In a moment Louis had glided back and given the necessary order. Then he, Harry, Callings, and Risby moved forward in a semi-circle. They had scarcely advanced five yards, when Callings found himself sinking into a half choked-up rifle-pit. “Hi! hi! here’s the rascal!” he yelled. “Down with that pistol, you rebel, or I’ll finish you in short order.” “Hang the luck!” came in a growl from the bottom of the hole. “Git off of my back, you confounded Yank!” “I will, when you surrender, Grayback! Throw up that pistol.” By this time not only Louis and Harry, but also some others were at the edge of the hole, which was several feet in diameter and over-grown with grass and weeds. Down at the bottom the water was over a foot deep, and in this a man was crouching, wet to the skin and covered with mud. Callings had landed directly upon the fellow’s back with his heavy boots, and it was small wonder that the victim yelled with pain. “This yere is the wust luck I ever struck,” muttered the captured one, as with very bad grace he surrendered his pistol, of the old-fashion “hoss” variety and nearly two feet long. “Let me git outer the hole before I sink clear outer sight.” Callings sprang up and a few feet back. Then he and Louis covered the man with their guns, but this was not necessary, for the chap was thoroughly cowed. It was soon found that the clay at the bottom of the hole held him fast, and Harry and Risby had to haul him forth by main strength. By this time the cry, “Corporal of the guard! Number seven! A prisoner!” had gone down the line, and the corporal was hurrying forward to picket number seven, which was Louis. He was followed by a detachment of others, who marched the prisoner to the guard tent, Louis, relieved from duty by another soldier, following on behind. When surveyed by the lantern hanging to the rear post of the guard tent, the captured one presented anything but a prepossessing appearance. He was a tall, lank individual, with sallow complexion, high cheek bones, and tangled beard and hair. His tattered clothing hung upon him as garments hang upon a scarecrow. In his left cheek was a large quid of tobacco, which he chewed upon with great vigor, as if to thereby keep up his fading courage. Long and earnestly Louis gazed at the face, wondering if he had not seen the man before. [Illustration: LOUIS GAZED AT THE FACE, WONDERING IF HE HAD NOT SEEN THE MAN BEFORE.--_Page 221._] “Your name?” was the first question put to the stranger. “My name?” answered the prisoner, slowly. “Er--Tom Johnson.” “Brother to General Johnson, I suppose?” sneered the corporal, satisfied the man was not telling the truth. “No, sir; I ain’t no relation to that measly rebel.” “Well, Johnson, where do you belong?” “Belong to the Second Maryland Volunteers, Company B.” “Captain’s name, please?” “Captain--er Thompson.” “First cousin to Johnson, I suppose?” “No, sir; no relation.” “That’s too bad. When did you leave your regiment?”