That evening, when he stood in a circle of sitting men to tell his story,—a simple tale of Northern birth, of a Southern home, of belief in the Union, of raising a guerilla company to fight for it, of capture in a raid on a Confederate supply-depot,—the unpleasant memory which had been troubling Tom came back and hammered at his head until suddenly, as if a flashlight had been turned on the scene, he saw himself sprawling on the hearth of Uncle Mose's slave-cabin, with this man's hand clutching his ankle. He was sitting on the floor beside Colonel Rose. He leant against him and whispered:
"That man didn't come from Tennessee. He was overseer on a plantation in Alabama. He 'most captured me once. I b'lieve he's a spy."
Johnson caught the gleam of Colonel Rose's eye fixed upon him. He had seen Tom whisper to him. He faltered, stopped speaking, and sat down. Rose walked across the circle and sat beside him. He had snapped his fingers as he walked and half a dozen men had answered the signal and were now close at hand.
"What did you do before you turned guerilla?" asked Colonel Rose.
"I don't know that that's any of your darned business," said Johnson.
"Answer me."
The stronger man dominated the weaker. The spy sulkily said:
"I kept a general shop in Jonesboro', Tennessee."
"Ever live anywhere else in the South?"