“No, the uniform!” cried the girl. “Ef he has that on they won’t ask no questions—along with the furlough. You know Jake McLain tried that trick on ’em an’ failed. Put it on ‘im, for the Lord’s sake. Don’t stand thar idle!”
The steady tramp of feet was now audible, and the occasional command of the officer in charge. Darting from the back door the girl crossed the entry, went into the next room, and emerged with the permit of absence in her belt. Picking up a pail near the door, she went to the pig-pen in a corner of the zigzag rail fence, and with no eyes for the approaching men, slowly poured the food into the animal’s trough.
Stopping the squad a few yards from her, the captain doffed his cap and bowed.
“I have come to search your house for possible fugitives from the Confederate ranks last night,” he said, politely. “A good many have been found hiding in farmhouses in the vicinity.”
The girl set her pail down at her feet.
“We are Union,” she said, simply.
“I was told so,” the captain answered. “Nevertheless, I have orders to search your premises. Is there any one within?”
“Nobody but grandpa an’ my wounded brother, a Union soldier home on a furlough.” She took the paper from her belt and unfolded it very deliberately. “Thar’s his permit. I fetched it out to show it so’s you wouldn’t have to wake ’im up ef you could help it. He couldn’t sleep last nigh fer the shootin’, an’ the truth is, he is as nigh dead as kin be. I wisht you would let ’im rest.” The officer perused the furlough through his eyeglasses.
“That’s all right,” he said, handing it back. “But you see I have to obey orders.”
There was a pause. The maiden felt the captain’s eyes resting on her admiringly. She could hear the hobnailed soles of her grandparent’s shoes grinding on the puncheon floor, and knew that the old man was still engaged in dressing or undressing the fugitive.