“Around to the jail comes old Doc again in about a week.  I was flea-bitten, a mite sarcastic, and fundamentally hungry.

“‘Any Confederate ironclads in the offing?’ I asks.  ’Do you notice any sounds resembling the approach of Jeb Stewart’s cavalry overland or Stonewall Jackson sneaking up in the rear?  If you do, I wish you’d say so.’

“‘It’s too soon yet for help to come,’ says Doc.

“‘The sooner the better,’ says I.  ’I don’t care if it gets in fully fifteen minutes before I am shot; and if you happen to lay eyes on Beauregard or Albert Sidney Johnston or any of the relief corps, wig-wag ’em to hike along.’

“‘There’s been no answer received yet,’ says Doc.

“‘Don’t forget,’ says I, ’that there’s only four days more.  I don’t know how you propose to work this thing, Doc,’ I says to him; ’but it seems to me I’d sleep better if you had got a government that was alive and on the map—­like Afghanistan or Great Britain, or old man Kruger’s kingdom, to take this matter up.  I don’t mean any disrespect to your Confederate States, but I can’t help feeling that my chances of being pulled out of this scrape was decidedly weakened when General Lee surrendered.’

“‘It’s your only chance,’ said Doc; ’don’t quarrel with it.  What did your own country do for you?’

“It was only two days before the morning I was to be shot, when Doc Millikin came around again.

“‘All right, Yank,’ says he.  ’Help’s come.  The Confederate States of America is going to apply for your release.  The representatives of the government arrived on a fruit-steamer last night.’

“‘Bully!’ says I—­’bully for you, Doc!  I suppose it’s marines with a Gatling.  I’m going to love your country all I can for this.’

“‘Negotiations,’ says old Doc, ’will be opened between the two governments at once.  You will know later to-day if they are successful.’

“About four in the afternoon a soldier in red trousers brings a paper round to the jail, and they unlocks the door and I walks out.  The guard at the door bows and I bows, and I steps into the grass and wades around to Doc Millikin’s shack.

“Doc was sitting in his hammock playing ‘Dixie,’ soft and low and out of tune, on his flute.  I interrupted him at ’Look away! look away!’ and shook his hand for five minutes.

“‘I never thought,’ says Doc, taking a chew fretfully, ’that I’d ever try to save any blame Yank’s life.  But, Mr. O’Keefe, I don’t see but what you are entitled to be considered part human, anyhow.  I never thought Yanks had any of the rudiments of decorum and laudability about them.  I reckon I might have been too aggregative in my tabulation.  But it ain’t me you want to thank—­it’s the Confederate States of America.’

“’And I’m much obliged to ’em,’ says I.  ’It’s a poor man that wouldn’t be patriotic with a country that’s saved his life.  I’ll drink to the Stars and Bars whenever there’s a flagstaff and a glass convenient.  But where,’ says I, ’are the rescuing troops?  If there was a gun fired or a shell burst, I didn’t hear it.’