These words were spoken just in time. In a moment more Godfrey would have been scudding across the field at the top of his speed. Tremblingly he approached Clarence, and had there been light enough to enable him to distinguish his features, the boy would have seen that they were as white as a sheet. “You gave me to understand that you are not afraid of any man in the country,” continued the latter. “Now prove it. Reach out your hand and take hold of this fellow’s arm; and if you don’t feel solid flesh in your grasp, you may take yourself off as soon as you please!” “Is it a man?” gasped Godfrey. “Of course it is. Come here and see for yourself.” “Why don’t he say somethin’, then?” “I suppose it is because he don’t want to. Come here and take hold of him, and we’ll soon find means to make him use his tongue, if he has one!” Very reluctantly Godfrey obeyed the command. He extended his hand and made a grasp at the prisoner’s arm, fully expecting that his fingers would pass through it as they would pass through the air; but to his surprise and intense relief his grasp closed upon a small but very compact bunch of muscle. He seized it firmly and held fast to it, and then his courage all returned, and he was as brave as Clarence himself. “Now,” said the latter, “I want to take a good look at this fellow.” Striking a match on the sleeve of his coat as he spoke, he examined the man by the aid of the light it threw out, and saw that he was a coal-black negro, and that he was dressed in a suit of something that had once been white, but which was patched with so many different kinds of cloth that it was hard to find any of the original material in it. “Are you old Jordan?” he demanded. There was no answer returned by the negro, who was as passive in the hands of his captors as if he had been a lump of clay. [Illustration: THE CAPTURE OF “OLE JORDAN.”] “This won’t do, old fellow,” said Clarence, angrily. “You can’t play off on us in this way. You had better open your mouth, or we’ll take you straight to the general. Perhaps he can find means to make you tell what you are doing in his potato-patch at this time of night.” “O, that ain’t no way to talk to a nigger, Mr. Clarence,” said Godfrey. “I knows who he is, an’ I can soon make him speak,” he added, drawing back his shovel preparatory to punching old Jordan in the ribs with it. “Hol’ on dar, boss!” cried the prisoner. “Thar, now, what did I tell ye?” exclaimed Godfrey, triumphantly. “Don’t sound much like ole Jordan’s voice, though!” “Now that you have found your tongue, I want to talk to you,” said Clarence. “Would you like to make a thousand dollars?” “O, I’m goin’ to make a heap more’n dat, boss,” replied the negro. “You are? How are you going to do it?” “Jordan,” said Godfrey, “did you come back to dig up that thar bar’l you kivered up here in this tater-patch on the day the Yanks cut the levee?” “Dat’s tellin’,” replied the negro.