g a few moments, the rebel deserter came
in sight. He was apparently a man of fifty; and no mendicant of St. Giles,
who followed begging as a profession, could have given himself a more
wretched and squalid appearance, if he had devoted a lifetime to the study
of making himself look miserable. He wore a long black and gray beard,
uncut and unkempt, and snarled, tangled, and knotted into the most
fantastic forms. His gray uniform, plentifully bedaubed with Virginia mud,
was torn in a hundred places, and hung in tatters upon his emaciated
frame. On his head was an old felt hat, in a terribly dilapidated
condition. He wore one boot and one shoe, which he had probably taken from
the common sewer of Richmond, or some other southern city; they were
ripped to such an extent that the "uppers" went flipperty-flap as he
walked, and had the general appearance of the open mouth of the mythic
dragon, with five bare toes in each to represent teeth.

As he approached, the unthinking soldiers of the party indulged in screams
of laughter at the uncouth appearance of the whilom rebel; and certainly
the character in tableau or farce need not have spoken, to convulse any
audience that ever assembled in Christendom. Rip Van Winkle, with the
devastations and dilapidations of five-and-twenty years hanging about him,
did not present a more forlorn appearance than did this representative of
the Confederate army.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded the deserter, not at all delighted
with this reception.

"I say, old fellow, how long since you escaped from the rag-bag?" jeered
one of the men.

"What's the price of boots in Richmond now?" asked another.

"Who's your barber?"

"Silence, men!" interposed Tom, sternly, for he could not permit his boys
to make fun of the wretchedness of any human being.

"We'll sell you out for paper stock," said Ben Lethbridge, who had just
returned from three months' service in the Rip-Raps for desertion.

"Shut up, Ben!" added Tom.

"Dry up, all of you!" said Corporal Snyder.

"Who and what are you?" asked Tom, of the deserter.

"I'm a Union man!" replied the stranger with emphasis; "and I didn't
expect to be treated in this way after all I've suffered."

"They thought you were a rebel. You wear the colors of the rebel army,"
answered the sergeant, willing to explain the rudeness of his men.

"Well, I suppose I do look rather the worse for the wear," added the
grayback, glancing down at the tattere