hod, however, in a modified,
form, deciding to use the material of which the chimney was constructed,
instead of the bayonet. The stones being laid in clay instead of mortar,
were easily detached from the structure, and he had one in his hands ready
for operations.

"Come here, Joe Burnap, or you are a dead man," repeated the soldier, who
evidently had some scruples about depriving the infant Confederacy of an
able-bodied recruit.

Tom Somers, being unembarrassed by any such scruples, lifted himself up
from his hiding place, and hurled the stone upon the soldier, fully
expecting to hit him on the head, and dash out his brains. The best laid
calculations often miscarry, and Tom's did in part, for the missile,
instead of striking the soldier upon the head, hit him on the right arm.
The musket was discharged, either by the blow or by the act of its owner,
and fell out of his hands upon the ground.

Now, a stone as big as a man's head, does not fall from the height of
fifteen feet upon any vulnerable part of the human frame without
inflicting some injury; and in strict conformity with this doctrine of
probabilities, the stone which Tom hurled down upon the rebel, and which
struck him upon the right arm, entirely disabled that useful member. The
hero of this achievement was satisfied with the result, though it had not
realized his anticipations. Concluding that the time had arrived for an
effective charge, he leaped out of the chimney upon the roof of the house,
descended to the eaves, and then jumped down upon the ground.

The soldier, in panic and pain, had not yet recovered from the surprise
occasioned by this sudden and unexpected onslaught. Tom rushed up to him,
and secured the musket before he had time to regain his self-possession.

"Who are you?" demanded the soldier, holding up the injured arm with his
left hand.

"Your most obedient servant," replied Tom, facetiously, as he placed
himself in the attitude of "charge bayonets." "Have you any dangerous
weapons about your person?"

"Yes, I have," replied the soldier, resolutely, as he retreated a few
steps, and attempted to thrust his left hand into the breast pocket of his
coat.

"Hands down!" exclaimed Tom, pricking his arm with the bayonet attached to
the musket. "Here, Joe Burnap!"

"What d' yer want?" replied the proprietor of the house, who was as
completely "demoralized" by the scene as the rebel soldier himself.

"Put your hand into this man's pocke