"A Yank," replied Williams, and, walking forward to the chest, where Diggs was floundering and sneezing in the meal, he seized him by the nape of the neck, pulled him out and deposited him on the floor, where he stood, white with meal, and his eyes and ears full.
"Who are you?" asked Seth, peering into the face of his victim, who stood digging his fists into his eyes.
"I—I—hem—that is—I don't know," stammered Diggs.
"Let me see," said Williams, giving him a shake so vigorous that the meal flew in white clouds from his hair and clothes. "I do. I know you. You are Patrick Henry Diggs, by all that's wonderful! Where have you been, corporal?"
"I—hem—I—I—that is to say, I don't know," gasped Diggs.
"You don't hey? Well, collect your ideas," replied Seth.
"Well, yes—hem—that is to say—hem, hem—I have been a prisoner."
The men now crowded around Diggs, who, having collected his faculties, told them how he had been taken prisoner at Carrick's Ford, how he had tried again and again to escape, how he had joined the foraging party with the full intention of escaping; he told a moving story of the compulsion which had been used to force him to put on the uniform of a Union soldier.
Seth Williams told him that they were very glad they had found him, for they were going back to Snagtown, and he knew Crazy Joe would mourn if his mud man did not return with the rest. Diggs flew into a fury as of old; but the barn and premises having been explored, the word of command was given, and Mr. Diggs found himself again on the march, but this time with other matter for thought than a diverting chapter for his contemplated book.