"'You're right, my brother," said the man, putting out his hand for the grip. Shorty did the same, trying to imitate what he had seen. The car was lurching, and the grasp was imperfect. The man seemed only half satisfied. Shorty saw this, and with his customary impudence determined to put the onus of recognition on the other side. He drew his hand back as if disappointed, and turned a severe look upon the other man. "Where are you from?" asked the first-comer. Shorty curtly indicated the other side of the Ohio by a nod. "Where are you goin'?" Shorty's face put on a severe look, as if his questioner was too inquisitive. "Jest up here to 'tend to some bizness," he answered briefly, and turned away as if to close the conversation. "Say, I've got a right to know something about you," said the first new-comer. "I'm Captain of this District, and have general charge o' things here, and men passin' through." "All right," answered Shorty. "Have general charge. I don't know you, and I have bizness with men who roost a good deal higher'n you do." He put his hands to his breast, as if assuring himself of the presence of important papers, and pulled out a little ways the official-looking envelope which contained his transportation and passes. This had its effect. The "Captain" weakened. "Are you from the Southern army?" he asked in a tone of respect. "Before I answer any o' your questions," said Shorty authoritatively, "prove to me who you are." "O, I kin do that quick enough," said the "Captain" eagerly, displaying on his vest the silver star, which was the badge of his rank, and his floridly printed commission and a badly-thumb-marked copy of the ritual of the Knights of the Golden Circle. "So far, so good," said Shorty. "Now give me the grip." Shorty, by watching the motions of the other's hand, was skillful enough to catch on to the grip this time, and get it exactly. He expressed himself satisfied, and as the car lay on the siding waiting for another train to arrive and pass he favored his two companions with one of his finest fictions about his home in Tennessee, his service in the rebel army, the number of Yankee Abolitionists he had slain with his own hand, and his present mission with important communications to those "friends of the South in Illinois" who were organizing a movement to stop the bloody and brutal war upon his beloved Southland. His volubility excited that of the "Captain," who related how he had been doing a prosperous business running a bar on a Lower Mississippi River boat, until Abolition fanaticism brought on the war; that he had then started a "grocery" in Jeffersonville, which the Provost-Marshal had wickedly suppressed, and now he was joining with others of his oppressed and patriotic fellow-citizens to stop the cruel and unnatural struggle against their brethren of the South.