"And Chattanooga…?"
"Chattanooga would be flying Mitchel's flag." Tom's eyes brightened, and he turned so that he could look squarely at his cousin. "But, Bert, how were you going to do it?"
Bert smiled wanly, and left Tom in suspense a moment before he answered.
Then he glanced balefully at his ankle. "Some of us were going into the
South, and … well, we were simply going to do it."
"The railroad between Atlanta and Chattanooga?" asked Tom.
"You've guessed it, but, on your life, don't breathe a word of it."
Tom's eyes opened wide. "Never! And aren't they going to do it now! Just because you're ankle is broken?"
"They'll do it, all right," answered Bert. "I'm not that important. There's only one man who is so important that they have to have him."
"And who's that?"
"The leader—the man who planned it. He knows the country." Bert folded the map and put it back in his knapsack.
"I'm sorry about your ankle," Tom said weakly. "With a chance like that!" He whistled, and leaned back, with his hands clasped around a knee, gazing steadfastly at the roof of the tent. Bert rested his chin in his hands and sat silently, looking at him. Tom's eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened until they were white.