Section 6 of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. The kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories by Joel Chandler-Harris. The Troubles of Martin Coy, Part 2. The six Confederates, accompanied by their eight captors, were on the road early. The Federals seemed to know the ground and were in no hurry. Their main force was not so very far away, as the Confederates learned afterwards. Martin Coy was at the head of the little squad of prisoners, and he not only marched close to the Federal Guard on his right, but kept a sharp lookout for the man, the wagon, and the mule. When they had traveled about four or five miles, they came suddenly upon the man, the wagon, and the mule. The mule was unhitched, a part of the harness hanging loose, as though it had been torn off, and the wagon was half-slewed across the road. The arrangement seemed to be an ideal one, but Martin Coy's heart sank when he saw a mounted Federal officer talking to the man. How many more were there in the neighborhood? Martin Coy never lifted his eyes to the face of the mounted officer. He only noted, in a general way, that the man was large and fine-looking. He watched the man and the mule, and drew closer to the guard on his right. Would the scheme work? He would soon know. They were not ten yards from the wagon. The man was saying, why, she's the plague-in-nessed creature in the whole world. Woe! Didn't I tell you to woe, he cried. The mule had flung herself around with incredible swiftness, and was now letting fly both heels at the officer's horse, which, backing into the ravine, suddenly slipped and fell. The prisoners were only a few steps from the wagon. Oh! What are you up to?  The mule, backing and kicking, dragged the man after her, to all appearances, around the end of the wagon. If Martin Coy was here, he'd fix you, yelled the man. The prisoners accepted this as a signal, and each grabbed the gun of the Federal nearest to him. It was over in a moment, or would have been had not the mounted officer, whose horse had recovered its footing, came spurring toward the melee, pistol in hand. End up there, men, who called for Martin? The sentence was never completed. Martin Coy had leveled his gun and fired as the officer spoke. The Federal swayed and would have fallen from his horse, but one of the men caught him and eased him to the ground. Martin, he feebly cried, then groaned and seemed to be quite dead. The groan had an echo, for Martin Coy, coming forward, found that he had shot his brother. It's a judgment, he exclaimed hoarsely. A judgment. Now I'm done. You all can take me where you please. Well, I reckon not. Not much," said the man who had been manipulating the Mule. Wars worn when family connections get on both sides of the fence, where shooting's going on, somebody's bound to get hurt. With that he detailed two of the Federal's to look after the body of the officer. One of them mounted the horse and rode off to the Federal camp, the other remained by the roadside. The countrymen, who was none other than John Omahundro, on his way to Richmond, left his wagon where it was and turned the Mule loose, giving her a friendly slap as he did so. She went cantering back to the farmhouse in a double-quick time. Now, you yanks, just make your minds easy. You'll swap places with these chaps here, form in a line there, single file, right about face, and forward march with a hep, hep, hep. Keep step there, Coy, don't tangle up my army. On the side of the hill, as they retraced their steps, a footpath was visible. It was narrow, but well marked.  Martin Coy seemed to be a changed man. He would obey orders, but he would not answer when spoken to. The only words he uttered were mumble to himself, and his companions never knew whether he was praying or cursing. As a matter of fact, he was simply repeating the prophecy of the revivalist. The day will come, be it soon or late, when you will hide from the light of the sun, when you will slink about in the darkness, when you will be a dead man, though yet alive. Instinctively the men knew that Martin Coy was in great mental trouble.  When they reached Richmond, by a word he secured a furlough for Martin Coy, and saw that he was provided with the papers necessary for his transportation, and with a sufficient supply of money. Just when Martin Coy reached home no one knew except his wife and himself. He kept himself as rigidly as a monk who dwells alone in a cell. He felt that he was under an awful judgment from heaven, and his penance, self-inflicted, was that he never allowed the sun to shine on him, or permitted his eyes to rest on the light it gives forth. It was literally as the preacher said it would be. He hid from the light of the sun, and when he went forth at all he slunk about under the cover of darkness. So far as the world was concerned it was the same as if he had been dead and buried. He was so earnest in his beliefs and purposes that he convinced his wife of the spiritual utility of his asceticism, and she, being a woman of considerable energy, in possessing a good head for business, took charge of his affairs and proceeded to manage them with a success that attracted wide attention. To quote Mrs. Nicklin, old Maul Coy is trying for to be a man. She's actally and candidly begun to sprout a beard. A remark which drew from Mr. Nicklin the response that, A omen as smart as any man, and a plague-site smarter most on him, is got a good right for to have a beard. Martin Coy was at home for nearly four years before anybody knew it except his wife. He occupied a room in the second story of his house, and the windows to this room were not only closely shuttered on the outside, but heavily hung with curtains on the inside. He limited himself to one meal of cold victuals and took that at night by the light of a tallow candle. Sometimes he read the Bible, but more often he paced back and forth as far as the narrow limits of his room would allow. But after the first fever of his repentance, if it can be called that, passed away, he ventured to walk about at hours when he judged that the rest of the community were sound asleep. When the surviving members of his company returned home in 1865, people wondered that Mrs. Coy made no inquiries after her husband, who had failed to return with the others. Then rumors of various kinds flew about. Some said that he, with a number of others, perished in the retreat from Laurel Hill, others that he died in a northern prison. And there was one persistent story that he had deserted from the Confederate army and joined his brother on the federal side. Now in his walks at night he had been seen and recognized by various Negroes. This, however, was no evidence to them that Martin Coy was alive. Quite the contrary. It was an evidence that he was dead. Fidlin Bill, who had known him well and liked him, saw him one night and spoke to him. Receiving no response he spoke again in a louder tone, whereupon Martin Coy turned slowly around, looked at the Negro hard and groaned. This was sufficient for Fidlin Bill, who had serious doubts even before he ventured to speak. The Negro turned and went back the way he had come, as fast as his heavy wooden leg would permit him. He was going at such a rate that when he came to a plank sidewalk the thump of the leg could be heard blocks away, and at one point where the iron-shod foot of the wooden leg was forced between two planks and held there as in a vice, Fidlin Bill gave one despairing wrench and tore up a whole section of the walk. The Negro's testimony and the evidence of the wrecked walk were sufficient to convince all the Negroes, and not a few whites, that the ghost of Martin Coy walked abroad and refused to be laid. The reason was plain. He had died in strange parts and had been buried in strange soil, and his perturbed spirit would never be satisfied until his bones were brought back home. This was manifest on the face of it, since he had been seen most frequently near the village burying ground. Of course the more sensible people of the community never bothered their heads with these stories, but they flew about all the same and so much life and substance has a myth of this sort that it persists to this day and Coy's ghost is still supposed by the superstitious to be walking in that region, flitting about as it were, from neighborhood to neighborhood to meet emergencies or to explain manifestations that appear to be mysterious. Probably however, the real facts of the case became known to the older citizens, and these, as usual, were disposed to be sympathetic, especially Colonel Fontaine Florney, of whose family the Coys had, in old times, been retainers. Not in the feudal sense, of course, but by reason of long association and mutual obligations. As soon as Colonel Florney returned from his South American adventures, he called on Mrs. McCoy and from her learned the facts. He also held a brief conversation with Martin Coy through the closed door of his room and tried to convince him of the folly of his course. The effort was unsuccessful. Martin Coy clung to the idea that the revivalist who denounced him had been the means of bringing down upon his head the judgment of heaven. Now among those who took a sincere interest in the case of Martin Coy was Captain McCarthy. He was one of the few who had heard all the facts. As he was a very practical man he went to work in a practical way saying nothing of his plans, but his daughter Nora observed that he was engaged in a very extensive correspondence. One morning she counted as many as twenty letters lying on the library table, all sealed, stamped, and addressed. One she noticed was addressed to the pension office, and this she made the basis for a series of inquiries which were leveled at her father in a tone at once innocent and serious. It was, Dada dear, do you think I'll ever draw a pension? I carried your laundry to you when you were in the hotel. Don't you think I'd deserve a pension for that? Or has the government ever rewarded you for not taking charge of the paper which was to settle everything? Captain McCarthy was very much puzzled by such questions as these until he happened to remember that Nora had been dusting the library, whereupon, in mock indignation, he tried to catch her. Nora ran screaming and laughing around the room, out of the door into the hall, and from the hall straight into the arms of young Francis Florney, who had called at that hour on pretense of asking the captain's advice on some business matter. He thought, poor young man, that he was very sly and very shrewd and that no one except Miss Nora knew why he called so often, whereas Miss Nora was the only one in all that neighborhood who wasn't really certain. She had her suspicions, and they were very pleasant ones, but she had her doubts too. She was very reserved in circumspect, and she never, under any circumstances, betrayed her real feelings except in a thousand different ways which were plain to everybody except to young Florney. It is the way of lovers the world over, so the storytellers say. But when Nora startled Francis Florney and herself by accidentally running into his arms with her father looking on and not attempting to conceal his triumphant amusement, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. As a matter of fact, she did both at one and the same time and blushed and bitter lipped and pretended to be very much amused at everything, and very angry with everybody. But after a while, as they were talking on the veranda, she became very much subdued. Wonderful for Nora she fell into a fit of melancholy, and this young Florney had sense enough to take advantage of. He was used to young ladies who were romantic and troubled with a gentle melancholy. But Nora, with her various and versatile emotions, chief among which was a keen and restless humor, had been very much of a puzzle to the young man. Then therefore she remarked with a little sigh that she supposed he came to see her father. He remarked that he was in no hurry, and that if, well in short, he then and there took the opportunity by the foretop and said what he had been trying to say for many months. And as for Nora, she said that she could never enter into any engagement so serious until her father had approved of it, and so forth, and so on. This suggestion was promptly followed by Francis Florney. He could talk to a man, and he had a long and serious talk with Nora's father, who, after pointing out, as thoughtful father's will, what a solemn and sacred bond marriage is, said that nothing could please him more than to see his daughter the wife of the son of his old friend. And Nora, whose interest and curiosity impelled her to listen at the library door, became so frightened at the serious character of the conversation that she went off somewhere and cried, a fact which thoroughly restored her high spirits. Her father, however, must have his joke, for when he saw her he put on a very serious and perplexed countenance. Nora, he said, until son Francis came and talked with me, I was sure that the event of this morning was an accident. What event, Dada? inquired Nora, blushing. Why, the performance of rushing out and jumping into the young man's arms. Strange to say, she forgot to be teased. Instead of protesting against his whimsical suggestion, she threw her arms around him and exclaimed, Oh, you are the best man in the whole world. There are exceptions, he remarked, but what else could I be with such a child as this to give away to the first young lover that asks for her? Now, you will say that this is taking you away from Martin Koi and his troubles. On the contrary, it is carrying us straight to the project which Captain McCarthy had devised. For the wedding of Nora and young Flourney was made the occasion of a device to draw Martin Koi out of his shell and to convince him that some things are true as well as others, as Mr. Nicklin would say. It was decided by the young people that the wedding should take place within two months at least, the particular day to conform, of course, to Nora's arrangements. Now, when a girl decides to get married, there's a great question of gowns, robes, and whatnot, a question of interminable and unending details. For the discussion started, then may rest awhile, but you may be sure they will be carried safely over to the next generation when the girl who was in such a Flourney over her own outfit will be every bit as nervous over that of her daughter. Meantime, Captain McCarthy carried on his correspondence with such vigor that he soon made a discovery of great importance, and this is why, the day before the wedding, he drove to the railroad station a few miles away and returned with a stranger. This done, the Captain sought out Martin Koi and insisted on seeing him face to face. I like you well enough, said Martin, but I don't want to see you. I want to see you and talk to you for your own sake, the Captain insisted. My sake ain't so much of a sake as to worry you, I hope, reprimand Martin Koi. We'll never get to heaven if our neighbor's troubles don't worry us, suggested the Captain. I want to see you for Nora's sake. Now, Nora had taken a very great interest in the troubles of Martin Koi. She had gone over and talked to him through his closed door, and only a day or two previous to the Captain's visit has sung and played on the harp for Martin. Being in a romantic mood herself, owing to circumstances, the song she had chosen were Irish ballads, and the quality of her voice which was rich and sweet, and the heartbreaking character of the melodies were sufficient to bring tears to Martin Koi's eyes for the first time in many years. She heard him sobbing when her songs were ended, and she slipped away without saying a word. So when Captain McCarthy said, for Nora's sake, he put a new face on the matter. She's a mighty fine girl, I reckon, remarked Martin Koi. She came over and sung for me the other day, and who else in all the world would have done that? It's Nora's way, said the Captain gently. He had a marvelous touch of sympathy in his voice when he chose to employ it. It's the child's way. When she came home, she was crying. Martin Koi made no reply to this, but after a while the key turned in the lock, and the door opened. Come in, and I'll strike a match, he said. This done, a candle was soon lighted, and Martin Koi turned inquiring eyes on the face of the man who had insisted on seeing him. He was surprised to find that the look which Captain McCarthy fixed on him was not one of curiosity. I was not especially anxious to see your face, exclaimed the Captain. I wanted you to see mine, so that you could judge for yourself whether I am likely to make an idol or foolish request of a man who for so many years has had sorrow for a bedfellow. The features of Captain McCarthy could be stern enough when necessity arose, but they were soft and now and illuminated by a friendly light in his eyes. The most ignorant human being in the world would have had no difficulty in trusting that face, to which fixed principles and an invincible desire to follow the right on all occasions, and at all hazards, had given a certain air of nobility. The request I want to make is that you will come to Nora's wedding. Martin Koi frowned, and then threw up both hands with a quarrelous exclamation. Now, Cap, you know I can't do that. Oh, why do you pester me that away? The ceremony will take place at night, remarked McCarthy, tomorrow night. But everything will be all lit up. Folks could see me a mile in that light. No, Cap, I wish the child mighty well. That's enough. I don't want to bring no judgment down on her head. They say she's pretty as a pink. I'd give her bad luck the balance of her days. Look at me. Oh, Lord, look at me.  Martin Koi rubbed his hands together as though washing them, and Nora has her heart set on it. She says she won't be as happy as she wants to be if you fail to come. Did she say that? Martin Koi's voice broke and grew husky. She said a great deal more than that, replied Captain McCarthy. She said she couldn't bear to be happy knowing that you were sitting here lonely and unhappy. Lord, Lord, cried Martin Koi, covering his face with both hands. Has she allers been like that? He asked after a while. Ever since she was a little slip of a girl, said Captain McCarthy. Martin Koi walked up and down the room for some time. Then he paused. Will you come after me? He asked. Certainly, said the other, with the greatest pleasure in the world. And I'll say this. Captain McCarthy's eyes were speaking now. When you return home from Nora's wedding, you'll never walk in the darkness any more. You'll never hide from the light of the sun any more. You reckon not? Asked Koi, eagerly. You'll see, my friend. When Captain McCarthy went downstairs, Mrs. Koi was waiting for him. What had happened? And how did he manage to get in the room? To her mind, the explanation didn't explain. And then she learned that her husband had promised to attend Nora's wedding. She vowed that wonders would never cease, though this was the greatest wonder of all. Martin Koi went to the wedding. The library had no light in it, and the door looking out into the parlor had a strip of white ribbon tied across it, and this kept all intruders out. The house was filled with a goodly company of men and women, boys and girls, and there was a great mixture of music and laughter, rustling dresses, fluttering fans, and the incessant chatter proper to a festival occasion. Martin Koi feasted his eyes and ears on it all. He felt elated without knowing why. He paid no attention when the door leading upon the veranda opened, and someone came in and took a seat not far from him. He heard nothing until Captain McCarthy came in by the same door and closed it with something like a bang. Then Martin Koi turned and saw someone sitting near him. His eyes by long use had become habituated to the darkness. He arose and shrank away with the smothered groan. He stumbled and would have fallen but for the strong arm of Captain McCarthy. I knowed it. I knowed it. It's a judgment. Do you see anything in that cheer there? Why, certainly, replied the Captain, I see Captain Harvey Koi of Missouri. Why, Harvey Koi's is dead as a doorknall.  Just feel of me, Martin, and see if I'm dead, exclaimed Harvey. Oh, why didn't you come before, or right, Martin asked, petulantly. After I got well, I hated everybody in the south, replied Harvey, and after I got over my spell of hatin' I didn't know how you people would treat a man who had fought on the other side. Captain McCarthy slipped out and left them, when he came back an hour after to warn them that the ceremony was about to begin. He found Martin laughing and telling his brother some incident of his childhood. After the wedding was over and the congratulations had been said and Nora and her husband had been whirled away in a carriage to catch the midnight train, Captain McCarthy slapped Martin Koi on the shoulder and said in a bantering tone, well, what do you think of Nora? Don't ask me to talk about her, Cap. I get a catch in the throat every time I think about her. If Frank Florney don't treat her right, there'll be murder done in this neighborhood as certain as the world. This topic was new to Captain McCarthy. He have closed his eyes, pursed his lips, rocked backward and forward on his feet, and then said sharply, we'll shake hands on that, Martin. But really, the suggestion was the last remnant of Martin Koi's disordered fancy as it melted away. Nora Florney had, and still has, as much happiness as ever fell to the lot of woman in this world, and she earned it by making others happy. Martin Koi was happy, too, to the day of his death. To the last he insisted that folks never could know what real happiness is until, to employ his phrase, they had had a whole parcel of trouble. Section 7 of The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Josh Kibbe. The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories by Joe Chandler Harris. The Kidnapping of President Lincoln, Part 1. On the first day of April 1863, young Francis Bethune of Georgia sat the picture of gloom and ejection in the reading room of the most popular hotel in the capital of the Confederacy. The frown and his swarthy face, his features had been tanned by exposure to sun and weather, was deepened by the disordered condition of his black hair, through which, in perplexity or abstraction, he had clawed his fingers in all directions. Though Bethune was strikingly handsome when at his best, the casual passerby would hardly have guessed it unless, indeed, the young man singularly brilliant eyes had invited a close examination. As he sat there dejected and unhappy, he could see the southern leaders passing to and fro before him, Robert Tombs, Impetuous and Imperius, Ben Hill, Impressive and Genial, Alexander Stevens, Paladin frail but with the fires of vitality burning in his eyes. These men were Georgians, and young Bethune knew that the mention of the name of his grandfather to any one of them would be sufficient to enlist his interest, but he knew also that the most powerful of them could render him no assistance in his present difficulty. He had begun a letter to his grandfather, but had torn it to shreds before he had finished half a sheet. The truth is, the young fellow knew that his troubles were of his own making, and he felt that he must depend upon himself. This is ever the case with many young men. He had been somewhat spoiled in the bringing up. When he was small, no one was allowed to thwart him or to stand in the way of his will, save on those rare occasions when his grandfather, losing all patience, gave him over to a severe trouncing. Thus the spirit of independence which he had developed early was overlaid with perverseness. He had entered the Confederate service as a lieutenant when twenty-one years old had been mentioned in the reports for gallantry on the field, and later had been elected captain of his company. Then as might have been expected he shortly found himself at cross purposes with no less a person than his colonel, and immediately proceeded to inform that officer what he thought of him in general and in particular. He was saved from the worst results of his insubordination by the fact that the colonel knew Bethune's grandfather, Maryweather Clopton, and was very fond of him. Instead of organizing a court-martial, the colonel allowed the young man to resign. It was a seasonable experience and a sobering one. Francis Bethune had a great many fine qualities to sustain him, and he fell back on these instead of giving way to despair. But it was a trying time for the young man. His vanity took wings, and with it nearly all his youthful folly. Yet it was not his native strength that saved him at last, but the thought of two women and a girl. One of these was Sarah Clopton, his aunt, who had been the only mother he had ever known. Another was Miss Puella Gillum, a little old maid, and the girl was Nan Doreington. He had a good reason to think of these two women. His aunt had received him in her arms a few weeks after his father and mother had perished in an epidemic in one of the cities of the South Atlantic coast, and had nourished him from his infancy with an affection as absolute as a mother could entertain for her child.  Indeed, young Bethune thought she was very beautiful. When he was a boy and after he was far in his teens, he used to call on Miss Puella at least twice a week. Before he was twelve, he made these visits mainly to get a cup of Miss Puella's tea and a couple of her flaky biscuits as white as snow. But when he grew older, he went for the sake of spending an hour with Miss Puella, and he always came away stronger and with a firmer purpose to do his duty in whatever shape it came to him. Yes, there were good reasons why he should think of these women, each so different from the other, and both with such high and noble views of life. But why he should think of Nan Doreington, that awful hoidon, with the feeling of friendliness he could not explain. Why should he ask himself what Nan Doreington would think and say when she heard of his latest performance on the wide stage of folly? He had been expelled from college, and he had good reason for knowing what Nan thought of that, though she was but twelve years old at the time. Now he was practically expelled from the army, and what would Miss Spindleshanks think of that? Spindleshanks? He had a good reason to remember the name and to remember Nan too. He had returned from college, wearing the uniform of a cadet. He was nearly eighteen then, and as he strutted along through the one street in the small village of Harmony Grove, trying to maintain a bold front in spite of his inward misery, he heard some of the native humorists, laughing uproariously. He was crossing toward the old tavern, and casting an eye behind him, he beheld Nan Doreington marching a few paces in his rear, carrying a small stick as a gun. She had caught the young gentleman's swagger to a tee, and the whole town appeared to be enjoying the spectacle.  His anger strangled him, and he stood speechless for ten seconds or more. Thank you, Miss Spindleshanks, he cried in a loud voice.  It was all done like snapping your fingers, and the blow was so sudden and unexpected that Bethune could only stare at the child. His countenance showed anger, but it also betrayed grief and dismay, and as he stood there Nan remembered him for many a long day with bitter sorrow. Her face was very white, and not with anger, as Bethune turned on his heel and went his way. For many weeks, yes, long months, Frances Bethune hated Nan, and Nan hated him just as heartily, not because he had called her Spindleshanks, though that term was all the more dreadful on account of its truth, but because, as she explained to herself, he had made her forget that she was a lady.  He thought about Nan as she really was, and as his aunt had described her in letters, a girl of wonderful beauty living in a world of romance all her own, and yet remarkably practical too, generous, sensitive, and tender-hearted, a womanly nature pitched in a high key in which not a false note could be discerned. All this might be so, as his aunt had assured him it was, but still did not explain why in his extremity his mind had turned to Nan Dorenton. However, he was about to pursue some argument or other connected with the subject when his attention was attracted by voices behind him. Apparently two men were holding a sort of half-confidential conversation. They were not whispering, but their voices were pitched in a low key. Bethune sat with his eyes closed. He had not heard the men come in, and he could not remember whether they were sitting in the room when he arrived or not. Indeed he was too miserable to try to remember, but what he heard arrested his attention and held it. A pass, you say, through the Yankee lines? The voice of the speaker was charged with astonishment. Yes, sir, replied the other. That's what I said. A pass through the Yankee lines. More than that, it's signed by old Abe himself. Woo! Whistled the first speaker. Doesn't that seem like treason's brewing on this side?  The favors can't be all on one side, you know. He chuckled the other. He was immensely tickled. Why, when it comes to affairs of state and matters of that kind, you are not knee-high to a duck. It's like the etiquette of the code, he went on, his voice becoming more formal. The same courtesy that exists between strangers must be maintained between enemies about to engage under the code. And it is so with this bigger duel we see going on before our eyes. Why, there's... Eh, but I can't talk. My mouth is closed. I've said too much now. If Albert Lamar had a mind to, he could tell you some tales that would open your eyes. You don't mean to say that there's a regular traffic and information and a swapping of passes to carry it on? Oh, fiddlesticks. Your suspicions jump farther and quicker than a bullfrog, declared the other, with a note of contempt or disgust in his voice. Take this pass as an instance. What does it mean? Precisely this. That a young woman from Georgia, with kinfolks in Maryland, has been caught spying. She was arrested by Stanton's crowd, and would have been hanged if Old Abe hadn't taken her out of Stanton's hands. He had her carried to the White House. Well, I wonder. Yes, sir. Had her carried to the White House, and either she's giving trouble or Mrs. Lincoln is tired of the arrangement. Anyhow, Old Abe wants some southern man to come after her and take her through the lines. That's what I'm told, and I got it pretty straight. Well, that takes the rag off the bush. Now do you know what I'd do if I didn't have a family? I'd take this pass, go right straight to Washington, watch for a chance, and fetch Old Abe home with me. That it in the war, my judgment. If it didn't, it would make a big man of me. It's a mighty fine chance for some chap that doesn't give a red whether school keeps or not. That description fits me to a T, said Francis Patheon, rising from his chair. One of the parties of the conversation arose also. He was the man who had been dealing at the confidential information. Well, here. Hold on, my friend.  Patheon straightened himself and threw back his head. My label's on my valise. Where is yours? Oh, folderel, don't fly up. My name is Phil Doyle. Mine is Francis Patheon. Very good, said Mr. Doyle. I reckon I've heard of you. If you belong to the Patheon family, you ought to know something about the cloptons. Mary, where the clopton is my grandfather. Then you can draw on me for all the goodwill you want, and goodwill goes a long way sometimes. I had no intention of listening to your conversation, up to a certain point. And then I listened for a reason that I'll be glad to explain to you at a more convenient place in time. In my room, for instance, suggested Doyle. Certainly, in the present time, as is convenient for me as any other, excusing himself to the friend with whom he had been talking, Mr. Doyle led the way to his room. He was evidently a man of some importance about the Confederate capital, for his apartments were, for that period, perfect in their appointments. No long time was required for young Patheon to explain to Mr. Doyle his position and his lack of prospects and the reasons why he was willing to undertake the adventure which had been suggested. Do you mean to tell me Mr. Doyle exclaimed after the explanation had been made, that you proposed to make an effort to fetch Mr. Lincoln out of Washington? Certainly, what else can I do? Look at my position and prospects. Mr. Doyle drummed on the table as though lost in thought. Patheon's imagination conjured up the face of Nan Dorenton, and she seemed to be looking at him through a vague mist, not angrily or contemptuously, as was her habit, but was surprised and sorrow. At that moment there came a sharp wrap on the door, and Colonel Albert Lamar walked in. Excuse me, Doyle, I didn't know you had company. Why, hello, Batheon, he exclaimed, recognizing the young man. What are you doing here? By the by, did you know? He paused, took a cigar from his mouth, carefully removed the ash with a wooden toothpick, and blew his breath softly against the glowing end. He evidently had something on his mind which he had intended to speak of. Did I know what, Colonel, Batheon asked. We'll speak of it later. Tell me about yourself. How are you getting on and everything? In short, give me the news. A man who has had to sit up all night with a newspaper to see if his editorial articles have been put in right side up never knows the value of news after it is imprinted. To print it is to kill it dead. Tell me something fresh. Give me the latest army scandal. As general, been on another jag? In answer to this volley of inquiries, Francis Patheon told the story of his own troubles, and when he was quite through, Colonel Lamar looked at him seriously for some moments and then indulged in a fit of hearty laughter. Some folks might think you get your touchiness from the Huguenot strain, but you don't. You get it from your great-grandfather, Matthew Clopton. Did you ever hear the upshot of his efforts to get justice for Eli Whitney, the inventor of the cotton gin? Yes, I have heard my grandfather speak of it, said Batheon, laughing. What was it asked, Mr. Doyle? Well, the farmers and men with money in Georgia and other cotton states combined a rob Whitney. They managed to get some of the judges on their side and their scheme succeeded completely. Whitney came back to Georgia to fight for his rights, and he was taken up by your great-grandfather, who had plenty of money. But the courts were too much for him. He got hold of one judge and frailed him out, slapped the jaws of another, denounced a third in a public tavern, and then took Whitney home with him to Shadydale where he stayed for some time. Old Matt was a warhorse, so the old folks say. He must have been Doyle assented. What was the name of the Maryland lady one of your uncles married, inquired Colonel Lamar in a reminiscent way? A barely perceptible smile crept into Batheon's countenance. At least she calls herself, but I think the entry in the Bible is Elizabeth. She went back to Maryland when the war came on. Colonel Lamar nodded his head two or three times. How old is she, he asked? Why, she must be thirty-five, replied Batheon, but the last time I saw her she didn't look older than twenty-five, and her head was just as full of romantic stuff as her schoolgirls. She said she was going back home to be a confederate spy. Just so, responded the Colonel. Thereupon, as there was a lull in the conversation, Mr. Doyle informed Colonel Lamar that young Batheon had expressed the desire to go to Washington in response to the invitation implied in the pass which had been forwarded to Richmond. The Colonel looked at Batheon with wide-open eyes in which there was a twinkle of amusement. Well, well, he exclaimed, it's quite a coincidence. What is? Why, the fact that you should be the man to accept the mission? What does it coincide with? With? Well, you'll find out when you get there. I'm not going after the woman, said Batheon. It is my purpose to bring Mr. Lincoln back with me. Colonel Lamar threw his head back and laughed heartily. Ha! If you do that, he remarked, you'll have a name and history, sure enough. Old Matt Clopton might have done it, or John Clark or any of the chaps that flourished in revolutionary days, but we don't measure up to such things these times. Or about half a head too low, or relax some of the muscles that hold a man's gizzard in the right place. Well, I may fail, said Batheon, but I'm not going with the idea of failure in my head. In that case I'd advise you not to go, Colonel Lamar suggested. But Batheon shook his head. He had made up his mind. He had counted the cost, and all that he asked was that he should be provided with the companion of his own selection. Now that makes the business more ticklish than it would otherwise be, said Mr. Doyle. Whom would you suggest? Billy Sanders. He belongs to Company B of the Third Georgia. Why, I used to know Billy, remarked Colonel Lamar laughing. He's what they call a character, and if he sizes up with my recollection, he is just the man that I wouldn't like to take along on such an expedition. Why, he must be 60 years old, and if he hasn't joined the Sons of Temperance, he's likely to get you into trouble. The last time I saw him, he was sitting on the courthouse steps in Harmony Grove, telling the world at large that he was the grandson of Nancy Hart. Can you have him detailed for special duty, Batheon asked? I can. Yes, replied Colonel Lamar, hesitating. But there's a pass for one only. With Billy Sanders along, there'll be no need for a pass, said Batheon. Well, you'd better take it along as a matter of form, suggested the Colonel. At a pinch it'll save one of you, but it won't save both. And so the matter was arranged. Mr. Billy Sanders, who had for years been overseer at Shadydale, as the clopped implantation was called, was overjoyed to be with Batheon once more. He had entered the army to be near the young man, but Batheon's company had been transferred to another regiment, and so they had been separated. Dog, my cats exclaimed to Billy when they met. It's like eating a slice of bile ham to get a glimpse of you.  If I'd have been your Colonel, I'd have sent for now when you got to cutting up, be dogged if I wouldn't. Batheon blushed at the illusion to Nan's youthful attack on him, but he said nothing in reply. He simply turned his conversation to the adventure to which he was committed, and canvassed it as far as he could. He had never before consulted with Mr. Sanders on any matter more serious than fishing rods and hooks and traps for birds or rabbits, and he was therefore surprised at the shrewd common-sense which the older man possessed. Every suggestion he made was marked by that strange intuition which some men possess in moments of great excitement or peril and which is the everyday equipment of a few minds. On a large and important field of action and endeavor it is called genius, an ordinary affair as it goes by the name of shrewdness or common-sense or foresight. It would be a very gratifying thing to make a hero of young Batheon with his black hair, his brilliant eyes, and his swarthy complexion, but let justice be done in spite of appearances. Mr. Billy Sanders was a very common-place-looking man at best. He carried a smile on his red and rotund countenance that gave him the appearance of childishness or weakness, and he was childish and weak about some things, but in general this bland and innocuous smile was deceitful. It was as complete a mask indeed as ever man wore. There was an innocent stare in the mild blue eyes and a general air of helplessness about the man that went far to confirm the smile. The most cunning reader of character would have placed Mr. Billy Sanders in the category of weak-minded people, a helpless countryman, ready to be victimized or imposed upon by any chance-comer. But in fact, Mr. Sanders was a man of far different mold and metal. He was old enough to be a good judge of human nature, and the fact that he was born and bred in the country and had little or no book education had not interfered a particle with the growth and development of those elemental qualities which are the basis and not the result of book education. He had, as it were, good blood and strong bones. His grandmother was as perfect a type of the American heroine as has ever been seen, and old bullion Benton was named after one of his great-uncles, Thomas Hart. Even who knew Mr. Sanders well remarked of him, he looks like a busted bank, don't he, all building and no assets? Well, don't fool yourself, there ain't a day in the air nor an hour in the day when he ain't on a specie basis. And yet it was not an account of these things that young Bethune selected Mr. Sanders to be his comrade in his projected adventure. His main reason was that he had known Mr. Sanders, and had been familiar with him all his life. He knew that his old friend could be depended on. It had been arranged that the young Bethune should receive the pay of a captain while detailed for special service on learning which Mr. Billy Sanders remarked with a broad grin, you'll be the captain and I'll be the commissary. It was only met with Mr. Doyle to lay out a definite program that the true character of Mr. Sanders made itself apparent. Doyle had mapped out the whole route in the most careful manner and had reproduced it with the accuracy of an engineer or an architect. Mr. Sanders put on a spectacles, examined it patiently, and asked a number of questions which were glibly answered. Then, looking over his glasses at Mr. Doyle, he inquired, are you coming along with us to keep us on this track? Well, no, replied Mr. Doyle, somewhat taken aback. There's no necessity for that. In this conflutement, Mr. Sanders remarked, holding the tracing up and smiling, benevolently, ain't worse shucks. The paper so stiff and almerooly you can't even light your pipe with it. With that, he crumpled the document in his fist and dropped it in a wooden cup sador filled with sand and cigar stumps. Well, I'll be, said Mr. Doyle under his breath. Me too, me too exclaimed to Mr. Sanders cheerfully. I'm truly glad you said the word. It helps me more than it does you, I reckon. He paused and grew a trifle serious, though he still smiled. I'll tell you how it is, Colonel, he went on. If you were to come down Yong Wei, where I live at, and lay off to hunt wild turkeys, and I was to come and fetch you a map of the road you ought to follow, would it be the state and feelings of your sentiments? I'll allow the cases ain't the same, but you'd just as well try to map out the road a bird will follow when he gets on the wing. Every time he sees a hawker hears a gun he'll change his course. Bethune, who'd been somewhat vexed at the cavalier way in which Mr. Sanders had disposed of the map, saw it once that the reasoning was sound. Mr. Doyle seemed to see it too. At any rate, he assented to the proposition without argument, and after some further conversation in regard to the necessary funds of which he appeared to have an abundant supply, he took his leave. Later, when he saw Bethune alone, he took occasion to pay a passing tribute to the good sense of Mr. Billy Sanders. And it is a fact that, while Mr. Sanders would have been placed in the illiterate class by a census taker, he had a more real knowledge and native sagacity than one half the people we meet every day. Some such concession Mr. Doyle made to young Bethune. But Mr. Sanders insisted on having his suspicions of Mr. Doyle. It was in vain that Bethune pointed out how he had solicited the adventure. That's as may be, Mr. Sanders remarked. Albert Lamar don't know enough about him and tell us what he's up to, but don't fret. It'll pop up and fly out and when it does, I'll put my finger on it and let you tell it howdy. I ain't afraid of his capers anymore and if he was a hoss, but I want to know what's behind all this correspondent with the common enemy, as you may say. Mr. Doyle tried hard to find out by which route they proposed to reach Washington, but Mr. Sanders hadn't made up his mind and refused flatly to decide until after they had left Richmond. The reason I asked, Mr. Doyle explained, is because I have friends who could help you along and give you assistance at a pinch. This was reasonable enough, but it had no effect on Mr. Sanders, who remarked that there couldn't be two Congresses in the same town at the same time, and he informed Mr. Doyle that the Bethune Congress, Billy Sanders' doorkeeper, would hold its first session in another county. When everything was ready for their departure, Mr. Doyle was informed that they would leave the next morning between midnight and dawn. Shortly after supper, he sought them out and confided to their care a sealed document with instructions how and where to deliver it. Later Colonel Albert Lamar saw them, and when Bethune told him about the sealed document, he leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, and smoked a while in silence. Finally, he remarked, I have tried to get under the cover with Doyle, but I can't. He's a head clerk in one of the departments, but I can't find out where he came from nor how he got in. But he's in, and nobody seems to know anything about him. As soon as you're born there's something dead at the creek, Mr. Sanders declared. Well, on your way to Washington, go to New York, said Colonel Lamar, put up at the New York Hotel and make it a point about of the head waiter. Ask him when he comes to you if his name is McCarthy. Then when the opportunity offers, turn the document over to him. He'll know precisely what to do. Ha, ha, ha. The head waiter exclaimed to Bethune, laughing. Yes, you won't laugh at him when you come to know him. He's an Irishman. Hadn't we better bring the thing now and be done with it? Asked Mr. Sanders. No, replied the Colonel. If the paper's what I think it is, it won't hurt you to have it on you should you chance to be arrested. Now when Francis Bethune and Mr. Sanders were ready to retire, that is to say, when Mr. Billy Sanders was on the point of putting a red flannel cap over his head to keep the bald spot from catching cold, there came a gentle tap on the door, a tiny tap, as if someone had knocked with a pencil or a pipe-stem. As the two made no response but sat listening, the tap was repeated as gently as before. Whereupon Bethune opened the door and saw a big, overgrown boy standing there, smiling as though he were embarrassed. He seemed to be younger than Bethune by a year or two, and the freshness and innocence of a country life beamed on his handsome countenance and sparkled in his black eyes.  It read, Dear Bethune, the bearer of this is Mr. John Omohandro, a good friend of mine. He calls at my request, and you may depend on him as you would on me. Walk go with you, Albert R. Lamar. While Bethune was reading this short note, Omohandro, while waiting for an invitation, entered the room, closed the door behind him, and, after bowing to Mr. Billy Sanders, seated himself in a chair. He was evidently not fond of conventions and formalities. I saw the Colonel a little while ago, he said, after his name and the credentials had been given to Mr. Sanders, and he asked me to come up and have a talk with you. He says you're going into the North Country on account of some business of a man named Doyle. That is what Mr. Doyle thinks, replied Bethune. Oh, I see, remarked Omohandro. Well, that makes me feel better. I don't know what you're up to, and I don't want to know, but I think I know what this man Doyle is up to, and I'll have him run to ground long before you get back. I saw Colonel Lamar just now, and it says I. Colonel, who's going to leave this hotel between midnight and day? The Colonel laughed, and said it'd be so after a while that cold chills would run up and down his back every time he saw me. Who told you about it, says he. Nobody, says I, but I heard a man drop a mighty loud hint a while ago. It's a wonder you didn't hear the echo. I heard him tell the night clerk to wake him if the men in seventy-eight came down any time between midnight and day. He said there were friends of his, and he wanted to tell them goodbye. And then he took the clerk off to one side, and the two of them jabbered quite a wet together. That was our friend Doyle, says the Colonel. You've called the turn color and spot, says I.  Then come with me, he says. He went behind the counter and I followed along. He says to the clerk, Oscar is Doyle a particular friend of yours. Not as you may say particular, says Oscar. Well, says the Colonel, the men in seventy-eight are going away tonight on important business. They're not Doyle's friends, and there's no reason in the world why he should be roused out of bed when they come down. Oscar seemed to be stumped at this, and he looked as if he was trying to find some way out. So I put in, says I, if they come down before midnight you don't have to rouse your friend out, do you? His face cleared up at this, and he says, No, I don't, for I don't take charge of the desk till midnight. So there you are, oh Mahindra went on. Colonel Lamar has paid your bill. I'm going a piece of the way myself, and I have two extra horses for Jeb Stewart's use. If you say the word, I'll give you a lift as far as I'm going on horseback, and then I'll put you in touch with some of Mosby's men. But to go with me, you must start now. Mr. Billy Sanders sighed, turned, and looked at the bed on which he was sitting, and padded the mattress caressingly.  You'd better hug the pillow any house, they don't Mahindra laughing.  This, Mr. Sanders proceeded to do. He took the pillow in his arms and fondled it as a mother would fondle the baby to the great amusement of his companions. In 20 minutes the party had passed out of the hotel. On the sidewalk they met Colonel Lamar, bade him goodbye, went to a livery stable near at hand, and in a very short time they were leaving Richmond behind them as they journeyed toward the front. Two circumstances favored them. The weather was very cold for the time of year, so cold indeed that occasionally they dismounted and ran along by the side of their horses to keep their feet warm. And the concentration of federal and confederate troops was taking the shape that finally led to the battles of Chancellorsville and Fredericksburg. Their course was in a northwesterly direction after they left the city. Oh Mahindra departed with Bethune and Mr. Sanders after making an arrangement whereby they were enabled to purchase two horses which had seen considerable service. In fact the animals had been turned out to die, but a thrifty citizen had picked them up and attended to their wants so successfully that they showed no evidence of the hard times they had when they went with Stuart around McClellan's army. Bethune and Sanders made their way to Warrington, then to Thorefair Gap, and thence into what was known as Mosby's Confederacy. Then through Ashby's Gap to Berryville where they were fortunate enough to meet up with three men belonging to Captain McNeil's Rangers who had been south with a squad of prisoners. McNeil's company operated to some extent in Hampshire County, West Virginia, and it was to this county the three Scouts were bound. Now Mr. Billy Sanders had from the first insisted that they should make their way to New York by the Western route. He had a good reason for this. Some of the hearts who used to live in Kentucky had moved to Indiana and just previous to the war Mr. Sanders had made a visit to that state. He insisted that the Hoosiers talked just like the Georgians unless maybe they took a little more with their nose than we all do. His program was to go to Ohio, take an eastbound train and make it known to all who are willing to listen to him that he was going to Washington with his son, Bethune being the son, who had been ill treated by his superiors because he couldn't show the advance guard of the fourth Indiana had a wade through a forward on a creek in the state of Tennessee without drawing the fire of forests mounted infantry on the opposite bank while all the time the water was running like a mill sluice with both gates open. Yes, sirs and Mr. Hart, the same being Mr. Billy Sanders' middle name, was going right to Washington to lay the case before Abraham Lincoln, who had straightened out the tangle not only because he was a just man, but because the Hart family was as good as any family in NGNE or in contact for that matter. It was a very well considered program and it was based on the fact that Mr. Sanders had a secret admiration for Abraham Lincoln. He had read in the papers about the president's humble beginnings, how he studied his books by a light would not fire and how he had split rails for a livelihood at one period of his career.  He may be wrong in his IDs, but I'll bet you a trip to a ginger cake that his heart's in the right place. Being a plain blunt man, Mr. Sanders made no bones about giving out this sentiment. It was his boast, indeed, that he was ready to hand around his views in any company and those who didn't like him could lump him. Mr. Sanders' program to employ his own expression worked without a bubble. This was due mainly to the fact that the year 1863 opened with very gloomy promises for the union cause. The people of the North were not only gloomy, but indignant. Criticism of the administration was general and it was marked by a fury which no one but Mr. Lincoln would have been able to withstand. The cartoonists were especially fierce. One of the cartoons that caught the eye of Bethune as they were journeying by train to the East was the figure of indignant Columbia pointing scornfully at the president and advising him to go tell his jokes elsewhere than the White House. The periodical board January date, but someone had torn the page away and attacked it up in the smoking car where it had remained. The abolitionists had not been much modified by the Emancipation Proclamation claiming that it had been delayed too long to produce any favorable results on the course of the war. On the other hand, those who were fighting for the union itself without knowing or caring much about slavery either as a political or a moral question were not at all pleased with what seemed to be the surrender of Mr. Lincoln to an extreme faction and the slave owners in the border states were denouncing what they described as high-handed robbery. It should be said of Mr. Billy Sanders that his spirits rose perceptibly whenever there was danger to be faced or whenever there was trouble in the air. He walked into the office of the New York Hotel humming his favorite air of money musk. He had begun to call Bethune honey and it was all that the young man could do to keep his face straight when Mr. Sanders solemnly undertook to play the part of a fond father. On their first appearance at the hotel the clerk held them in partly a little longer than was necessary. The house was practically full he said and he had nothing but a very ordinary room on the third floor. If they would wait until after dinner perhaps he could accommodate them then. Mr. Sanders for his part said any kind of a room would suit him provided he didn't have to roost on a pole like a chicken or squat flat on the ground like a puddle duck. Still his son had been sleeping out nights in the war and he wanted the best of everything there was to be had not for himself mind you before his son. Then he turned to Bethune honey didn't you say Mack would stop him at this tavern. Yes replied Bethune. Well if we could see Mack we'd go like we was greased. Do you know Mack? He asked the clerk. There are so many Macs you know which Mac do you mean? A man named McCarthy. We were recommended to him replied Bethune at a venture. The clerk drummed carelessly on the counter while you could count 10. I know it doesn't McCarthy as he said but anyhow Mack or no Mack I'll assign you to a fairly comfortable room. It has been spoken for and you may have to exchange it for another. All right said Mr. Sanders.  Put our names down honey some guy might come along and see him and want to swap letters. So Bethune wrote William Hart Salem, Indiana and under it Francis M. Hart with ditto marks under the town and state. Be sure you got it right honey. I've been so shook up with the chires in the racket that if a man was to ask me right said what my name is I'm a fear I couldn't tell him. The clerk smiled patronizingly signaled a porter and the two travelers were assigned to a room on the third floor. The very one by the way in which Colonel Florinoy had his interview with Mr. Barnum of the Secret Service tell him to ring the bell good and hard when dinner's ready. Said Mr. Sanders to the porter will not keep him waiting. What primp and I got to do will be done in short order. Dinner will be ready in half an hour. Sir replied the porter smiling brightly. The dining room is on the floor below. He walked down the stairway and turned to the left. He went out closing the door gently. All right perked chap remarked Mr. Sanders then there came a quick firm tap on the inside door. Come right in said Mr. Sanders heartily. Following the invitation a tall man arrayed an evening dress stepped into the room. His face was smooth shaven. His iron gray hair combed away from his forehead gave a pleasing softness to features that would have otherwise been marked by sturdiness. Especially at this moment when they were a frown of irritation or perplexity. Nevertheless the countenance of the newcomer was both striking and attractive. Why howdy said Mr. Sanders if I had seen you somewhere as I'm out of much mistaken. Wait don't tell me.  Hold on. Did you ever so much as hear of a place called Shadydale? In what state for instance? Well in Nginjani for instance. The newcomer made no reply to the question but his countenance cleared up and a faint smile hovered about the corners of his mouth. I heard a room with the two gentlemen had been commended to a man named McCarthy. The head waiter of this hotel explained Bethune. The head waiter of this hotel assented the newcomer. I am the man. Well the Gallup and Jirushi exclaimed to Mr. Sanders.  Honey, he went on turning to Bethune.  Where was that? inquired Captain McCarthy. All in the state of Nginjani close to Salem, replied Mr. Sanders.  Good, cried the head waiter. And now who commended you to me? He inquired lowering his voice. Albert Lamar, replied Bethune. A fine man that, a fine man, exclaimed McCarthy. It required only a few words to explain the reasons for seeing the head waiter. Bethune gave him the dispatch which Mr. Doyle had entrusted to his care. This can wait until after dinner, said the head waiter. I'll join you here about three o'clock. I'm mighty glad to hear you mentioned dinner, remarked Mr. Sanders gratefully. It is ready now, said the other. Shall I have it sent to you? No, no, protested Mr. Sanders. I don't want to be pinned up with my vitals. When I'm hungry I'll want elbow room. Very well, sent to the head waiter somewhat dubiously. You'll have to be careful when this house is under suspicion. There are a number of sharp-eyed government detectives constantly coming and going. You are sure before dinner is over to fall into conversation with one or more of them. You'll have to watch your tongues. The smallest slip will be enough. Should I or the waiter who has charged every table change your glass of water? It will be a warning to be very guarded. Should the waiter inquire if you would like a dish of fried spring onions, you will know that someone within sound of your voice is very dangerous. You may come down when you're ready. Say Colonel, cried Mr. Sanders, as the head waiter was entering the adjoining room. I bought them engines. I'd like a mess on them whether the boogers catch us or not. Very well, sir, replied McCarthy gravely. On the other side of the door he paused, glanced at himself in the mirror and shook his head doubtfully. The lad is circumspect, but I'm afraid the old chap is a fool. In no long time they were in the dining room and the head waiter escorted them to the first table on the left of the entrance where they would be directly under his observation. It was with some difficulty that either Bethune or Mr. Sanders recognized in this obsequious suave and smiling head waiter the stern and stiff person with whom they had just had an interview. There was no other person at the table, but presently two others came in. One a thin young man with spectacles who had the air of a definitive student and the other a tall man with burn-side whiskers. Mr. Sanders was sitting at one end of the table next to the wall. Bethune was on his left and the definitive student was on his right. At the other end of the table set a small man with gray mustache and goatee. The head waiter came forward with his ready napkin, brushed off an imaginary crumb at Mr. Sanders' elbow, picked up the glass of water and substituted it for another glass that sat on the window ledge. Have you given your order, sir, he asked. I reckon I did, replied Mr. Sanders, but it's been so long ago it seems like a dream. Would you like a dish of fried onion, sir? They are very fresh and tender. Would I, exclaimed Mr. Sanders? Well, I'd thank you motley to try me. I ain't had a mess since I left the neighborhood of Salem. The man who had the appearance of a definitive student leaned back in his chair and balanced his fork on the forefinger of his left hand. Salem. Salem, he said. Pardon me, sir, but where is Salem? Well, if there ain't been no hurricane or earthquake, Salem is in the state of Indiana. Why, certainly. To be sure, what am I thinking about, sighed the stranger. Really, I couldn't tell, you replied, Mr. Sanders. The other smiled as he wiped his glasses. Well, I should have known about Salem for I went to college with a relative of mine from that town. In fact, I think I have a number of relatives in Salem. What's the name, inquired Mr. Sanders, in his matter-of-fact way? Webb. When did they move there? Three or four years ago, I think. Sam Webb was the chap you went to college with? Yes, the other assented. What Kim was you to him? Cousin, first cousin. At this, Mr. Sanders leaned back in his chair and laughed until he was red in the face. What's the joke, inquired the man who looked like a Divinity student? Well, if I ain't got all Granny Webb on the hooks, I don't want a cent, exclaimed to Mr. Sanders at the fresh burst of laughter. Here she's been telling me for long years that there ain't a rent in the Webb family on nary side for generations, and I no more get to town before this little first cousin runs under my hand, same as the tame rat. The hit was so palpable and so unexpected that even Bethune joined in the roar that came from the others around the table. The first cousin laughed too, but it was plain to see that he was more irritated than pleased. But don't you fret, my friend.  I was the Douglas man before the war, but after old Abe up and said he was for the union, nigger or no nigger, why then I was a Lincoln man. And yet, said the first cousin persuasively, they say there are good many Southern sympathizers around and about him places. I reckon that's so, said Mr. Sanders. My farm has been cleared a good many year, but hardly spring passes but what I have to kill a snake or two. Bethune noticed that a great change had come over the head waiter. He was fairly beaming on the guests as they came and went. In fact, he was radiant. His eyes sparkled and his whole manner showed that he was a well-pleased man. As for Bethune, he was astonished at the ease with which Mr. Sanders had handled a dangerous adversary. He had known that his companion possessed a courage that was absolutely invincible, but now Mr. Sanders was displaying a new and a rarer quality. The stranger made no more remarks but addressed himself to his dinner and hurried through it. As he was rising from the table, Mr. Sanders took his knife from his mouth to say, if you ever come out to sail and to visit your kin, lope out to my farm. It's about four miles out on what they call the Kandtucky Pike. I'll tell Granny Webb I see you, she'll be tickled to death. Why thank you, replied the stranger. I shall certainly call on you should I ever come to Indiana. So do Mr. Sanders rejoined, whereupon the spectacled man and his bewiskered companion retired. End of section seven. Section eight of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Josh Kibbe. The kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories by Joel Chandler Harris. The kidnapping of President Lincoln. Part two. Later in the afternoon, Captain McCarthy went to the room, occupied by Bethune and Mr. Sanders, and his first words were those of congratulation. He shook Mr. Sanders by the hand with great heartiness and regarded him with undisguised admiration. Do you know what you have done? He cried.  He is really an expert. He only comes here occasionally and he is a different looking man every time he comes. The first time I saw him, he had black hair, parted in the middle, and a beautiful mustache and eyeglasses. I always have a peculiar feeling when he comes into the house and this feeling is especially strong when he comes into the dining room. I believe if you were hid in a closet and I should chance to pass near it, I'd know he was there. I know him through all his changes and it is very fortunate that this is so. I invariably make it a point to let him know that I see through his disguises. You do? exclaimed Mr. Sanders' surprise in his voice. Yes, it is calculated. Either to make him nervous or to give him a certain confidence in me. I find it is always best to appear to be perfectly straightforward. As you were at dinner, added Captain McCarthy laughing. Why, I had quite a confidential chat with the man not half an hour ago. When he entered the dining room today, I met him at the threshold with, ah, good day, sir. I'm glad to see you again. It was a small thing to say but it disconcerted him. Otherwise he would have addressed himself to you, turning to Bethune, and the consequences might not have been as pleasant as they were. He would have irritated you, sir, and I see you have something of a temper. Bethune made a wry face. I wish there was some sort of patent medicine that would take it out of me, he declared. Time is the medicine for that. Time and experience, remarked Captain McCarthy. It ought to have been spanked out of you when you was a little chap, said Mr. Sanders. But so far as I know you never got but one lick and then you any good and that was when Nan failed you out. Bethune blushed like a schoolgirl for the incident wrinkled in his memory. The wounds our pride receives are longer in healing than those of the flesh. Captain McCarthy could see that the subject was not a pleasing one to the young man and so he did not press Mr. Sanders for the particulars but addressed himself to more important matters. First there was the dispatch that Mr. Doyle had entrusted to Bethune. Captain McCarthy invited the two travelers into another room, reaching it by means of a series of connecting rooms. Here they found three or four men busily engaged in writing at a long table. Only one looked up and he, with a hello cap, went on with his work. To this man, Captain McCarthy handed the dispatch, remarking, see what you can make of that. The document consisted of about a dozen lines. In this number of lines, there were a number of words marked up by parallel lines and other words crossed out. The clerk glanced at it and passed it to an older man with a remark, it looks all right to me. The elderly man took it and immediately began to swell, apparently with inward rage. Looks all right, does it? Why don't you learn a little since? We'll be ruined by you yet. Well, it's out of my line, get the SK code. Apparently still in a rage and with much muttering and growling, the elderly man went to a tall cabinet lined from top to bottom with pigeonholes. SK stood for scratch code and this he fished out from a number of others, a thin pamphlet containing a dozen or more pages printed on tissue-like paper. This queer pamphlet contained some information that was very interesting to Bethune and to Mr. Sanders as well. It assured its readers that a certain word scratched out with one horizontal line meant one thing, with two parallel lines another thing, and so on up to five parallel lines. Then cross-scratching and cross-hatching meant so many different things, according to the number of chrisses and crosses and scratches and hatches that the reader finally stood amazed at the fluency and versatility of the SK code. The upshot of it was that a document which appeared to be on the face of it, a very cordial introduction, was about as follows after the illumination of the SK code had been shed on it. The bearer of this is dangerous. Under pretext of bringing a woman from Washington, he proposes to kidnap the president. He has a pass from Lincoln, his companion harmless, will tell truth of pressed, take initiative, have both arrested and then tell secretary. This should help both of us. Let women be brought south by ought not rye. It was over the conclusion of this translation that the elderly clerk growled and snorted and finally gave it up. That's all I can get out of the code, he grumbled. The last scratch stands for a cipher, an ought or not. Could it be Autry, Walden Autry? Asked Bethune, turning to Sanders. Why, certain and sure. I heard some of the boys say that Waldron went over to the Yankees right after the war begun. All his mammy's folks live in Massachusetts.  Well, that chap was Madame Autry's Massachusetts nephew. Then that is the man, remarked Captain McCarthy with emphasis. For some reason or other, this man Doyle wants to get Autry south again, or he knows that Autry wants to go. Reflecting a moment, he turned to the elderly clerk. Mr. Crempton, that dispatch must be recopied and re-scratched so as to give a better account of these gentlemen.  Of course, such a thing was never contemplated. He paused and fixed an inquiring eye on Bethune. Well, Bethune began, but he paused. He seemed to be too busy copying the translation of the original dispatch to complete the remark. Why, of course not, exclaimed Captain McCarthy. The scheme is preposterous. That man Doyle is simply fiendish. Leaving Mr. Crempton, the elderly clerk growling and grumbling over his task, which was by no means an unusual one, Captain McCarthy accompanied young Bethune and Mr. Sanders to their room again, where they discussed the situation at some length. Mr. Autry became a new factor in the problem. Mr. Sanders and Bethune both knew him well, and he knew them. Until 1858, with the exception of two college years, he had lived all his life with his mother in Harmony Grove, and there was every reason to believe that he would recognize either one of his fellow townsmen the moment he laid eyes on him. What do you propose to do about it, Captain McCarthy inquired. He had been fully informed by this time of the plan to kidnap the president, but he did not repeat his assertion that it was preposterous. That was for the ears of his clerks. I'm going right ahead, replied Bethune. There's nothing else to do. Yes, sir, said Mr. Sanders. We'll go right ahead and brazen it out, and if you hear I've been strung up, I just strap a line to marry with a clock in Esquire that William H. Sanders, late have said country, deceased, being of sound mind and dispose of memory, has upped and kicked the bucket. Frank there has got a paper that'll take him through. If he didn't have, I wouldn't go step on him. Captain McCarthy leaned back in his chair and looked at Mr. Sanders with great interest. The steadiness of his gaze was tempered by a pleasant smile which lit his strong and handsome face. I intended to advise you not to carry out your original plan, but that is not necessary. I intended also to beg you by all means not to harm a hair of Mr. Lincoln's head, but that too is unnecessary. You will find that the President is a man after your own heart. Not every which way I reckon remarked Mr. Sanders making a right face. Yes, and always, except politics, replied McCarthy. He is the only man of them all who sees his way clear or who knows precisely what he wants to do.  If you get in any trouble, simply demand to be carried to Mr. Lincoln. I have more than one reason for giving you this advice. If Stanton's crowd gets you and are able to keep your case from Mr. Lincoln's ears, you will surely be hanged. A few hours afterward, Bethune and his companion had crossed the river to Jersey City and ran their way to Washington. The first man they saw as they entered the train was Waldron Autry. He was walking about by the side of the coach talking to someone. He had a light military cape hung across his arm and his tall figure and haughty bearing made him conspicuous in the multitude swarmed about the station. Undoubtedly, Mr. Autry saw the two Southerners. He paused in his promenade and looked them in the face, under pretense of transferring his cape from one arm to the other. But he made no sign of recognition nor did they. When the train was underway, Mr. Autry came back into the car. He spoke to one or two and then seated himself near Bethune and Mr. Sanders who occupied seats facing each other. After a while, a lady came in whereupon Autry promptly arose, hat in hand, and gave her his seat. May I sit by you, sir, he asked of Mr. Sanders. Why, to be sure, replied that worthy. But I'll have to tell you what the old woman told the feller and the stagecoach. You can scourge as much as you please, but I don't want no hunching.  Bethune was occupied in reading the Herald and seemed to be paying no attention to the newcomer. Finally, he put a down and glanced at Autry and caught his eye but saw no sign of recognition there. Indeed, Autry took the opportunity of the glance to borrow Bethune's copy of the Herald, which he read for some minutes with apparent interest. Presently, he said to Mr. Sanders in a low tone. Do you see the small man in the farther end of the car? The man with the eyeglasses? Well, he took dinner with you yesterday. He don't say, is that the chap? By how in the world do you know, inquired Mr. Sanders. I was the big fellow with side whiskers. He had a good deal of fun out of me yesterday and now I want to turn the joke on him. I'm going to move my seat in a moment and presently he'll be back here. If you catch his eye, speak to him and let him see that you know him, but don't expose him. Talk to him in a confidential way. You know what I mean. Don't make an enemy of him. Another thing, when you get off the train in Washington, follow me, I have something to say to both of you. All this time Mr. Autry pretended to be reading the paper and his voice was so low that Bethune, sitting four feet away, could only catch a few words. He was very curious, but Mr. Sanders had no opportunity to appease his curiosity for his Autry joined the group at the rear end of the car. Some were standing while others were sitting on the arms of the seats. A small man detached himself from the group and walked down the aisle. He glanced casually at Mr. Sanders and would have passed on, but the man who was so well acquainted with the web family of Salem and Gianni wouldn't permit it. He seized the detective by the hand and shook it. Why don't you tell me he was coming down, he inquired. Then as if making a sudden discovery, he lowered his voice. Why, what's the matter? Why, six alive men, what have you been doing to yourself? I beg your pardon, sir, said the other with some asperity. You have the advantage of me. I have missed a good deal, no doubt, but I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. Mr. Sanders drew himself up and swelled out as if he were about to make some loud exclamation. Then he suddenly caught himself and subsided. Oh, that's the game is it. Oh, why didn't you sort of give me a hint like yesterday? No, Vince, none given, none took. If you ever come out to Salem, come right out to the farm. Walden Autry had followed the detective down the aisle, passed him as he stood talking to Mr. Sanders, and now stood waiting for him out of earshot. Who's your friend, Autry, asked, nonchalantly, as his companion came up to him. Oh, I see, it's the old duck we saw at the hotel yesterday. He knew me, did he know you? He certainly did, replied the detective. What's wrong with me? How did the old blunderbuss know me? Am I losing my grip? Well, I know, not the least in the world, said Autry soothingly. The old man has simply eschewed a countryman with horse-sense. Did you ever try to deceive Mr. Lincoln with your disguises? Well, just try it, and you'll find you can't do it. You can fool Stanton, but Mr. Lincoln will see through you with one eye shut. Anyhow, I'm going to hang on to this old man and his son for an hour or so after we get to Washington. I may be able to pick up some information. When the train rolled into the station at the capital, Olden Autry managed to be near Bethune and Mr. Sanders, and he insisted that they should go with him. They hesitated. They had not the least confidence in him, but he knew them. He could have them imprisoned by a word or a gesture, and once a mirrored, their lives would be in danger, for Bethune had made up his mind, in case of arrest, to destroy Mr. Lincoln's pass and take his chances with the man who is so cheerfully risking his life as a result of one of Bethune's mad cap whims. They had small choice, therefore, in fact none at all, and all the hesitation they betrayed manifested itself in Mr. Sanders' good-natured protest. We don't want to pester you, we don't want to be in the way. You just show us a good place to eat and sleep, and we'll be mighty much obliged to you. But no, Mr. Autry would not have it so. He insisted, and they gave a ready if not a cheerful assent. He was stopping at a hotel, and he put himself to a little trouble to secure them a room next to the one occupied by himself. In short, he was fertile in all those little attentions which do not look important but which add so much to the comfort of those who are the objects of them. They had a late but a very good dinner. Mr. Autry wanted to order wine, knowing the character and extent of Mr. Sanders' chief weakness, but they positively refused. Mr. Sanders, indeed, made no bones of explaining why he wouldn't touch the stuff. It's a little stronger in water and not quite as strong as drum, but it flies to my tongue, and no sooner does it do that than I begin to make a speech about my family fair as good and bad, and folks say that I'm ever bitten grain as proud of the black spots as I am of the widens. So for the time being, Mr. Sanders was a teetotaler, much to Mr. Autry's disgust, for that gentleman had fully made up his mind to get into the confidence of his former fellow townsmen, and if he could advance his own ins by doing so, to turn them over to Mr. Stanton's spies. But he saw it once that Mr. Sanders' unexpected fit of temperance stood mightily in the way. Under the circumstances, he thought it would be best to go about the business in a straightforward manner. It was just possible, he thought, that Bethune and Mr. Sanders, being in the enemy's country, surrounded by all sorts of dangers, had be set by fears, real or imaginary, would turn for advice to an older acquaintance, a man who had been born and raised in the same community. Mr. Autry had long been what is called a man of the world. He had traveled abroad, he had seen life in all its various manifestations, and under social forms widely different, and he considered himself, not without reason, to be a pretty good judge of human nature. The trouble in this case was that he underrated the intellectual resources of Mr. Sanders. He made the mistake that so many sensible men make, namely, that a person who is practically illiterate with respect to textbooks and to the kind of education furnished in the schools, must necessarily be deficient in all those qualities that are said to be the result of learning. Therefore Mr. Autry started out with a contempt for Bethune as a cub, and for Mr. Sanders as an ignoramus. Bethune was indeed young in years, and inexperienced, but he was wise enough to submit to the initiative of an older head, and Mr. Sanders was ignorant of Greek and Latin, algebra, rhetoric and the like, but he was very familiar with the Bible and his judgment of men, as well as horses and dogs, was all but infallible. He had known Waldron Autry a long time, and knew that he had no fixed principles of any kind whatsoever. Consequently, Mr. Sanders was prepared for any move that might be made. The very first trial of wits between the old Georgia cracker and the man of the world should have been sufficient to convince Autry that he had no ordinary man to deal with, but he never even suspected that the occurrence was other than an awkward accident. It happened in this way. When darkness had fallen and the lights had been lit, the three sat for a while in Mr. Autry's room, talking about the home folk. Suddenly, the latter suggested that they adjourn to the next room, which had been assigned to Bethune and Mr. Sanders. Walzeviers, you know, remarked Autry, and we don't know who may be in the room adjoining. Mr. Sanders noticed that there was no connecting door between Mr. Autry's apartment and the one he desired to avoid, whereas there was a door between Autry's room and the one he had secured for them, and the transom was wide open. There was nothing to do but to act on the suggestion that had been made, but as Autry turned out his light, Mr. Sanders laid his pocketknife softly on the table. It was a big knife with a horn handle. Once in their own room, Bethune and Mr. Sanders became the hosts, and Mr. Sanders became unusually talkative. He wanted to know, particularly, what Waldron Autry was doing in this snack of the woods, as he phrased it. How was he getting on? You know, Waldron, the folks at home will be mighty glad to hear news about you, Mr. Sanders declared. Autry laughed bitterly. Oh, I daresay, he replied, they'd show their fondness for me if I went back there now. They would. They certainly would, replied Mr. Sanders solemnly. I'd go back this minute if I could, said Autry, in a low tone. Why can't you, asked Mr. Sanders? If you think that me and Frank are going back there and tell everything we've seen and heard, you're mighty much mistaken. We don't all you know grudge, and as for me, I always make allowances from men under forty. Now, tell me about yourselves, urged Autry, raising his voice. What under the sun has brought you to, of all men in the world, to Washington?  Mr.  Suddenly he arose to his feet with an exclamation. Be jigg'd if I ain't lost my knife. Now I wouldn't take a purdy for that knife. He searched in all his pockets, frowning and grumbling. Then his countenance cleared up. I know where it is. I'd left it on the table in the next room. He was moving toward the door, but Waldron Autry was quicker. I'll get it for you, he said. Don't let me trouble you, insisted Mr. Sanders. I can put my hand right on it. He made as if to follow Autry, but as the latter hurried into the room, Mr. Sanders made two strides to the door leading into the hall, opened it softly, and it was just in time to see a well-dressed man slip from Autry's apartment, close the door behind him, and take the attitude of a listener. Hello, exclaimed Mr. Sanders, how long you been knocking there? Some time, replied the man, trying to conceal a surprise. Well, I thought I heard a knock and remarked Mr. Sanders, but when I get to talk it my tongue runs like a flutter mill. Waldron, there's a gentleman at your door. He says he's been knocking there for the longest, and I shouldn't wonder. Autry went to the door, and he and the newcomer greeted each other effusively. It was, when did you get here, and you must be terribly busy not to hear a fellow hammering on the door, and you'll have to excuse me, I was talking to some old friends I haven't seen before in years. While this was going on, Mr. Sanders was shaking with silent laughter, but he was the picture of childlike innocence when Waldron Autry returned to his chair, after dismissing his casual guest. Hehehe, you forgot my knife, I reckon, said Mr. Sanders laughing, but if I hadn't pestered you, we'd never heard the chap knocking. Friend of yours? Well, why don't you fetch him in? Any of your friends is more than welcome. You were about to tell me something of the business that brought you here, suggested Mr. Autry. Yes, I was, said Mr. Sanders, and with that he related, in a way more or less graphic, the circumstances that had caused Francis Bethune to resign his commission, and that finally brought him to Washington. Mr. Autry asked to see the pass, and when he had examined it, he said it was as good as gold. But where's your pass, he asked Mr. Sanders. My pass, replied Mr. Sanders, is like the gauze fortune. For the first time, Mr. Autry indulged in laughter, and it was so becoming to him that Mr. Sanders remarked it and said, you ought to laugh a heap more than you do, Waldron, it makes you look like you was a boy again. Now, about the letter or dispatch. Can you lay your hands on it, said Autry? Francis Bethune drew forth a package of letters and papers, and proceeded to search for the dispatch. Among the papers was half of a daguerreotype case, which contained the picture of a lady. The tones of the picture had been somewhat subdued by time, but this added to the soft beauty of the face. It was the picture of Miss Puyola Gillum. The gentle eyes had an appealing glance in them, and there was just the suspicion of a smile playing around the mouth. The picture had slipped from the papers, and lay under the light, face up. Mr. Autry saw it. Ah, your sweetheart? Oh, no, replied Bethune, not my sweetheart, but the best friend I ever had in the world. Mr. Autry took the picture in his hand, looked at it, and drew a long breath. Puyola Gillum, he said softly. Yes, remarked Mr. Sanders in his matter-of-fact way. She's still awaiting for you, Waldron, for me? That's what we all think. Oh, no, no, you are mistaken. The man good enough for her has never been born. She's the only woman that could have made me different from what I am. Why, didn't you let her try her hand, Mr. Sanders inquired? If ever a man tried to marry a woman, I tried to marry her, replied Autry. There was a touch of boyish frankness in his voice. Well, you was a pretty wild cult, and I'm afraid you ain't broke to harness yet. All this time, Mr. Autry had never lifted his eyes from the picture.  Instead of the sneer that usually hovered around his mouth, there was a whimsical, half-petulent expression, as when a boy has a grievance of some kind. Bethune found the dispatch, and now laid it before him. Autry took the picture in one hand and the paper in the other, and held them up side by side, then threw his head back and smiled brightly. Here is the angel, said he, holding the picture higher, and here is the serpent. If the angel could talk, it would approve what I am now going to do. He struck a match and held the dispatch in the flame. The paper burned, with some difficulty being thick and heavy, but Mr. Autry persisted until the last vestige had been reduced to ashes. If you had presented that dispatch to the man to whom it is addressed, he said to Bethune, you would never have seen your home and friends again. You don't know what a devil Doyle is. He paused and looked at Mr. Sanders with a peculiar smile. And I am worse, a hundred times worse. Doyle and I are trying to make a record in the Secret Service, Autry continued, and we seized on the opportunity offered by Mr. Lincoln's desire to get a dangerous woman off his hands. But for the President, the woman would be in the old capital prison at this moment, but he heard of her arrest and sent for her. He desired to send her south under the escort of an officer, but the woman declared that she wouldn't trust herself to the care of any enemy of her country. Mrs. Lincoln, who is a Southern woman, understood the situation from that standpoint and sympathized with the demand. Yes, demand. You wouldn't think a woman who was in prison a few weeks ago with evidence enough against her to send her to the gallows would be bold enough to make demands, but that is just what has happened. Well, there ain't no accountant for the women, remarked Mr. Sanders. Do you know who this woman is, inquired Autry turning to Bethune? I have not the slightest idea, was the reply. Up here she calls herself Estelle Brandon, but at home she is known as Mrs. Elise Klopton. My aunt cried Bethune, the blood rushing to his face. The same said Autry with a smile. Well, if you had to give me three guesses, I'd have called her name, exclaimed Mr. Sanders. It's most like no one folks hand writing. I'll tell you, it's a solemn truth, Waldron, Mr. Sanders went on gravely.  I don't reckon I ought to talk that away, but it's the naked truth. I've got a right to say it too, because I'd knock down and drag out anybody else that said it outside the family. Fool she is, I might have found Elise. Bethune made it grimace. I don't like her much, but I'm glad I came. I hope her experience will take some of the silly romance out of her head.  I bet you right now she thinks she's done wonders, remarked Mr. Sanders. That's true, said Mr. Autry, laughing. She thinks she is quite a heroine. All of a sudden his manner changed. Come, we've been here too long. They're expecting me to carry you to headquarters, and some of the boys will come here pretty soon to see what's the matter. We have no time to waste. I'll take you to Mr. Lincoln at once. After that, you'll be safe. He hustled around with a great display of energy and seemed to be really anxious and uneasy. Mr. Sanders, who had developed a copious supply of what he called good healthy suspicion, put several questions to Mr. Autry. The latter finally handed Mr. Sanders a loaded pistol.  All right, Waldron, so be it. I'll do as you say, Mr. Sanders remarked in a tone of relief. Autry ordered a carriage, and in a very few minutes, they were on their way to the White House. The hour was not late, and when they arrived, there was considerable bustle about the doors. Congressman were coming and going, and to big bugs, as Mr. Sanders expressed it, of various degrees of importance were moving to and fro. There seemed to be some difficulty about seeing Mr. Lincoln, but Autry would not be denied. He was as pompous and as imperious in his demand to be shown into Mr. Lincoln's office as any member of the cabinet could have been. He sent a card in and followed the messenger to the very door. He had written on the card, in regard to the branding case, and presently someone came out and conducted the three through a side door into the private room to which Mr. Lincoln retired when he was troubled or had a fit of melancholy that somehow went hand in hand with him until his unfortunate taking off. A fire was burning on the hearth, and the three callers sat in silence while waiting for Mr. Lincoln to make his appearance. They waited a long time, as it seemed to Bethune and Mr. Sanders, and even when the door opened and a tall man with towsled black hair came into the room. He was followed by a thick-set, quick-spoken person whose features were almost entirely concealed by a heavy beard and spectacles with wide glasses. But Mr. President said this person with the show of indignation, you will ruin the discipline of the army if you go on reprieving deserters. Why, this case is a most flagrant one. Oh yes, I know all about that, but he's a mere lad. Why, he's not more than twenty-two. He got tired and hungry and homesick. Why, when his mother came in this morning and told me the facts, I didn't let her finish. I said, hold on, madam, you've said enough. I know all about the case. I've been in your sudden shoes a hundred times. But Mr. President, interposed the other, but Mr. Secretary interrupted the President. You forget that every soldier in the Union Army is a free-born American citizen. We can't afford to hang American citizens because they get homesick and heart-heavy. You remind me of a fellow I once heard of in Kentucky. But before the President could point the moral with a story, Mr. Secretary had whipped indignantly out of the room, slamming the door behind him with no show of respect whatever. The three visitors had arisen from their chairs when Mr. Lincoln entered the room, and at least two of them regarded him with interest and curiosity as he came slouching toward them with a chuckle. These gentlemen, Mr. President, have come in regard to the branding case, said Mr. Autry, introducing the two Georgians. You forwarded a pass through me, if you remember. Mr. Bethune accepted the commission, and Mr. Sanders, well, Mr. President, I just came on my own hook as the little boy said about the cow in the garden. Mr. Sanders hastened to say, take seats, all of you, remarked to Mr. Lincoln cordially. Then he turned to Mr. Sanders. What about the little boy in the cow? Why, one Sunday, a little boy was set to mind a gap in the garden fence. A panel had blown down in the night, and it couldn't be mended on account of Sunday. So the little boy was set to mind it. When the folks got home from church, the cow was in the garden and the little boy was setting on the doorstep sniffling. His mammy says, why, honey, what in the world does the matter? The garden is ruined. How did the cow get in?  I see, says his daddy. She got in on her own hook. The daddy had thought he got off a good joke, but nobody seeded the two pints, and this made him so mad that he went in the house and loaded his gun with a piece of fat bacon and fired it right at the cow's hand quarters. She curled her tail and run off smoking. They say you could smell fried meat in the neighborhood for the longest. Mr. Lincoln clasped his hands behind his head and laughed a hearty, contented laugh. Mr. Autry regarded Mr. Sanders with a puzzled expression. Did you see the joke at two points, he asked? Why, certain and sure, responded Mr. Sanders with a lacquery. You see cows may be with no horns, but you'd never see one made like a rhinoceros. At this, Mr. Lincoln laughed unrestrainably. Whatever reserved the shadow of care and trouble had cast over him when he entered the room, had been driven entirely away, and his visitors had a very close and intimate view of the real Lincoln, the man of the people. And last, when it seemed time for them to go, Mr. Autry remarked, the reason I took the liberty of bringing these gentlemen here was that some of Mr. Stanton's men were preparing to arrest them. You did exactly right, said Mr. Lincoln emphatically. I'm willing for Stanton to have his fingers on all the pies, if you'll let me break the crust in places. While at the pace he's going, he'll soon have the whole thing in his own hands, remarked Mr. Autry. The whole thing, as you called, replied Mr. Lincoln, leveling a searching glance at the young man, couldn't be in better hands. I'm told every day that Mr. Stanton has small respect for the president, and I reckon that's so, but the president is willing to rock along on a small allowance of respect when he's getting a steady supply of the kind of work Stanton is doing day and night. That's so, remarked Mr. Stanton judiciously, was Mr. Stanton the man that followed you in here? Receiving an affirmative answer, Mr. Stanton went on. I allowed so from his walk and talk, but the way you played with him put me in mind of the feller and his trained dog. How was that, asked Mr. Lincoln, leaning back in his chair and twisting his long legs together in most curious fashion. Every trace of fatigue and worry had vanished from his face. Well, it was like this.  He was good for foxes, good for minks, good for rabbits, good for coons, and especially for possums. Naturally, the feller was constant a bragging on the dog. Well, one day the feller had company at his house. The dog was lying in a corner of the fireplace and presently the feller got to bragging on him. He said the dog was both trained and domesticated. That dog he says to his company will do anything in the world I tell him to do. The company sordid doubted about it and the feller ups and says, Rover, get up from there and go out of here. Rover, hearing his name, hit the floor a lick or two with his tail and draped off to sleep again. The feller hollered a little louder. Rover, don't you hear? Get up from there and go out of here. Rover got up, looked at the feller like he thought he was crazy and sneaked under the bed. Well, the company laughed considerable, but the feller stuck to his statements. Says he, there's a mighty good understanding between me and Rover. He knows when I'm playing and besides, he's a plum hurricane when it comes to running coops up a tree. Mr. Lincoln laughed and looked at Mr. Sanders with a quizzical expression. Just then, there came a wrap on the door. The president arose, made two long strides across the room and threw the door open. Mr. President, I heard something a while ago and I think you should be told about it. Said the newcomer excitedly. Well, what is it?  Did you hear him say it? Mr. Lincoln asked. Yes, Mr. President, I heard with my own ears. Well, if Stanton said that, I reckon there must be something in it. He usually knows what he's talking about. I thought you had some news for me. Good heavens, Mr. President, exclaimed the person at the door. Yes, said Mr. Lincoln solemnly. Good heavens and good night. Bethune sat with clenched hands. He could hardly believe what he had heard. He was dazed. He drew a long breath, arose from his chair, and took a quick turn around the room. Mr. Lincoln observed the young man's excitement. He paused before he seated himself and turned to Bethune with a smile that did not drive away the expression of sadness which had returned to his face. What would happen if one of Mr. Davis's advisors should make a similar statement? He asked. Bethune replied with gleaming eyes. Mr. President, the man who heard the remark would knock the scandal down and afterward call him out. I reckon that so. Mr. Davis has more close friends than I have, remarked to Mr. Lincoln with a sigh. He seated himself and closed his eyes. It ain't so much being friends, said Mr. Sanders somewhat cheerfully, though in his honest Georgia heart he deeply pitied the President and understood why he was lonely and sometimes melancholy. It ain't so much being friends. It's because we're all in high houses down yon from daybreak till bedtime. Well, I wish Mr. Lincoln paused and looked in the fire. Mr. Sanders seized the remark and finished it. You wish I'm gonna get on a high horse for you? Well, sir, if at any time I'm around and any of your fellas begin for you to give you too much lip, just turn around to me and say, friend Sanders, what do you think of the state of the country and the craps in general? You say them words, Mr. President, and if I don't make the fellas say his prayers to you, you may call me a humbug. Down our way they say you're Yankee, but if that's so, the woods is full of Yankees in Georgia, all born and raised right there. Mr. Lincoln laughed with real enjoyment. Ha, ha, ha, ha. You're paying me the highest compliment I have had in many a day, he said, but we can't sit here pilavering all night. He tapped a bell and a messenger appeared. See if the ladies have gone to bed. Word soon came back that the ladies were taking a light refreshment and would the President join them? I want you gentlemen to see what sort of a job you have undertaken, Mr. Lincoln remarked dryly. I can manage a mule or a steer pretty well, but not a willful woman. Amen, exclaimed Mr. Sanders with unction. The President led the way followed by Bethune and Mr. Sanders, Mr. Autrey saying he would wait for their return. Before they reached the room where the ladies were, the laughter and chatter of Elise clopped and could be heard. She was in high glee. Francis Bethune never knew until that hour why he disliked his aunt. It was the uncertainty and absurdity of her temperament. One moment she was taking herself more seriously than a heroine of romance. The next she had plunged head foremost into, well, into inconsequence. She was as truly herself here, practically a prisoner, as if she had been at once queen and housemaid. She had met Bethune's uncle by accident while he was passing through Washington on his way to Harvard. She herself was on her way to a young lady school in Baltimore. Neither one of them got any farther. The result of half an hour's conversation while waiting for the train to leave was an elopement. In a year or two her husband was dead, but her bereavement had not sobered Elise. At 35, she was still as beautiful and as lacking in judgment as when a miss of 16. When Bethune and Mr. Sanders were ushered into the room, Elise clapped her hands together as the subretz do on the stage, gave a smothered scream, supposed to represent joy, and fell upon Francis Bethune and kissed him until he wished himself well out of the uncomfortable position. Francis, she cried, allow me to present you to my dear, dear friend, Mrs. Lincoln. My nephew, Mrs. Lincoln, and here her is Mr. Sanders, a whole you dear good man. You make me feel quite at home. Mrs. Lincoln, this is my dear old friend, Mr. Sanders. Are both of you prisoners too? Oh, isn't it glorious to suffer for one's country? Bethune looked at Mr. Lincoln. The president was standing with his hands clasped behind him. He was not smiling, but there was a comical expression on his face. Mrs. Lincoln was laughing unrestrainedly and it was very evident to Bethune that the lady of the White House had found Elise clopped him sufficiently amusing. His irritation was such that he could scarcely refrain from showing it in words. Youngster, as he was, it seemed to him that the whole South was here on exhibition in the person of his frivolous aunt. He was on the point of seeing something regrettable when Mr. Sanders stepped in as it were. You don't look like you've been suffering for your country much. Appearances as mighty deceiving if you ain't been having three square meals a day, fried meat and biscuit and hot coffee for breakfast, collards and dumplings and buttermilk for dinner, and ash cake and molasses for supper. You see how the men mistake us, protested Elise, turning to Mrs. Lincoln. Our keenest anguish is mental, but the men never think they are suffering unless they are in physical pain, and the men think the women are too timid to take any risks. Look at me, Mr. Sanders. I see you, Elise, said Mr. Sanders, so dryly that Mrs. Lincoln burst out laughing. Don't mind him, dear friend. He always was comical, and then there was your grandmother, Mr. Sanders, Nancy Hart. Didn't she suffer for her country? She stated, oh, man, hit the tories of liquid when they pestered her, two for one, maybe, but she didn't complain of no suffering so far as I know. The suffering was all with them that pestered her. Anyhow, we've come to take you home, and when we get there, I'm going to build a pen to keep you in. Goodness knows I don't want to be running my head and no more hornet's nest. Why, you don't call this a hornet's nest, I hope, said Mrs. Lincoln, smiling. By no matter of means, mom, replied Mr. Sanders with a bow, this is the only homelock place I've struck since I left Shadydale, but I hear you're a southerner, and Mr. Lincoln is a Georgie all over, and that accounts for it. If we weren't here, where'd we be? Well, we'll go back now and talk about Georgia, said Mr. Lincoln. Tomorrow or the next day we'll arrange about the lady's journey home. Yes, I am willing to go now, said Elise dramatically. I have performed my duty. I've risked my life for my native Southland. If you only knew what a close call it was, you'd doubtless be proud or still, I reckon, remarked Mr. Lincoln with a smile. With that, Bethune and Mr. Sanders obeyed the lady's good night and followed the president to his private office, where Waldron Autry awaited them. They were for returning to the hotel at once, as the hour was growing late, but Mr. Lincoln would not hear to it unless they were willing to admit that they were tired of his company. There were nights, he said, when sleep fitted away from his neighborhood and refused to be coaxed back, and this, he thought, would prove to be one of those nights. First, he wrote out a new certificate for Francis Bethune, as well as a document to ensure the safety of Mr. Sanders, and then he began to talk about Georgia sure enough, addressing his conversation mainly to Mr. Sanders, whose comments he appeared thoroughly to enjoy. He asked about the people, their views and hopes. Once he declared that if the people of the South knew his intentions and desires as well as he did himself, he believed they would put an end to the war and come back into the Union. But what about the politicians, calmly inquired Mr. Sanders? That's a fact, exclaimed Mr. Lincoln. The politicians and the editors. We have him here, too. Oh, I was just telling you of a dream, I once had. And then again, you're an abolitionist, Mr. President, said Mr. Sanders. Well, that matter has been settled so far as I can settle it, but up to a few months ago, that question was a mere matter of moonshine compared to the Union. I said as much to Horace Greeley, and he and his friends had a good many duckfits about it. All the government doors have big keyholes except stantons. Well, abolitionism was a great question, but it was small compared with the preservation of the Union. All other political questions are small by the side of that. They talked until some time after midnight with occasional interruptions from messengers connected with the War Department or with some of the committees of Congress. Once Mr. Lincoln, after receiving a telegram, held it open in his hand and was silent a long time.  It has got so now, he said, breaking the silence, that I can tell by the rumble of the wheels, whether the man in the carriage is fetching good news or bad. The President made no remark about the contents of the telegram, but he fell into such a state of abstraction that Bethune nodded to the others, and simultaneously they all arose and bade him good night. He no longer urged them to stay, but asked them to return earlier the next day, saying that he wanted to have a good long talk with friend Sanders. End of section eight.