"We ought to pass them tonight," Tom added. "Have we any way of identifying
ourselves?"

"No," replied Wilson. "We'd better try to avoid them."

"What I hope," remarked Shadrack, with a chuckle, "is that our pickets are
sleepy--dreaming of a nice warm fire at home, instead of keeping on the
alert. Whew! what a storm!"

The steady pelting of the rain made conversation impossible. The road was
becoming a slippery gumbo into which their feet sank deeply, and they put
all their strength into the laborious task of walking. Finally, after an
hour, they stopped to rest.

"I don't think we've gone more than two miles," said Tom.

"The railroad track runs along here to the left some place," Wilson
remarked. "If we could reach it, we'd find better walking."

"You'll have to swim to get there," muttered Shadrack. "Those fields will
be mud up to our necks."

"Be quiet!" Tom whispered. "Someone's coming."

"Probably some of our own men," said Wilson.

They stood silently as two men passed them on the road. It was impossible
to see them in the darkness, but they caught a broken sentence, "...find a
barn ... too much mud...."