“Where d’ye come from?” said he.

“From Manassas.  I lost my regiment in the fight; and the next day I heard they had been toted over this way, and I put after them right smart,” answered Tom, adopting as much of the Georgia vernacular as his knowledge would permit.

“Walk all the way?”

“No; I came in the keers most of the way.”

“But you don’t wear our colors,” added the farmer, glancing at Tom’s clothes.

“My clothes were all worn out, and I helped myself to the best suit I could find on the field.”

“What regiment did ye say ye b’longed to?” queried the man, eying the uniform again.

“To the Seventh Georgia.  Perhaps you can tell me where I shall find it.”

“I can’t; but I reckon there’s somebody here that can.  I’ll call him.”

Tom was not at all particular about obtaining this information.  There was evidently some military man in the house, who would expose him if he remained any longer.

“Who is it, father?” asked a person who had probably heard a part of the conversation we have narrated; for the voice proceeded from a bed-room adjoining the apartment in which Tom had eaten his supper.

“A soldier b’longing to the Seventh Georgia,” answered the farmer.  “That’s my son; he’s a captain in the cavalry, and he’ll know all about it.  He can tell you where yer regiment is,” added he, turning to Tom, who was edging towards the door.

“I’m very much obliged to you for my supper,” said the fugitive, nervously.  “I reckon I’ll be moving along.”

“Wait half a second, and my son will tell you just where to find your regiment.”

“The Seventh Georgia?” said the captain of cavalry, entering the room at this moment with nothing but his pants on.  “There’s no such regiment up here, and hasn’t been.  I reckon you’re a deserter.”

“No, sir! I scorn the charge,” replied Tom, with becoming indignation.  “I never desert my colors.”

“I suppose not,” added the officer, glancing at his uniform; “but your colors desert you.”

Tom failed to appreciate the wit of the reply, and backed off towards the door, with one hand upon the stock of his revolver.

“Hold on to him, father; don’t let him go,” said the officer, as he rushed back into his chamber, evidently for his pistols or his sabre.

“Hands off, or you are a dead man;” cried Tom, as he pointed his revolver at the head of the farmer.

In another instant, the captain of cavalry reappeared with a pistol in each hand.  A stunning report resounded through the house, and Tom heard a bullet whistle by his head.

CHAPTER XXII.

The picket guard.

It was sufficiently obvious to Tom that, on the present occasion, the suspicions of his host were awakened.  It is possible that, if he had depended upon his impudence, he might have succeeded in deceiving the Confederate officer; but his evident intention to retire from the contest before an investigation could be had, proved him, in the estimation of the captain, to be either a spy or a deserter, and shooting him was preferable to losing him.