swinging on his big oar in answer to the ferryman's cries of "Ho!" "Now!",
saw the other bank creeping nearer. At last they cleared the full flood of
the stream. On the other shore, Sam stood open-mouthed, watching them.

[Illustration: The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of
the river.]

It was eight o'clock that evening when Tom, soaked to the skin again, cold,
hungry, and tired, tramped into the little town of Chattanooga. A few lamps
shone through the windows into the deserted street, making dull splotches
of yellow in the mist. Three or four people passed him, hurrying to be out
of the storm.

He stopped one man and asked: "Where can I find a hotel?" Then he gasped as
the man straightened and threw back the coat he had thrown over his head
and shoulders: it was a Confederate soldier!

"That's about as good as any place," answered the Confederate, pointing
across the street. "Where you see the two lights burning."

"Thank you."

"Welcome." He pulled the coat about his face again and disappeared into the
storm.

Tom crossed the street to spend his first night behind the Confederate
lines.