"I ain't going to tell you," Vincent said doggedly. "Mother said I wasn't to tell no one where I lived, else the Yankee thieves would be a-coming down and stealing the rest of our chickens."
The officers laughed.
"Well, go along, boy; and I should advise you not to say anything about Yankee thieves another time, for likely enough you will get a broken head for your pains."
Vincent went off grumbling, and with a slow and stumbling step made his way over the brow of the hill and down through the camps behind. Here he sold his last two fowls and his eggs, and then walked briskly on until he reached the cottage from which he had started.
"I am glad to see you back," the woman said as he entered. "How have you got on?"
"Capitally," he said. "I pretended to be half an idiot, and so got safely out, though I fell into Sheridan's hands. He suspected me at first, but at last he thought I was what I looked—a fool. He wanted to know where you lived, but I wouldn't tell him. I told him you told me not to tell any one, 'cause if I did the Yankee thieves would be clearing out the rest of the chickens."
"Did you tell him that, now?" the woman said in delight; "he must have thought you was a fool. Well, it's a good thing the Yanks should hear the truth sometimes. Well, have you done now?"
"No, I have only seen one side of their works yet; I must try round the other flank to-morrow. I wish I could get something to sell that wouldn't get bought up by the first people I came to, something I could peddle among the soldiers."
"What sort of thing?"
"Something in the way of drinks, I should say," Vincent said. "I saw a woman going among the camps. She had two tin cans and a little mug. I think she had lemonade or something of that sort."