“He was there three days ago, whan I driv over ta sell him some shotes,” returned “Uncle Sam.” “Reckon he must be there still.”
“Humph!” thought Watson; “this fellow hasn’t heard anything about the Peyton fracas. I’ll lose my sight once again.”
He clutched George’s hand in a helpless fashion, and poured forth a tale of woe. He was blind and poor, he said; he and his nephew (meaning George) were in need of food and shelter.
“I’ll sing for you,” said George.
“Tarnation pumpkins,” cried Uncle Sam; “I hate squalin’. But come in. I never shut my door on anybody.”
He opened the door the whole way. The two Northerners and the dog walked into the dazzling light made by a great wood-fire—and confronted five Confederate soldiers and an officer who were toasting their feet at the hearth! They all glanced at the newcomers, who dearly regretted, when too late, that they had entered. The officer stared first at Watson and then at George with the air of a man who is searching for some one. Uncle Sam introduced them to the party in a manner more vigorous than polite.
“Here’s a couple o’ beggars,” he said. “Ma, get ’em somethin’ to eat!”
“Ma,” who was his wife, came bustling out of the second room, or kitchen, of the cabin. She was red in the face, and of generous proportions.
“Look here, pop,” she cried, “do you expect me to cook for a hotel? I’ve just been feedin’ these soldiers, and now you want me to get victuals for beggars.”
When the plump hostess saw the blind man, the boy and the dog, her face softened. She went back to the kitchen, and soon returned with some coarse but highly acceptable food, which was gratefully eaten by George and Watson.