ON TO CHATTANOOGA "I must leave, sir, as soon as my horse is fit to travel," replied Tom to Mr. Beecham's questions regarding his plans. "That will give me more than enough time if the ferry is running, and just enough time if I must follow the river to the Chattanooga ferry." Mr. Beecham's house was only ten miles from the town, figured on the map; but the weather made map figuring hazardous. The Tennessee River had mounted to a torrent under the continual rains, and the ferries which customarily provided short-cuts were, for the most part, not operating. Tom gathered that information at breakfast. He had no intention of trying to cross at the Chattanooga ferry, for the Confederate guards there would be dangerously strong, and it remained to find some ferryman who could be bribed to risk the trip. That might take time. "I'll look at your horse while I'm out," said Mr. Beecham. He was preparing, regardless of the storm, for his usual walk about his estate. He went out, and Mrs. Beecham turned to her household duties. Miss Marjorie and Tom were alone, standing before the blazing fire in the hall. There was still that disconcerting twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "I suppose I do look funny," he said, glancing down at his clothes. "It's not kind of me to laugh," she replied. "Were you very wet!" "As wet as one person can possibly be. I absorbed at least half of the rainstorm between Wartrace and here. No more water would stick to me--it just rolled off, finally." "I don't think I should like being a soldier," she said. "Do you?" "I haven't tried it. I'm just beginning." "Do you want to fight?" "It isn't a question of wanting to fight," he replied. "It's a question of duty." "Oh." She sat down and he took a chair beside her. "But you were out of it. No one would have said that it was your duty to run the danger of going through the Union pickets." He wished that she would not talk about the war. It was unpleasant, this lying to a girl. With Mr. Beecham it was different. Then he remembered that she had said "Union pickets," instead of "Yankee pickets." It struck him as strange, coming from a Southern girl. "Tell me about your home," she asked. He gave a rather sketchy description of his imaginary home in Fleming County, Kentucky--a none too convincing description. Then he tried to change the subject by asking her if she had always lived with the Beechams. "No--not always," she answered. "Is Fleming Cou...." "And is your name Beecham?" he interrupted, anxious to avoid the subject of Fleming County. "My name is Landis," she answered. "Marjorie Landis. Is Fleming County very large?" "No--no. Not very large. And where did you live before you came here?" "With mother." It seemed to be her turn for evasion. "I presume," she continued, "that you know all the people in the county?" He wondered if, by some chance, she knew people there, if she was going to pin him down to persons and definite places in Fleming County.