“Don’t see why I should be asked to give another parole,” growled a lieutenant. “I gave you fellows one at Pulaski, a short time since, and was on my way home now, to stay until I am exchanged. How often do you want to take a fellow prisoner, anyway?”
Calhoun glanced up much amused. The officer started, stared at him a moment, and then abruptly asked, “Is your name Pennington?”
“It is, Lieutenant Pennington, if you please.”
“You and I have met before.”
“Ah! I know you now. I wish to thank you, for I am told you did not visit your wrath on the Osbornes on account of my abrupt leave-taking.”
“No, the girl had concealed you in the house unbeknown to the old gentleman, and as he had assured me there were no Confederates about, he felt real cut up about it. He actually proffered me another horse in the place of the one you took. Said I was his guest, and should not suffer.”
“Just like an old-fashioned Southern gentleman, the very personification of honesty,” replied Calhoun. “It may interest you, Lieutenant, to know that recovering my horse did me little good, for he went so lame I had to leave him.”
“And took mine in his place,” spoke up a fine-looking Federal officer who stood near, and whose name Calhoun had not yet taken.
“Captain Crawford, as I live,” exclaimed Calhoun, extending his hand. “Captain, I want to give you my sincere thanks. That was a fine horse you loaned me. Must have Kentucky blood in him. I am riding him yet. How about your parole, Captain? You know you absolutely refused to give it to me.”
“I have changed my mind.”