The next day the youth was rigidly examined. He gave his name as Charles Arlington, stated that he was merely crossing the river to look after the old slave; that he had chosen the night-time as he heard the Union pickets were thrown out, and he did not think, with his knowledge of the stream, that he would be captured in the darkness. Meantime, the soldiers had been searching, and had found an old half imbecile negro in a little cabin half a mile back from the river, whom they brought into camp, shaking with fear.
“Old man,” one of the soldiers said, “do you know this boy?”
“Yas, honey. I knows him well. I'se old Marsa Thomas' boy. I bin on his old plantation since he was a baby. His mud-der was one of de——”
“Say, we don't care who his mother was. What do you know about the boy standing there?”
“Yas, yas, I knows lots. Why, he was de littlest pickaninny of de hull lot, and his father he say to me, 'Jim'—I was young and strong den—'Jim, dis yere boy's gwine to be your young mastah some day, if he ebber grows big enuff. And I tole him de sweetest posies were always small, like de vi'lets and lilies ob de valley, and—”
“You black rascal, we don't want a dissertation on flowers. Tell us about the young man standing there.”
“Yas, marsa, but you tole me to tell you all 'bout him, and doan't I hab to begin at the beginning?”
“Well, go on,” the Colonel interposed.
