“Reinforcements are most welcome indeed.  My own work here seems to be largely done, but you will reach General Thomas in another day, and he needs you.  Take my chair, Major Hertford.  To you two lads I can offer only stumps.”

The tent had been pitched over a spot where three stumps had been smoothed off carefully until they made acceptable seats.  One end of the tent was entirely open, facing a glowing fire of oak logs.  Dick and Warner sat down on the stumps and spread out their hands to the blaze.  Beyond the flames they saw the wintry forest and mountains, seemingly as wild as they were when the first white man came.

The usual coffee and food were brought, and while they ate and drank Major Hertford answered the numerous and pertinent questions of Colonel Garfield.  He listened attentively to the account of the fight in the mountains, and to all the news that they could tell him of Washington.

“We have been cut off in these mountains,” he said.  “I know very little of what is going on, but what you say only confirms my own opinion.  The war is rapidly spreading over a much greater area, and I believe that its scope will far exceed any of our earlier calculations.”

A grave and rather sad expression occupied for a moment the mobile face.  He interested Dick greatly.  He seemed to him scholar and thinker as well as soldier.  He and Warner long afterward attended the inauguration of this man as President of the United States.

After a brief rest, and good wishes from Garfield, Major Hertford and his command soon reached the main camp under Thomas.  Here they were received by a man very different in appearance and manner from Garfield.

General George H. Thomas, who was to receive the famous title, “The Rock of Chickamauga,” was then in middle years.  Heavily built and bearded, he was chary of words.  He merely nodded approval when Major Hertford told of their march.

“I will assign your troops to a brigade,” he said, “and I don’t think you’ll have long to wait.  We’re expecting a battle in a few days with Crittenden and Zollicoffer.”

“Not much to say,” remarked Dick to Warner, as they went away.

“That’s true,” said Warner, thoughtfully, “but didn’t you get an impression of strength from his very silence?  I should say that in his make-up he is five per cent talk, twenty-five per cent patience and seventy per cent action; total, one hundred per cent.”

The region in which they lay was west of the higher mountains, which they had now crossed, but it was very rough and hilly.  Not far from them was a little town called Somerset, which Dick had visited once, and near by, too, was the deep and swift Cumberland River, with much floating ice at its edges.  When the two lads lay by a campfire that night Sergeant Whitley came to them with the news of the situation, which he had picked up in his usual deft and quiet way.