He had with him a basket his mother had put up.  He also bore a message to Mr. Brinsmade from the Judge It was while he was picking his way along the crowded decks that he ran into General Sherman.  The General seized him unceremoniously by the shoulder.

“Good-by, Stephen,” he said.

“Good-by, General,” said Stephen, shifting his basket to shake hands.  “Are you going away?”

“Ordered to Paducah,” said the General.  He pulled Stephen off the guards into an empty cabin.  “Brice,” said he, earnestly, “I haven’t forgotten how you saved young Brinsmade at Camp Jackson.  They tell me that you are useful here.  I say, don’t go in unless you have to.  I don’t mean force, you understand.  But when you feel that you can go in, come to me or write me a letter.  That is,” he added, seemingly inspecting Stephen’s white teeth with approbation, “if you’re not afraid to serve under a crazy man.”

It has been said that the General liked the lack of effusiveness of Stephen’s reply.

CHAPTER VI

ELIPHALET PLAYS HIS TRUMPS

Summer was come again.  Through interminable days, the sun beat down upon the city; and at night the tortured bricks flung back angrily the heat with which he had filled them.  Great battles had been fought, and vast armies were drawing breath for greater ones to come.

“Jinny,” said the Colonel one day, “as we don’t seem to be much use in town, I reckon we may as well go to Glencoe.”

Virginia, threw her arms around her father’s neck.  For many months she had seen what the Colonel himself was slow to comprehend—­that his usefulness was gone.  The days melted into weeks, and Sterling Price and his army of liberation failed to come.  The vigilant Union general and his aides had long since closed all avenues to the South.  For, one fine morning toward the end of the previous summer, when the Colonel was contemplating a journey, he had read that none might leave the city without a pass, whereupon he went hurriedly to the office of the Provost Marshal.  There he had found a number of gentlemen in the same plight, each waving a pass made out by the Provost Marshal’s clerks, and waiting for that officer’s signature.  The Colonel also procured one of these, and fell into line.  The Marshal gazed at the crowd, pulled off his coat, and readily put his name to the passes of several gentlemen going east.  Next came Mr. Bub Ballington, whom the Colonel knew, but pretended not to.

“Going to Springfield?” asked the Marshal, genially.

“Yes,” said Bub.

“Not very profitable to be a minute-man, eh?” in the same tone.

The Marshal signs his name, Mr, Ballington trying not to look indignant as he makes for the door.  A small silver bell rings on the Marshal’s desk, the one word:  “Spot!” breaks the intense silence, which is one way of saying that Mr. Ballington is detained, and will probably be lodged that night at Government expense.