ou give me something to eat?"

"Sartin, stranger; I'll do thet."

The man, who was evidently the proprietor of the house, brought up the
remnant of a boiled ham, a loaf of white bread, some butter, and a pitcher
of milk. Tom ate till he was satisfied. The farmer, in deference to his
amazing appetite probably, suspended his questions till the guest began to
show some signs of satiety, when he pressed him again as vigorously as
though he had been born and brought up among the hills of New England.

"Where d'ye come from?" said he.

"From Manassas. I lost my regiment in the fight; and the next day I heard
they had been toted over this way, and I put after them right smart,"
answered Tom, adopting as much of the Georgia vernacular as his knowledge
would permit.

"Walk all the way?"

"No; I came in the keers most of the way."

"But you don't wear our colors," added the farmer, glancing at Tom's
clothes.

"My clothes were all worn out, and I helped myself to the best suit I
could find on the field."

"What regiment did ye say ye b'longed to?" queried the man, eying the
uniform again.

"To the Seventh Georgia. Perhaps you can tell me where I shall find it."

"I can't; but I reckon there's somebody here that can. I'll call him."

Tom was not at all particular about obtaining this information. There was
evidently some military man in the house, who would expose him if he
remained any longer.

"Who is it, father?" asked a person who had probably heard a part of the
conversation we have narrated; for the voice proceeded from a bed-room
adjoining the apartment in which Tom had eaten his supper.

"A soldier b'longing to the Seventh Georgia," answered the farmer. "That's
my son; he's a captain in the cavalry, and he'll know all about it. He can
tell you where yer regiment is," added he, turning to Tom, who was edging
towards the door.

"I'm very much obliged to you for my supper," said the fugitive,
nervously. "I reckon I'll be moving along."

"Wait half a second, and my son will tell you just where to find your
regiment."

"The Seventh Georgia?" said the captain of cavalry, entering the room at
this moment with nothing but his pants on. "There's no such regiment up
here, and hasn't been. I reckon you're a deserter."

"No, _sir!_ I scorn the charge," replied Tom, with becoming indignation.
"I never desert my colors."

"I suppose not," added the officer, glancing at his uniform; "but your
colors desert you."