"Well, sir," he said at last. "Do you prefer my kitchen to my dining-room,
sir?"

"No, Mr. Beecham, I don't," answered Tom. "But in these clothes, wet to the
skin, it would be an intrusion to go farther than the kitchen."

It was an answer that Mr. Beecham appreciated. Tom was glad that the last
evidences of the stolen bacon sandwiches had disappeared down his throat.
He stood waiting for Mr. Beecham to speak--and wondering if he was to be
invited for breakfast.

"Will you come with me, please?" asked Mr. Beecham. They passed through a
corridor, and into the big entrance hall, where logs were blazing In a
fireplace. "In these days," continued Mr. Beecham, "it is customary to ask
people who they are. You understand, I trust."

"Certainly, sir," said Tom. "My name is Thomas Burns, and I'm from Fleming
County, Kentucky. I'm on my way to Atlanta to enlist." He had been bracing
himself for the past minute to tell that story, and it came smoothly,
convincingly. For a moment after it was out, he hated himself.

Mr. Beecham pursed his lips and nodded. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Will
you be my guest at breakfast, sir?"

"Thank you, sir," Tom replied. "But in these clothes...."

"I daresay we will be able to find other clothes for you. If you will come
with me?"