"They are a contemptible lot," declared Dick. "And if the provost marshal was the gentleman we took him for, he would not pay the least heed to their reports."
"All's fair in war," said the host. "These converted rebels are working for trade permits. There's going to be a lot of money made in cotton one of these days, and they want some of it. While in the city you may listen all you please, but don't make a confidant of anybody but me. And don't have too much to say to those four escaped prisoners. You may run across them some time when they are on duty."
Mr. Martin talked for half an hour in this strain, dropping hints here and there which proved to be of great service to Rodney, and then he conducted the boys to a clothing store and left them to make their purchases, while he went out to look for a team. Before they went to bed that night their business was all done, and all that remained for them to do in the morning was to load the two-horse wagon their host had provided for them and go home. Mr. Martin obtained from Rodney a list of needed goods, principally groceries, which he purchased and packed himself; and when the various boxes, barrels, and bags that comprised his load were afterward unpacked at his father's door, Rodney found in them many little articles which he was sure he had not placed on that list. They made an early start, and Rodney's parting injunction to Mr. Martin was to seek an interview with the mail carrier at the earliest possible moment, for Dick was impatient to be on his way home.
"This is my first work as an overseer," said Rodney, when the city was left behind and the two scraggy mules that pulled the wagon had been coaxed and thrashed into a snail's trot, "and I think I have made a very fair beginning, seeing that the business is new to me. My next task will be to see you over the river."
"I never knew you were an overseer," said Dick.
"I've called myself one ever since I had that talk with my father on the night we came home," answered Rodney. "And just see what I shall have to do when you are gone! I battled for fame and didn't get it, and now I am going to work for dollars and see if I will have any better luck. Dick, I am just aching to make the acquaintance of one of those traders—that is, a Yankee trader. Not one of those converted rebels Mr. Martin told us of shall touch a bale of our cotton, if I have to fight to keep him away from it; but if some good Yankee comes along and offers sixty cents a pound for it, you just wait and see how hard I will work to put it in his hands."
It was plain that Rodney Gray belonged to the class who were denounced by Pollard, the Southern historian, as "unpatriotic planters." In writing of this very matter Mr. Pollard said: "The country had taken a solemn resolution to burn the cotton in advance of the enemy; but the conflagration of this staple became a rare event; instead of being committed to the flames it was spirited away to Yankee markets. The planters of the extreme South, who prior to the war were loudest for secession, were known to buy every article of their consumption from the invading army. Nor were these operations always disguised. Some commercial houses in the Confederacy counted their gains by millions of dollars through the favor of the government in allowing them to export cotton at pleasure." But Rodney Gray was a private individual, and he was well aware that if his father's cotton brought the money it was really worth, it would take some good scheming on his part.
About an hour after the boys left the city they came upon the first picket post, which they found to be an unusually strong one, being composed of one sergeant, two corporals, and eight or nine privates. Rodney had just time to remark "We pass inspection here, probably," when one of the soldiers walked to the middle of the road, brought his musket to "arms port" and commanded them to halt. An instant afterward their wagon was surrounded by the rest of the pickets, who shook the barrels back and forth, dug their fingers into the bags, and bumped the boxes about in the most unceremonious style.
"Got a permit?" demanded the sergeant. "And a pass?" He did not ask who the boys were or where they came from, and the sequel proved that he knew without asking.