"Sakes!" she exclaimed. "I guess you is suh-tainly hungry. Mr. Beecham he's coming right away." Mr. Beecham proved to be an elderly, stern-faced gentleman. He stood in the doorway gazing at Tom. "Well, sir," he said at last. "Do you prefer my kitchen to my dining-room, sir?" "No, Mr. Beecham, I don't," answered Tom. "But in these clothes, wet to the skin, it would be an intrusion to go farther than the kitchen." It was an answer that Mr. Beecham appreciated. Tom was glad that the last evidences of the stolen bacon sandwiches had disappeared down his throat. He stood waiting for Mr. Beecham to speak--and wondering if he was to be invited for breakfast. "Will you come with me, please?" asked Mr. Beecham. They passed through a corridor, and into the big entrance hall, where logs were blazing In a fireplace. "In these days," continued Mr. Beecham, "it is customary to ask people who they are. You understand, I trust." "Certainly, sir," said Tom. "My name is Thomas Burns, and I'm from Fleming County, Kentucky. I'm on my way to Atlanta to enlist." He had been bracing himself for the past minute to tell that story, and it came smoothly, convincingly. For a moment after it was out, he hated himself. Mr. Beecham pursed his lips and nodded. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Will you be my guest at breakfast, sir?" "Thank you, sir," Tom replied. "But in these clothes...." "I daresay we will be able to find other clothes for you. If you will come with me?" "First I'd like to go to the stable and see my horse. I gave him a hard ride last night to put distance between me and the Union pickets." "Certainly." Mr. Beecham called another colored boy, who guided Tom to the stable. There he found his horse munching hay, wearily but contentedly. The stableman approached, armed with grooming implements. "That's good," said Tom. "Give him a good grooming, and a blanket. Then, in a half-hour, give him a feed of oats." "Yassir." He slipped a dollar into the negro's hand, and left him beaming. Mr. Beecham escorted him to a room upstairs, where, with the aid of another negro servant, they found clothes to replace the wet things he was wearing. They left him to wash and dress. "We will have breakfast just as soon as you are ready," said Mr. Beecham as he closed the door. Tom wondered if all these negroes were slaves. He had seen an occasional negro in the North, but of course they were freed. He had expected to find them different; less cheerful, perhaps, and carrying an air of oppression. And it disturbed him slightly not to find them so. Mr. Beecham had provided him with a suit of his own clothes. They were about the same size, but a suit cut for a man of more than fifty looks strange on a boy of eighteen. Tom glanced at himself in the mirror and laughed. However, it was part of the adventure he had been tossed into.