The woman led him to the kitchen and gave him a tin basin. "When the door was closed behind her, he stripped off the cape and coat, and fell to scrubbing with the hot water and soap. Then he dried himself and pulled on the shirt. It was several sizes too small for him, but it was better than nothing at all. He could hear the two old people and the boy discussing the fire. Probably, he thought, they would talk of little else until they heard the real story. He thanked his stars that he had struck this one quiet spot in the chaos of war to prepare himself for the adventures of the next few days. It was providential. Now he was ready to meet the world. "I'd like to buy something to eat," he said as he stepped from the kitchen. "We ain't got much," answered the woman. "I'll pay you well," he replied. "I'll have to carry it with me. It's getting dark and I must be getting on to Chattanooga." "Will some ham an' some bread do?" "Splendidly." She went into the kitchen. "How did you say that bridge caught on fire?" asked the old man. "Sparks from a locomotive, I suppose." "You don't say so--in all this rain!" Five minutes later he left the store and disappeared down the road which led to Chattanooga. Then he climbed a fence and made his way across the fields to a road which ran north. For a half-hour he plodded through the mud. The strain of the long day was commencing to tell upon him, and each step forward cost a mighty effort. The hunks of mud which accumulated on his shoes felt like blocks of lead weighing him down. "About enough for this day," he mumbled to himself. Ahead of him he saw a barn, standing a few yards from the road. Farther along, perhaps a hundred yards, was the house with its lighted windows. He walked close to the rail fence and approached the barn cautiously, listening for dogs; then he crawled under the fence and squatted there, waiting. It was still light enough for him to be seen from the house, and so he decided not to make the rush for the barn until later. Several minutes passed, then he heard the sound of boots splashing along the muddy road, and the mumble of voices. He threw himself on the wet sod and lay there, hidden by the weeds and darkness. The voices came near. Tom caught the words "...some damage anyhow." "Yes," replied the other man, "but if Andrews had only...." Tom did not wait any longer. "Shadrack!" he called. The two men stopped as though they had been struck. "Over here by the fence. It's Tom Burns." "You, Tom! You scared the life out of me." "Who's with you?" "Wilson." "Hello, there. Crawl through. I'm waiting for it to get dark enough so that I can make the barn." They shook hands. "I recognized your voice, Shadrack. How are you, Wilson?" "All right enough. Have you seen any of the others!" "Not a soul. Wonder what happened to them?"