"Well…."
"If you won't sell me a shirt, I can't waste my time here talking." Tom started impatiently towards the door.
"Here, young man," said the woman, "you come back here with me. I reckon we can find something for you." She picked up the lamp and led the way into the back room. It was the combined living-room, bedroom, and dining-room of the family. One door led to the yard behind the house, the other into a lean-to shanty which served as a kitchen. Tom, by way of precaution, took it in rapidly.
"Tell us about the bridge," urged the boy.
Tom continued on a rambling story of how he had helped to fight the fire, how sparks had fallen on him, and how he had to tear his shirt off because it was in flames. He gave a lurid description of the scene. The woman clucked her tongue at intervals, the man exclaimed, "Don't say so!" repeatedly, and the boy grunted his appreciation. Tom talked on and on, reserving the end of his story. At last the woman held a shirt out to him—it seemed to Tom to represent everything which stood between him and his ultimate triumphal return to the Union lines. Without a shirt he could no nothing; with it there was some chance of having his story believed. He took it from her.
"And finally the bridge went down," he continued. "The flames shot hundreds
of feet in the air, and the sparks fell down for five minutes afterwards.
The passenger train went back to Dalton, and I decided that I'd go to
Chattanooga on foot."
"Don't say so!"
Through the door to the kitchen Tom could see a kettle of water steaming on the stove. "I'd like to wash some of this soot off," he said.
The woman led him to the kitchen and gave him a tin basin. "When the door was closed behind her, he stripped off the cape and coat, and fell to scrubbing with the hot water and soap. Then he dried himself and pulled on the shirt. It was several sizes too small for him, but it was better than nothing at all. He could hear the two old people and the boy discussing the fire. Probably, he thought, they would talk of little else until they heard the real story. He thanked his stars that he had struck this one quiet spot in the chaos of war to prepare himself for the adventures of the next few days. It was providential. Now he was ready to meet the world.
"I'd like to buy something to eat," he said as he stepped from the kitchen.