"Aryupeters—eters!" said one, who was evidently desirous of having but a single word with him.
"With a Bob," replied the fugitive sententiously.
"Aw' ri', then," observed the two in chorus, and Mr. Peters quickly found himself attended on either side by guardians whose affectionate manner of monopolizing his arms suggested a civil process of the most uncivil sort.
"Treachery!" he exclaimed, struggling fiercely. The twain held him tightly, however, with the strength
of tight-uns, and his exertion only caused them to venture divers pleasant oaths concerning the destiny of his eyes.
Onward they dragged him, down Broad street and up half a dozen other streets, until a certain rebel institution was gained. "In with'm," said one of his captors; and they hurried him past a sentry and through a hall into a long, low room, where half a dozen miserable candles stuck up against the walls revealed a dismal company of over a hundred—some stretched upon the floor, some standing about, and others clustered around what appeared to be a cot in one corner.
"Is this the Confederate Congress?" asked the astonished Bob, as his captors left him, turning the key and adjusting various bolts as they went out.
"It's Libby's pork-packing-house," answered the prisoner nearest him, "and you're jugged, I suppose, as a spy."
"Pork-packing!" ejaculated the bewildered Bob. "Why, this is treating me like a hog."
Several prisoners at once gave in their adhesion to this logical premise.