Rewarding the elderly female handsomely for her information, Andy continued on his way, feeling that the darkness of the night would greatly aid him in escaping from the enemy’s country. A well-defined trail led along the Potomac, and in a short while he found himself at the bank of the creek or inlet where the flatboat was supposed to lie. For some time he could learn nothing of the craft, and he was thinking seriously of venturing to the distant farmhouse for information, when he caught sight of the flatboat, drawn up among a number of tall bushes. To get the craft afloat was no mean task, but finally it was accomplished, and he moored her where Firefly might readily step on board. The horse was at first unwilling to do this, and it took loud and repeated urging to make the animal budge. To guide the boat across the stream there was a broad oar to be used as a rudder. Andy had just taken up this oar and was preparing to shove off from the bank of the inlet when the sharp click of a rifle trigger caught his ear. “Halt there!” came the command, and a short, stout Union soldier stepped into full view from behind a tree. He had a very red face, red hair, and a red beard, and his tone of voice was unmistakably that of an Irishman. “Sthand where yez are,” he went on, as Andy looked at him crestfallenly. “Have yez the countersign?” “Potomac,” said Andy, on a venture. “Wrong, me laddybuck, it’s not Potomac, nor President, nor potatoes, nor nuthin’ loike it. Yez are my prisoner. Oi was after watchin’ yez fer tin minutes an’ wondherin’ what yez was up to. Sthep ashure now an’ kape quoit till Oi call the guard.” “But I’m not an enemy, I’m a friend,” began Andy. “Yez is a Johnny Reb an’ nuthin’ else; Oi kin see it stickin’ out all over yez--not to spake of the uniform yez is afther wearin’. Sthep out, Oi say!” and the rifle was pointed at Andy’s head. There was nothing to do but to obey. As Andy stepped ashore Firefly started to follow, but the young Confederate shoved him back. This caused the flat-bottom boat to wobble, and in a second more she was adrift and heading for the river. “Sthop that boat!” roared the Irish picket, but when Andy started to obey the Union soldier caught him by the shoulder. “No, yez don’t!” he cried. “You sthay roight here. Corporal of the guard, it’s Tim Moriarity wants yez! Picket numbher sivin!” The last words were delivered with all the strength of the Irishman’s lungs. He was a new recruit, having been mustered in but a week previous, and he felt he had made a most important capture. He continued to hold Andy, meanwhile letting his musket fall to the ground. As soon as the weapon went down, the young Confederate planted his foot upon it. This accomplished, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the picket’s head. “Let go--unless you want me to fire,” he said, in a low but earnest tone.