But instead of doing this, Tom retreated into his shell, as a snail does when the moment of peril arrives.  The soldier in the house was not deaf; and if he had been, he could hardly have helped hearing the stentorian tones of his victim.  Instead of going out the back door, like a sensible man, he passed out at the front door, and in a moment more Tom heard his voice just beneath him.

“Halt!” shouted the soldier, as he brought his musket to his shoulder.  “Your name is Joe Burnap.”

“That’s my name, but I don’t want nothin’ o’ you,” replied the embarrassed militiaman, as he dropped the stones with which he had intended to assault Tom’s citadel.

“I want something of you,” replied the soldier.  “You must go with me.  Advance, and give yourself up.”

“What fur?” asked poor Joe.

“We want you for the army.  You are an enrolled militiaman.  You must go with me.”

“Ill be dog derned if I do,” answered Joe Burnap, desperately.

“If you attempt to run away, I’ll shoot you.  You shall go with me, dead or alive, and hang me if I care much which.”

Joe evidently did care.  He did not want to go with the soldier; his southern blood had not been fired by the wrongs of his country; and he was equally averse to being shot in cold blood by this minion of the Confederacy.  His position was exceedingly embarrassing, for he could neither run, fight, nor compromise.  While matters were in this interesting and critical condition, Tom ventured to raise his head over the top of the chimney to obtain a better view of the belligerents.  Joe stood where he had last seen him, and the soldier was standing within three feet of the foot of the chimney.

“What ye going to do, Joe Burnap?” demanded the latter, after waiting a reasonable time for the other to make up his mind.

“What am I gwine to do?” repeated Joe, vacantly, as he glanced to the right and the left, apparently in the hope of obtaining some suggestion that would enable him to decide the momentous question.

“You needn’t look round, Joe; you’ve got to come or be shot.  Just take your choice between the two, and don’t waste my time.”

“I s’pose I can’t help myself,” replied Joe.  “I’ll tell ye what I’ll do.  I want to fix up things about hum a little, and I’ll jine ye down to the Gap to-morrow.”

“No you don’t, Joe Burnap!” said the soldier, shaking his head.

“Then I’ll jine ye to-night,” suggested the strategist.

“My orders are not to return without you, and I shall obey them.”

Mrs. Burnap, who had followed the soldier out of the house, stood behind him wringing her hands in an agony of grief.  She protested with all a woman’s eloquence against the proceedings of the soldier; but her tears and her homely rhetoric were equally unavailing.  While the parties were confronting each other, the soldier dropped his piece, and listened to the arguments of Joe and his wife.  When he turned for a moment to listen to the appeals of the woman, her husband improved the opportunity to commence a retreat.  He moved off steadily for a few paces, when the enemy discovered the retrograde march, and again brought the gun to his shoulder.