The oldest of the travelers was accustomed to read the countenance, for he was bred a lawyer, and gave up a large practice in criminal courts to join the army.  He observed a shrewdness in the Irishman’s countenance that he thought might possibly be of service; but it was a delicate matter to get at in those times, when one might well be afraid often of the members of one’s own household.

“Good morning,” he finally said.

“Good morning to ye,” the Irishman responded without raising his eyes from his rock pile.

“Have you heard the news?” was next asked.

“Faith, an’ so much of it flies here and there, if a mon lets all of it roost, ’twill stale his pace of mind like the thaving crows stale his corn.”

“What I mean is, the fight yesterday at Green River bridge.  Ar’n’t you glad of the drubbing our boys gave the rebels?  There’s many a mother’s son of them lying in those green bottom lands there, that the morning’s reveille will never awaken more.”

The face of the youngest soldier was turned away.  His eyelashes were wet, and his teeth gnawed his under lip.  Once he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes, and once he looked as if the conversation had become unbearable, almost.

“Weel, an’ when it comes to that, I am the last man to be glad at the death of a sinner, an’ I take it, many a sinner handed in his checks there yistiddy.”

After a few general remarks the soldiers rode on.  When they had gone about three hundred yards they stopped, held a brief consultation, and finally returned.  The oldest man, who seemed to be the speaker, said: 

“We have been struck with your answers to our questions, and have come back to confide to you our situation and ask your aid.  We are not,” he continued, “what we seem to be.”

“If ye are not what ye seem to be, what are ye?”

“We are escaped rebel prisoners trying to make our way south.  At least I am, and that young fellow there was in this fight yesterday and got cut off from his command.  We believe you are a friend to our cause, and we must have your advice and aid, for we are here without knowledge of people or country.”

“Well,” said the Irishman, “if ye are decaving me the sin is all yer own.  If ye be honest an’ true men, follow my advice and all will be well.  I live just two miles up the road, the first white frame house on the left hand side of the road, with a barn in front of it.  The country is full of spies, an’ you must be careful.  Just ye ride up where I live, get off your horses and go in.  Make my wife take the horses to the stable and feed ’em.  Then order your dinner, an’ when you’ve eaten it, drive the wimmen and children out of the house and raise the divil ginerilly.”

The soldiers went on, and the Irishman resumed his work.  In less than an hour a neighbor rode up in hot haste, told him the Yankees had taken possession of his house and driven wife and children into the road.