"_I know better_," said the doctor; "and if you kill him, you kill the _wrong_ man. You ar not a gwine to find out his business; and if you kill him, he'll not tell you. I _know that he is all right_. I have seen him in a _tighter place_ than he is in now." Then stepping to the soldier that held my mule, he snatched the bridle out of his hand, and, turning to me, he said: "Here, take your mule; they are not a gwine to shoot you." Then turning to the Colonel, and stamping his foot on the ground, he said: "_You are not a gwine to shoot that man, for I_ KNOW _that he is all right_!" "Well, doctor, if you know that he is all right, and are willing to vouch for him, I'll let him go." "I _will_ vouch for him, for I know who he is." Then turning to me, he said: "Get on your mule and go about your business; they are not a gwine to hurt you." I mounted my mule and the soldiers opened the way for me, and I went _a sailing_ out of town; and I don't think I was very long in getting back to Bolivar. I tell you, reader, in that Doctor Biggs I fully realized that "a friend in _need_ was a _friend indeed_." His appearance at that critical moment was as unexpected as would have been a visit from an angel in heaven. When I reported to General Ross, I narrated to him my adventure. "Bunker," said he, "don't you know that when you go out as a spy, you go, as it were, with a rope round your neck, ready for any body to draw it tight?" "Yes, I think I had a _slight hint_ of that fact on this trip." I resolved that, if ever an opportunity offered, the old, gray-headed rebel at Lagrange should be brought to account for his treatment; so I went to the Provost-marshal and gave him a narrative of the adventure, and a description of the rebel, so that in case he should ever visit the place he might be captured. About two months after the foregoing adventure occurred, Lagrange was occupied by Federal troops, and the same officer that was Provost-marshal in Bolivar now commanded the post at Lagrange. As I was passing along the streets, one day, I saw, not ten feet from the place where I first saw him, the old, gray-headed rebel, with his staff in his hand. His appearance was permanently stereotyped in my mind, and I could not be mistaken in the man who had so nearly deprived me of my life. Drawing my revolver, I walked up to him, saying, "You d--d old, gray-headed rebel! do you remember the '_Yankee spy_?' Do you '_know him' now_? Have you '_seen him before_?'" "What do you mean?" said he; "I don't understand you!" "_You don't know what I mean!_ You don't remember telling the rebel Colonel, standing in the tracks where you now stand, '_I know him; I have seen him before; I know that he is a Yankee spy!_' Don't tell me, you old, gray-headed villain, that you _don't know what I mean_! You start with me to the commander of the post, or I'll blow your brains out here!" The old fellow led the way and I followed, with, my revolver cocked.