John Morrison and Tom Grant spurred their horses toward the flying cattle, intending to head them off, but Tom's horse was fleet, and coming up to the leading steer, he threw the whole force of his horse's breast against the steer's neck, and vigorously plying the whip to its nose, he checked its headlong career, and drew him into a circle. At once the remainder of the drove followed their leader, and quiet was restored. The unreasoning animals, governed only by instinct, were soon started on their original course. The lieutenant in charge of the drove complimented young Tom in the warmest terms, stating that he had accomplished more than any ten men. The journey was finished without any further incident. They made such good time that they escaped capture at the hands of the Confederates, and on arriving at Chattanooga, Lieutenant Reed was promoted to the charge of a drove of 3,000. This honor he knew was due principally to the ability and quickness of manouver which Tom Grant had exhibited, and to show his gratitude he had the boy appointed to the superintendence of the drove, a position which many an older man coveted. Days passed slowly by; the cattle, many of them, grew restive and footsore. Often one or two would lie down, and then it was impossible to get them up again. “Where did that little black cow come from?” one of the men asked, pointing to a cow walking sedately along in the drove. “I suppose she's wandered in from some farm place we've passed on the way,” Tom Grant said. “But anyhow she's a godsend, for we'll have fresh milk now.” “Can you milk?” the Lieutenant asked. “Can I? {272}What was I brought up on a farm for, I wonder!” Tom responded. “You're a regular encyclopaedia, Tom,” the officer laughed. “But, of course, the cream comes to headquarters.” “Certainly--but what shall I raise it in, my hat?” “We'll fix that. On second thoughts, think I'll take the cream with the milk--just whenever I can get it.” The little creature was as smooth as satin, and quite plump. To Tom's charge she fell, and he milked her each day as he promised he would, and she soon became known as “Tom's cow.”' She seemed quite at home. One hot and sultry day, when they had traveled with considerable speed, Tom's prize showed signs of exhaustion. At last she could go no farther, but lay down, hot, tired and footsore, at a cross roads. “We'd better let her rest and then we'll come back after her,” Jim Cleary said. “That's the best thing we can do, I believe.” So the animal was left where she had dropped, and the drove kept on till they found a place where they could feed and rest for the night. As soon as it began to grow dark Tom and his companion started back to where they had left the cow. She was not there, but a woman sitting outside of quite a pretentious, two-story house, informed them that a man who lived “down the cross road a piece” had driven her to his own home.