“I suppose not,” added the officer, glancing at his uniform; “but your colors desert you.”
Tom failed to appreciate the wit of the reply, and backed off towards the door, with one hand upon the stock of his revolver.
“Hold on to him, father; don’t let him go,” said the officer, as he rushed back into his chamber, evidently for his pistols or his sabre.
“Hands off, or you are a dead man;” cried Tom, as he pointed his revolver at the head of the farmer.
In another instant, the captain of cavalry reappeared with a pistol in each hand. A stunning report resounded through the house, and Tom heard a bullet whistle by his head.
[Chapter XXII.]
The Picket Guard.
It was sufficiently obvious to Tom that, on the present occasion, the suspicions of his host were awakened. It is possible that, if he had depended upon his impudence, he might have succeeded in deceiving the Confederate officer; but his evident intention to retire from the contest before an investigation could be had, proved him, in the estimation of the captain, to be either a spy or a deserter, and shooting him was preferable to losing him.
The officer fired quick, and with little attention to the important matter of a steady aim; and Tom had to thank his stars for the hasty shot, for, though it went within a few inches of his head, “a miss was as good as a mile,” and the brains of our hero remained intact and complete. But he was not willing to be the subject of any further experiments of this description, and without waiting further to express his gratitude to the host for the bountiful supper he had eaten, he threw open the door, and dashed off at the top of his speed.