The sign which had attracted his attention bore the name and occupation of the individual in question—"S. W. ABBOTT, Chemist."
The store had been closed on the approach of the Union forces, and was now in the possession of several army surgeons and their assistants, who were overhauling its contents, and appropriating whatever they thought might be of service to them. A negro was leaning against the counter, and of him Frank inquired—
"Boy, do you belong here?"
"No, sar," he answered, indignantly; "I 'longs nowhar. I'se a free man, I is. I'se a soger."
"Never been in this town before?"
"No, sar."
Frank left the store, and walked slowly up the street toward the hotel, wondering where he could go to make inquiries concerning the man whom he wished to find. It was evident that this was the hardest task he had yet undertaken. He knew the rebel's name, and that was all. He had no idea how he looked, and, although the admiral's order stated that he was loitering about the village, he might, at that moment, be fifty miles away, or Frank might have already passed him on the street.
There were several men dressed in butternut clothes hanging about the hotel, and Frank determined to enter into conversation with one of them, and, if possible, learn something about Abbott. An opportunity was soon offered, for one of the butternuts approached him, and inquired—
"Got any Northern money—greenbacks?"
"Some," replied Frank.