"Fifty-three, P. V. V. C.," spoke a prisoner, as if in reply, reading the letters about the little crossed brass sabres on the Union hats. "Say, you men from Pennsylvany?"
"Yes, Johnny; we come down to wake up Dixie."
"I reckon we got the start at wakin' you this mornin'," drawled the Southerner. "But say,—there's one of our boys lyin' dyin' over yonder; his folks lives in Pennsylvany. Mebbe some of you 'ud know 'em."
"What's his name?" asked Bader.
"Wallbridge—Johnny Wallbridge."
"Why, Harry—hold on!—you ain't the only Wallbridges there is. What's up?" cried Bader, as the boy half reeled, half clambered from his saddle.
"Hold on, Harry!" cried Corporal Kennedy.
"Halt there, Wallbridge!" shouted Sergeant Gravely.
"Stop that man!" roared Lieutenant Bradley.
But, calling, "He's my brother!" Harry, catching up his sabre as he ran, followed the Southerner, who had instantly divined the situation. The forlorn prisoners made ready way for them, and closing in behind, stretched in solid array about the scene.