So the night passed on, as George clung to the railing of the platform, while the train rumbled along in the darkness to the Southward. The conductor did not appear again; he had evidently forgotten all about the boy. At last, when Waggie and his master were both feeling cold, and hungry, and forlorn, there came a welcome cry from the brakeman: "Marietta! All out for Marietta!" In a short time the passengers for Marietta had left the train. Watson, Jenks and Macgreggor were soon in a little hotel near the station, which was to be the rendezvous for Andrews and his party. As they entered the office of the hostelry all their enthusiasm for the coming escapade seemed to have vanished. The mysterious disappearance of George had dampened their ardor; they feared to think where he could be, or what might have become of him. The office was brilliantly lighted in spite of the lateness of the hour. In it were lounging eight or nine men. The pulses of the three newcomers beat the quicker as they recognized in them members of the proposed bridge-burning expedition. Among them was Andrews. "Yes," he was saying, in a perfectly natural manner, to the hotel clerk, who stood behind a desk; "we Kentuckians must push on early tomorrow morning. The South has need of all the men she can muster." "That's true," answered the clerk; "Abe Lincoln and Jefferson Davis have both found out by this time that this war won't be any child's play. It'll last a couple of years yet, or my name's not Dan Sanderson." Macgreggor and Jenks walked up to the register on the desk, without showing any sign of recognition, and put down their names respectively as "Henry Fielding, Memphis, Tennessee," and "Major Thomas Brown, Chattanooga." The latter, it will be remembered, wore a Confederate uniform. Watson wrote his real name, in a bold, round hand, and added: "Fleming County, Kentucky." Then he turned towards Andrews. "Well, stranger," he said, "did I hear you say you were from Kentucky? I'm a Kentuckian myself. What's your county?" He extended his right hand and greeted Andrews with the air of a man who would like to cultivate a new acquaintance. Andrews rose, of course, to the occasion, by answering: "I'm always glad to meet a man from my own state. I'm from Fleming County." "Well, I'll be struck!" cried Watson. "That's my county, too! What part of it do you live in?" After a little more of this conversation, which was given in loud tones, the two men withdrew to a corner and sat down. "We are all here now except two of our men," said Andrews, in a low voice. "Half of the fellows have gone to bed, thoroughly tired out. But where's George? Isn't he with you?" "It makes me sick to think where he is," whispered Watson, "for----"