ILLUSTRATIONS.
| PAGE. | |
| "If You are around Here when We Begin the Job, You Will Find out all about That." | [Frontispiece.] |
| A Close Call at Gettysburg | [537] |
| "Ah! Sketching, Are You?" | [66] |
| An Interview with Parson Brownlow | [304] |
| "Are You Union, or Confederate?" | [338] |
| "Bill, Ain't He the Fellow?" | [282] |
| Cavalry Picket on the Rappahannock | [473] |
| "Colonel Mosby's Soldiers, I Reckon, Sir?" | [516] |
| Cumberland Gap—This Was Enough for Me | [329] |
| Geno Was Not only the Prettiest, but the Sweetest Girl I ever Saw | [381] |
| "Get Up Here, You Damned Old Traitor." | [316] |
| "Halt!" | [150] |
| He seemed to have Forgotten all about Dressing Himself | [359] |
| I'd Cut Him and Feed the Pieces to the Sharks | [44] |
| I had Stepped onto the Decaying Body of—a Man! | [181] |
| In an Instant He Put the Point of His Sword against My Breast | [347] |
| In Old Capitol Prison—Disguised as a Contraband | [427] |
| In Old Capitol Prison—I Admit that I Broke Down Completely | [413] |
| I Was Being "Toted" Back to the Rebel Army | [158] |
| I Whispered to Him as I Went Past: "Norfolk is Taken." | [223] |
| I "Yanked," or by a Dexterous "Twist of the Wrist," I Was Able to Break the Wire | [170] |
| Landing Kerslop over the Side onto the Ground | [177] |
| Miss Mamie Wells Ministering to the Wounded [Transcriber's Note: This illustration is not found in the text.] | [400] |
| On a Scout to Richmond | [396] |
| Recognized by Texans at Richmond Theatre | [248] |
| Refusing in Her very Decided Manner to Walk under "That Flag" | [383] |
| Tail Piece—To the Boy Spy | [556] |
| Tapping the Telegraph Wire—"Are the Yanks in Fredericksburg?" | [493] |
| "Thank God, I'm Safe among my Friends." | [121] |
| The Sergeant kindly Gave Him the Steel | [441] |
| "To Father: I am Safe; Are All Well at Home?" | [352] |
| We hastily Dressed and Ran Back from the Bank | [95] |
| You always Say Down Here, and That You're Going to go up Home | [197] |
THE BOY SPY.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
A successful scout, or spy, is like a great poet in one respect: he is born, not made—subject to the requisition of the military genius of the time.