“Only trying to get a breath of fresh air,” replied the lad, at the same time producing his railroad ticket and showing it in the dusk. The conductor flashed the lantern he was holding in George’s face, and then glanced at the ticket.
“Well, don’t fall off,” he observed, evidently satisfied by the scrutiny. “You were in one of the forward cars, weren’t you? Where’s your dog? In your pocket, eh?” He turned around, shut the door, and went back into the car without waiting for an answer.
“One danger is over,” whispered George to himself. Then he began to pat Waggie. “You and I are having an exciting time of it, aren’t we?” he laughed. “Well, there’s one consolation; they can’t hang you for a spy, anyway, even if they should hang me!”
So the night passed on, as George clung to the railing of the platform, while the train rumbled along in the darkness to the Southward. The conductor did not appear again; he had evidently forgotten all about the boy. At last, when Waggie and his master were both feeling cold, and hungry, and forlorn, there came a welcome cry from the brakeman: “Marietta! All out for Marietta!”
In a short time the passengers for Marietta had left the train. Watson, Jenks and Macgreggor were soon in a little hotel near the station, which was to be the rendezvous for Andrews and his party. As they entered the office of the hostelry all their enthusiasm for the coming escapade seemed to have vanished. The mysterious disappearance of George had dampened their ardor; they feared to think where he could be, or what might have become of him.
The office was brilliantly lighted in spite of the lateness of the hour. In it were lounging eight or nine men. The pulses of the three newcomers beat the quicker as they recognized in them members of the proposed bridge-burning expedition. Among them was Andrews.
“Yes,” he was saying, in a perfectly natural manner, to the hotel clerk, who stood behind a desk; “we Kentuckians must push on early tomorrow morning. The South has need of all the men she can muster.”
“That’s true,” answered the clerk; “Abe Lincoln and Jefferson Davis have both found out by this time that this war won’t be any child’s play. It’ll last a couple of years yet, or my name’s not Dan Sanderson.”
Macgreggor and Jenks walked up to the register on the desk, without showing any sign of recognition, and put down their names respectively as “Henry Fielding, Memphis, Tennessee,” and “Major Thomas Brown, Chattanooga.” The latter, it will be remembered, wore a Confederate uniform. Watson wrote his real name, in a bold, round hand, and added: “Fleming County, Kentucky.” Then he turned towards Andrews. “Well, stranger,” he said, “did I hear you say you were from Kentucky? I’m a Kentuckian myself. What’s your county?”
He extended his right hand and greeted Andrews with the air of a man who would like to cultivate a new acquaintance. Andrews rose, of course, to the occasion, by answering: “I’m always glad to meet a man from my own state. I’m from Fleming County.”