CHAPTER XI—THE RELIEF COMMITTEE
Joe Maxwell was very tired the day after his experience in the cabin with the deserters and the runaways, but he was not too tired to joyfully accept an invitation to visit Hillsborough with the editor of The Countryman. For months the town had been practically in a state of siege. As the war progressed, it had been made a hospital station. The old temperance hall and many of the other buildings in the town had been fitted up for the accommodation of the sick and wounded. There were also many refugees in Hillsborough from Tennessee and north Georgia. While the town was crowded, the small-pox broke out, and for a month or more the country people were prevented from going there. Guards were placed on all the roads leading into the town; but this was not necessary, for the country people were not anxious to visit the place when they learned of the small-pox. Hillsborough was placed under martial law, and a provost-marshal given charge of affairs. This was necessary, not only to control the small-pox, but to control the convalescing soldiers, among whom were some very rough characters.
Joe had stayed away so long that the town seemed to be new to him. The playground in front of the old school-house was full of dingy hospital huts; the stores with which he had been familiar had been put to new and strange uses; and there were strange faces everywhere. Squads of soldiers were marching briskly here and there; men with crutches at their sides, or bandages on their heads, or with their arms in slings, were sunning themselves on every corner. Everything was strange. Even the old china-trees under which Joe had played hundreds of times had an unfamiliar look. Dazed and confused, the lad sat down on one of the long benches that were placed along the wall in front of some of the stores. The bench was tilted back against the wall, and one end of it was occupied by two men who were engaged in earnest conversation. Joe paid little attention to them at first, but a word or two that he heard caused him to observe them more closely. One of them was Mr. Deometari, the Greek exile and lawyer; the other was a man whom Joe did not know. He noticed that, although Mr. Deometari wore a faded and shabby uniform, his linen was spotless. His cuffs and shirt-bosom shone in the sun, and the setting of a heavy ring on his chubby finger sparkled like a star. “He has forgotten me,” Joe thought, and he sat there determined not to make himself known, although he and Mr. Deometari had been great friends before the lad left Hillsborough.
“There’s another thing I’m troubled about,” Joe heard Mr. Deometari say to his companion. “Pruitt has come home.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asked the other.
“Deserted!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari.
“Well,” said the other, “it’s a big risk for a grown man to take. If he’s caught, he’ll have to pay the penalty.”
“No!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari, bringing his fist down on his broad knee. “He’ll be caught, but he won’t pay the penalty.”
“Why, what do you mean, Deo?” asked his companion.