“Take him on your back. That's the best way to carry a sick man.”
He set down his lantern, took up Warner bodily and put him on Dick's back.
“I guess you can carry him all right,” he said. “I'd light you with the lantern a piece of the way, but I've been out here long enough. Marse Bob an' old Stonewall will get tired waitin' fur me to tell 'em how to end this war in a month.”
Dick, holding Warner in place with one hand, held out the other, and said:
“You're a white man, through and through, Johnny Reb. Shake!”
“So are you, Yank. There's nothin' wrong with you 'cept that you happened to get on the wrong side, an' I don't hold that ag'in you. I guess it was an innercent mistake.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. Keep straight ahead an' you'll strike that camp of yourn that we're goin' to take in the mornin'. Gosh, how it rains!”
Dick retained his idea of direction, and he walked straight through the darkness toward the Northern camp. George was a heavy load, but he did not struggle. His head sank down against his comrade's and Dick felt that it was burning with fever.
“Good old George,” he murmured to himself rather than to his comrade, “I'll save you.”