There was no further need of fooling “Old Alabammy,” for the worthy old gentleman, symbolically represented by the rebel soldier, had kindly done it himself; and Tom then realized that he was in the hands of the enemy.  It is true, the balance of the picket trio laughed heartily at the unfortunate slip of the tongue made by their companion, but Tom was in no condition to relish the joke, or he might perhaps have insinuated himself into the good graces of the jolly Secesh by repeating Pat’s mysterious problem—­“Tell me how many cheeses there are in the bag, and I’ll give ye the whole five;” for, though this is an old joke in the civilized parts of the world, it is not at all probable that it had been perpetrated in the benighted regions of Secessia.

The announcement of the fact that he was in the hands of the foe, as we have before intimated, left Tom in no condition to give or take a joke.  His heart was suddenly deprived of some portion of its ordinary gravity, and rose up to the vicinity of his throat.  He drew sundry deep and long breaths, indicative of his alarm; for though Tom was a brave boy,—­as these pages have already demonstrated,—­he had a terrible idea of the tender mercies of the rebels.  His first impulse was to break away from his captors, and run the risk of being overtaken by a trio of musket balls; for death from the quick action of a bullet seemed preferable to the fate which his fears conjured up if he should be taken by the bloodthirsty rebels.  But the chances were too decidedly against him, and he reluctantly brought his mind to the condition of philosophical submission.

“Well, stranger, which army do you b’long to?” said the spokesman of the picket trio, when he had fully recovered his self-possession.

“I belong to the United States army,” replied Tom, desperately.

“That means the Yankee army, I s’pose.”

“Yes, sir; you call it by that name.”

“Then you are my prisoner.”

“I surrender because I can’t help myself.”

“Hev you nary toothpick or bone-cracker in your pockets?”

“Any what?” replied Tom, whose dictionary seemed to be at fault.

“Nary pistol, knife, or any thing of that sort?”

“Nothing but my jackknife.”

“Any plunder?”

“We piled up our knapsacks and haversacks before we went into the fight.  Here is my canteen half full of water; I gave the other half to one of your soldiers, when he was dying of his wounds.”

“Did ye?”

“Now will you be kind enough to tell me where I am?”

“You are inside the lines of our army, about three miles below Centreville,” replied one of the pickets.

“What time is it?”

“Nigh upon nine o’clock, I should say.  One of you fellers must take this prisoner to headquarters,” he continued, speaking to his companions.

Tom was very agreeably surprised to find that his captors did not propose to hang, shoot, or bayonet him; and the Southern Confederacy rose a few degrees in his estimation.  Certainly the men who had taken him were not fiends, and he began to hope that his situation as a prisoner would not be so terrible as his fancy had pictured it.