"Well, sir," he said at last. "Do you prefer my kitchen to my dining-room, sir?"
"No, Mr. Beecham, I don't," answered Tom. "But in these clothes, wet to the skin, it would be an intrusion to go farther than the kitchen."
It was an answer that Mr. Beecham appreciated. Tom was glad that the last evidences of the stolen bacon sandwiches had disappeared down his throat. He stood waiting for Mr. Beecham to speak—and wondering if he was to be invited for breakfast.
"Will you come with me, please?" asked Mr. Beecham. They passed through a corridor, and into the big entrance hall, where logs were blazing In a fireplace. "In these days," continued Mr. Beecham, "it is customary to ask people who they are. You understand, I trust."
"Certainly, sir," said Tom. "My name is Thomas Burns, and I'm from Fleming County, Kentucky. I'm on my way to Atlanta to enlist." He had been bracing himself for the past minute to tell that story, and it came smoothly, convincingly. For a moment after it was out, he hated himself.
Mr. Beecham pursed his lips and nodded. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Will you be my guest at breakfast, sir?"
"Thank you, sir," Tom replied. "But in these clothes…."
"I daresay we will be able to find other clothes for you. If you will come with me?"
"First I'd like to go to the stable and see my horse. I gave him a hard ride last night to put distance between me and the Union pickets."
"Certainly." Mr. Beecham called another colored boy, who guided Tom to the stable. There he found his horse munching hay, wearily but contentedly. The stableman approached, armed with grooming implements.