“This is your Yankee, is it?” demanded the sergeant, as he gazed at the remnants of the rebel uniform which Tom still wore.
“No, no; this ain’t the Yankee!” stammered the farmer.
“Well, you needn’t tell us who he is; for we know. I was told to keep a sharp lookout for one Tom Rigney, a deserter; and I reckon this is the chap. You are my prisoner, my fine lad.”
“There, now, dad!—d’ye see what ye’ve done?” snarled poor Tom Rigney, as he glanced reproachfully at the patriarch, who had unwittingly sprung the trap upon him.
“I didn’t do it, Tom,” replied Farmer Rigney, appalled at the calamity which had overtaken his house.
“Didn’t you bring me in here to capture this boy?” asked the sergeant, who appeared to be bewildered by the unnatural act of the father.
“I brought yer here to take the Yank, who was as sassy as a four-year-old colt.”
“He promised the Yankee he’d take keer on him till night,” added the vengeful Tom.
“That was only to keep him here till I could fotch somebody to take keer on him,” pleaded the farmer. “The Yank must be up chimley now,” he continued, reminded that his own reputation for loyalty to the great and general Southern Confederacy was now doubly compromised.
“He ain’t up there, dad, nohow,” said Tom.