"I can't wait," gasped Tom, wolf-hunger in his gleaming eyes. "I'm starving."
He tried to reach out for the fish and collapsed in utter weakness. With food at last within his grasp, he was too far gone to take it. Jim Grayson had been very hungry more than once in his thirty years of hard life. He saw that Tom was telling the truth.
"Hush," he whispered, for he had caught sight of some fellow soldiers on the bank, not a hundred feet away. "Hush, sumbuddy's comin'. You mus' take little pieces first. I'll cut one up for you."
He was drawing out his knife from a deep pocket when the soldiers stopped on the bank above their heads and shouted down, asking him to give them some fish too.
"Sholy," laughed Jim. "Here's some for you-uns."
He tossed half a dozen up to them and then sat down at the mouth of the hole that sheltered Tom, thinking to hide him in case the others came down the bank. His back was towards the boy. What was left of his catch hung within two inches of Tom's nose. That was Tom's chance. He tore off a couple of little fish and tore them to bits with his teeth. His first sensation was one of deathly sickness; his next one of returning strength. Grayson twitched the remaining fish into his lap. He knew the boy had already had too much food, for a first meal. Meanwhile he was chatting cheerily with his fellow soldiers, who fortunately did not come down the bank and soon moved off, leaving Jim and Tom alone. Now was the time for explanations.
"Don't be afeard," said Jim, with a kindly smile. "I 'low you be Tom Strong, bean't you? I guess you was in Libby day afore yisterday. I ain't goin' to give you up. I'm Union, I be, ef I do wear Secesh gray. How kin I help you?"
The sense of safety, safety at least for the moment, was too much for Tom. He could not speak.
"Thar, thar," Jim went on, "it's all right. Jes' tell me what I can do. I'll bring you eatins soon ez night comes, but what'll you do then?"