive Waggie. The cat, with one bound, took a flying leap to the kitchen stairs, and brushing past the half-opened door at the bottom of the flight, fairly tore up to the second story, where she disappeared. Waggie gave a shrill yelp of emotion, but evidently concluded that it was safer not to chase a strange and muscular cat in a strange house.

      “Gracious me,” cried Mrs. Hare; “did you bring that little fellow all the way from Kentucky?”

      “When I came away he followed me,” replied George. He spoke the truth, although he did not add that he “came away” from a Union camp rather than from Kentucky. Waggie had been consigned to a member of General Mitchell’s staff, to remain with him during his owner’s absence, but George had not proceeded five miles on his journey before he heard a joyous bark behind him—and there frisked and capered Waggie. “You’ll have to turn spy now,” George said. It was too late to send him back. Thus the dog joined the party, much to the pleasure of all concerned.

      Hardly had Waggie made his theatrical entrance into the kitchen before a lean, prematurely shriveled man of fifty, whose long shaggy beard proclaimed him a veritable countryman, came shambling into the room. At sight of the three strangers a curious look came into his restless eyes. It was almost as if the look was one of triumph. George, observing it, shivered, although he could hardly say why he did so.

      “This is my husband,” explained Mrs. Hare, with an awkward attempt at courtesy. “These men,” she continued, addressing her lord and master, “have the good of the Southern cause at heart, and are on their way to Chattanooga, to enlist in the Confederate army.” She cast such an approving glance upon the wanderers as she spoke, and was so good-natured, that George’s heart smote him at the deception which was being practised upon her. He was a frank, honest boy, who hated the very idea of appearing anywhere under false pretences. But he realized that he was playing a part for the good of his General, and his General’s cause, and he resolved to maintain, as well as he could, his new character of a Southern sympathizer.

      Farmer Hare gave to each of the visitors a surly recognition. Waggie walked up to him, sniffed about his boots, and uttered a low growl. It was plain that the dog did not approve of the master of the house.

      “You fellows are taking a pretty long journey to serve the South,” remarked Mr. Hare at last, in a nasal tone sadly at variance with the customary soft Southern cadence.

      “Can he suspect us?” thought Watson. The same thought went through the mind of Macgreggor, but he merely said: “We are nearly at our journey’s end now. By to-morrow we will be in Chattanooga.”

      “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” snarled Hare, with the air of an unwilling host. The visitors took the chairs which Mrs. Hare had placed for them at the supper-table. They were joined by husband and wife, and the negro “aunty” was soon serving a delicious meal of corn bread, Irish stew, and other good things. They all ate with a will, including Waggie, who was given a private lot of bones by the fireside. When the supper was over the farmer arose abruptly. “I s’pose you fellows have had a pretty long tramp,

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