“I reckon ’tis; least wise I don’t know. There’s three rigiments about five mile below yere.”
“I was told my regiment was down this way, and I’m trying to find it. I’m half starved. Will you give me something to eat?”
“Sartin, stranger; I’ll do thet.”
The man, who was evidently the proprietor of the house, brought up the remnant of a boiled ham, a loaf of white bread, some butter, and a pitcher of milk. Tom ate till he was satisfied. The farmer, in deference to his amazing appetite probably, suspended his questions till the guest began to show some signs of satiety, when he pressed him again as vigorously as though he had been born and brought up among the hills of New England.
“Where d’ye come from?” said he.
“From Manassas. I lost my regiment in the fight; and the next day I heard they had been toted over this way, and I put after them right smart,” answered Tom, adopting as much of the Georgia vernacular as his knowledge would permit.
“Walk all the way?”
“No; I came in the keers most of the way.”
“But you don’t wear our colors,” added the farmer, glancing at Tom’s clothes.
“My clothes were all worn out, and I helped myself to the best suit I could find on the field.”