“It looks as if the general, or somebody, had sized us up ’bout right to you,” young Cushing said curtly.
“There’s no chance for me to hide it, so I’ll admit I’m Joseph Fisher, at your service,” that young man cried laughingly. “I’m quick to say it, too, for fear you’ll show up some of my failin’s. But you haven’t told us your own name, an’ the general didn’t, either. I think we orter know that.”
“If you had put your last sentences first, your confession of your identity would hardly have been necessary,” was the significant answer.
“Your demand is a fair one,” the lad replied, “and though it was my first thought to withhold my real name, you shall know it, but you must never call me by it, nor use it between yourselves when I am absent. It is not, in fact, to be spoken aloud. You will understand later why I make this strange request.”
With these words he drew from the bosom of his hunting-shirt an iron cross, which evidently was attached to a chain about his neck. Taking hold of the top above the horizontal bar, he gave it a vigorous twist. It came off, showing that the lower portion was hollow, and contained a tiny paper. This he took out, and passed to Daniel Cushing, who sat nearest him.
“Read, and then pass it on,” he directed.
The parchment was so small, that only a few words could have been written on it. These Dan slowly spelled out, and then exclaimed:
“I understand, sir. It shall be as you say, an’ you’ll find that Dan Cushing never yet broke his word.”
He handed the paper to Late, who, after a little effort, mastered its contents, and then cried:
“I never dreamed of such a thing, sir. You are right. ’Twon’t do to whisper the name even to each other, lest the woods hear us. But ’twill be a pleasure to serve under you, sir.”