Joe protested that he never wore an overcoat, even in the coldest weather; but his protest had no effect on Mr. Deometari, who gave the shawl a dexterous turn and wrapped Joe in it from head to heels. Then he fastened it at the lad’s throat with a long steel pin that had a handle like a dagger.
“Why, I look just like a girl,” said Joe, glancing down at his feet.
“Very well, Miss Josephine,” laughed Mr. Deometari; “just take my arm.”
The provost-marshal’s office was on the opposite side of the public square from the tavern, and Mr. Deometari, instead of following the sidewalk, went through the court-house yard. There was not much formality observed around the office. There was no sentinel stationed at the door, which was opened (in response to Mr. Deometari’s knock) by a small negro boy.
Down a little passage-way, or hall, Mr. Deometari went, followed by Joe. A light shone from a door at the end of a passage on the left, and into this door Mr. Deometari went without ceremony. There was not much furniture in the room—four chairs, a lounge, and a table. A sword hung on the wall, between lithograph portraits of General Lee and Stonewall Jackson; and on one side was a long array of pigeonholes full of papers. A man sat at the table, and he was so busily engaged in writing that he nodded without looking up from his work.
“Henderson,” said Mr. Deometari, “I have company to-night. I want you to know this young man. His name is Joe Maxwell. He is an honorary member of the Relief Committee.”
At this Henderson wiped his pen on his head and laid it down. Then he peered across the table at Joe. The two candles that gave him light were so close to his eyes that they blinded him when he lifted his face.