"Don't know who he was," said Frank.
"When we were eating our snack," put in Willy, not to be left out.
"How was he dressed? Where was it? What sort of man was he?" eagerly inquired the leading trooper.
The boys proceeded to describe their friend, impressed by the intense interest accorded them by the listeners.
"He was a sort of man with red hair, and wore a pair of gray breeches and an old pair of shoes, and was in his shirt-sleeves." Frank was the spokesman.
"And he had a gun—a long squirrel-gun," added Willy, "and he said he belonged to Colonel Marshall's regiment."
"Why, that's Tim Mills. He's a deserter himself," exclaimed the captain.
"No, he ain't—he ain't any deserter," protested both at once. "He is a mighty brave soldier, and he's been home on a furlough to get well of a wound on his leg where he was shot."
"Yes, and it ain't well yet, but he's going back to his command to-night or to-morrow morning; and he's got another wound in his side where a Yankee ran him through with his sword. We know he ain't any deserter."
"How do you know all this?" asked the officer.