'Sal!' called out the hotel-keeper.

'Yas, massa, I'se har,' was the answer from a slatternly woman, awfully
black in the face, who soon thrust her head from the door.

'Is Andy Jones har?' asked Miles.

'Yas, massa, he'm turned in up thar on de table.'

We followed the landlord into the apartment. It was the dining-room of
the hotel, and by the dim light which came from a smoky fire on the
hearth, I saw it contained about a hundred people, who, wrapped in
blankets, bed-quilts and traveling-shawls, and disposed in all
conceivable attitudes, were scattered about on the hard floor and
tables, sleeping soundly. The room was a long, low apartment--extending
across the whole front of the house--and had a wretched, squalid look.
The fire, which was tended by the negro-woman, (she had spread a blanket
on the floor, and was keeping a drowsy watch over it for the night,) had
been recently replenished with green wood, and was throwing out thick
volumes of black smoke, which, mixing with the effluvia from the lungs
of a hundred sleepers made up an atmosphere next to impossible to
breathe. Not a window was open, and not an aperture for ventilation
could be seen!

Carefully avoiding the arms and legs of the recumbent chivalry, we
picked our way, guided by the negro-girl, to the corner of the room
where the Unionist was sleeping. Shaking him briskly by the shoulder,
the Colonel called out: 'Andy! Andy! wake up!'

'What--what the d----l is the matter?' stammered out the sleeper,