“Well, young man,” he exclaimed, walking up to Frank, “how do you get along?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” answered Frank.

“How do you relish being a prisoner?  Are you not sorry that you ever took up arms against us?”

“No, I am not,” answered Frank, indignantly, “You’ll have to fight me again, as soon as I get out of this scrape.”

“What made you come down here to fight us?”

“Because I thought you needed a good drubbing.”

“Well, we haven’t had it yet;” said the lieutenant, stroking his moustache.  “Why didn’t you take Fort Pemberton?  You got the worst of it there.  We sunk the Ticonderoga.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Frank, with a sneer, “no doubt of it.  But, on the whole, I think you had better tell that to the marines.”

“You don’t believe it, then!  Well, how do you think this war is going to end?”

“Now, see here,” said Frank, “I wish you would travel on, and let me alone.  I am a prisoner, and in your power; and I don’t want to be abused for speaking my mind; for, if I answer your questions at all, I shall say just what I think.”

“That is what I like,” said the lieutenant.  “You need not be afraid to speak your mind freely.  Now, tell me, how do you think this struggle will end?”

“There is only one way for it to end, and that is in your subjugation.”

“But what is your object in fighting us?”

“To preserve the Union!”

“You’re a liar!” shouted the lieutenant.  “You’re fighting to free the niggers.”

“Well, have it your own way,” answered Frank.  “But, if I’m a liar, you’re a gentleman, so take it and go on.  You need not ask me any more questions, for I shan’t answer them.”

The lieutenant muttered something about hanging every Yankee he could catch if he could have his own way, and moved away; and Frank was left to finish his dinner in peace.

That afternoon, a soldier, whose name was Cabot, came and sat down beside Frank, and inquired: 

“Didn’t you try to escape last night?”

“Yes, but I was discovered.”

“You would not have been, if one of our own men hadn’t split on you.”

“What!” exclaimed Frank, “you don’t pretend to say that a Federal soldier was mean enough to inform against me?”

“Yes, I do; and there he stands now.”  And, as Cabot spoke, he pointed to a tall, hard-featured man standing by the window, looking out into the street.  “I slept at the head of the stairs last night, and distinctly heard him tell the guards that you were intending to leave.  His name is Bishop, and he belongs to the Thirtieth Maine Regiment.  He has for some time past been trying to be allowed to take the oath of allegiance to the South.” [Footnote:  A fact.]

“What will he do then?” inquired Frank; “go into the rebel army?”

“No, but he could be employed here in the arsenal, making bullets to kill our own men with.”