Allan Garland, née Somers, advanced confidently towards the rebel line. As he was to perform the leading part in the exciting drama about to be acted, he conducted himself with the utmost caution. Everything depended upon the amount of impudence he could bring to bear upon the case before him, and the skill with which he personated the part he had chosen. He knew of nothing, short of falling on the Fourth Alabama, which could disconcert him. Even if he did, there were only a few who knew the captured scout; and his chances were fair, even if the worst should befall him.
“Stand!” said a rebel sentinel on the breastwork of the line. “Who goes there?”
“Friend,” replied Somers confidently.
“What’s your name?”
“Allan Garland. Can you tell me where the Fourth Alabama is?”
“About four miles from here. Do you belong to the Fourth Alabama?”
“Well, I did before I was captured; I don’t know where I belong now.”
“Where d’ye come from?”
“Just got away from the Yankees. They gobbled me up about three weeks ago.”
“Bully for you! Come in; you can report to the officer of the day.”