“What regiment did ye say ye b’longed to?” queried the man, eying the uniform again.
“To the Seventh Georgia. Perhaps you can tell me where I shall find it.”
“I can’t; but I reckon there’s somebody here that can. I’ll call him.”
Tom was not at all particular about obtaining this information. There was evidently some military man in the house, who would expose him if he remained any longer.
“Who is it, father?” asked a person who had probably heard a part of the conversation we have narrated; for the voice proceeded from a bed-room adjoining the apartment in which Tom had eaten his supper.
“A soldier b’longing to the Seventh Georgia,” answered the farmer. “That’s my son; he’s a captain in the cavalry, and he’ll know all about it. He can tell you where yer regiment is,” added he, turning to Tom, who was edging towards the door.
“I’m very much obliged to you for my supper,” said the fugitive, nervously. “I reckon I’ll be moving along.”
“Wait half a second, and my son will tell you just where to find your regiment.”
“The Seventh Georgia?” said the captain of cavalry, entering the room at this moment with nothing but his pants on. “There’s no such regiment up here, and hasn’t been. I reckon you’re a deserter.”
“No, sir! I scorn the charge,” replied Tom, with becoming indignation. “I never desert my colors.”