“Do you two tramp through the country together?” asked the officer. He was addressed by his men as Captain Harris. Every line and feature of his clean-shaven face denoted shrewdness.
“Yes,” answered Watson. “My nephew sings—the dog has some tricks—we make a little money—even in war time.” He would put the best face possible on this trying situation.
“You have no home?” went on the officer, in a sympathetic voice.
“None.”
“Where did you come from before you took to begging?”
Watson hesitated for a second. Then he said: “Lynchburg, Virginia.” It was the only place he could think of at that moment, and it seemed far enough off to be safe.
“I spent three weeks in Lynchburg last year,” said Captain Harris. “What part of the town did you live in?”
This time George came to the rescue. “On Main Street,” he answered. He had known a boy in Cincinnati whose mother had once resided in Lynchburg, and he had heard the lad speak of a Main Street in that town.
“On Main Street,” repeated the Captain. Was the look that passed quickly across his face one of surprise or disappointment?
“Yes, on Main Street,” asserted George. He felt very sure of himself now.