s musket to the unhappy voyager. Tom
threw down his paddle, and sprang with desperate energy to obtain a hold
upon the gun. He even succeeded in grasping the end of the bayonet. For a
moment he pulled so hard that it was doubtful whether the bateau would be
hauled ashore, or Secesh drawn into the deep water.

"Hold on tight, my boy! Pull for your life!" shouted the soldier, highly
excited by the probable success of his philanthropic efforts.

"Save me! Save me!" groaned Tom, as he tugged, or seemed to do so, at the
bayonet.

Then, while the united exertions of the saver and the saved, in
anticipation, were on the very point of being successful, the polished
steel of the bayonet unaccountably slipped through the fingers of Tom, and
the bateau was borne off towards the opposite shore.

"Save me! Save me," cried Tom again, in tones more piteous than ever.

"What d'ye let go fur?" said the grayback, indignantly, as his musket,
which he had held by the tip end of the stock, dropped into the water,
when Tom let go of the bayonet.

The soldier indulged in a volley of peculiarly southern oaths, with which
we cannot disfigure our page, even in deference to the necessity of
painting a correct picture of the scene we have described. Tom had a vein
of humor in his composition, which has already displayed itself in some of
the rough experiences of his career; and when he saw the rebel soldier
deprived of all power to make war upon him, either offensive or defensive,
he could not resist the temptation to celebrate the signal strategical
victory he had obtained over the picket guard. This triumphal
demonstration was not very dignified, nor, under the circumstances, very
prudent or sensible. It consisted in placing the thumb of his right hand
upon the end of his nose, while he wiggled the four remaining digital
appendages of the same member in the most aggravating manner, whistling
Yankee Doodle as an accompaniment to the movement.

If Secesh did not understand the case before, he did now; and fishing up
his musket, he emptied the water out of the barrel, and attempted to fire
it. Luckily for Tom, the gun would not go off, and he swept on his way
jubilant and joyous.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE END OF THE VOYAGE.

Tom Somers's voyage down the Shenandoah was, in many respects, a type of
human life. He experienced the various reverses, the trials and hardships,
which attend all sojourners here below. He triumphed over all obs