He came to a halt before a large mansion, which had the appearance of belonging to a wealthy person.  Its larder and kitchen cupboards, he doubted not, were plentifully supplied with the luxuries of the season; and Tom thought he might as well obtain his provisions now, as wait till he was driven to desperation by hunger.  He entered the front gate of the great house, and stepped upon the veranda in front of it.  The windows reached down to the floor.  He tried one of them, and found that it was not fastened.  He carefully raised the sash and entered.

Tom was determined to put himself upon his impudence on the present occasion; but he satisfied himself that his revolver was in condition for instant use before he proceeded any farther.  Passing from the front room to an apartment in the rear, he found a lamp and matches, and concluded that he would have some light on the subject, which was duly obtained.  Leaving this room, he entered another, which proved to be the kitchen.  A patient search revealed to him the lurking place of a cold roast chicken, some fried bacon, bread, and crackers.

Placing these things on the table, he seated himself to partake of the feast which the forethought of the occupants had provided for him.  Tom began to be entirely at home, for having thrown himself on his impudence now; he did not permit any doubts or fears to disturb him; but the handle of his pistol protruded from between the buttons of his coat.  He ate till he had satisfied himself, when he happened to think that the coffee pot he had seen in the closet might contain some cold coffee; and he brought it out.  He was not disappointed, and even found sugar and milk.  He poured out a bowl of the beverage, and, having prepared it to his taste, was about to conclude the feast in this genteel style, when he heard footsteps in the adjoining entry.

Tom determined not to be cheated out of his coffee, and instead of putting himself in a flurry, he took the bowl in one hand and the pistol in the other.  The door opened, and a negro timidly entered the room.

“Well, sar!” said the servant, as he edged along the side of the room.  “Hem!  Well, sar!”

Tom took no notice of him, but continued to drink his coffee as coolly as though he had been in his mother’s cottage at Pinchbrook.

“Hem!  Well, sar!” repeated the negro, who evidently wished to have the interloper take some notice of him.

But the soldier boy refused to descend from his dignity or his impudence.  He finished the bowl of coffee as deliberately as though the darkey had been somewhere else.

“Well, sar!  Who’s you, sar?”

“Eh, Blackee?”

“Who’s you, sar?”

“Good chicken!  Good bread!  Good bacon!” added Tom.  “Are the folks at home, Blackee?”

“No, sar; nobody but de women folks, sar.  Who’s you, sar?”

“It don’t make much difference who I am.  Where’s your master?”