That start of surprise had almost been Tom's undoing. He had rustled the leaves about him. A tiny shower of pale green things fell to the ground. "Captain, there's somebody up that tree," said a soldier, pointing straight at the point where Tom sat. "I heard him rustle." The captain looked up. The boy always thought the officer saw him and spared him, partly because of his youth--he knew the fate the prisoners faced--and partly because of his admiration for "the gallant feat of arms." Be that as it may, he certainly took no step just then to make another prisoner. Instead he laughed and answered: "That's a 'possum. We haven't time for a coon-hunt just now. Get ahead. We'll send an alarm from the next station and so bag all the Yankees." The engine, pushing the recaptured one before it, started and disappeared around the end of the short curve upon which Andrews had made his final stop. For the moment at least, Tom was safe. But he knew the hue-and-cry would sweep the country. Everybody would be on the lookout for stray Yankees. And as everybody would think the estrays were all going North, Tom decided to go South. He slid down the tree, looked at his watch, studied the sunlight to learn the points of the compass, drew his belt tighter to master the hunger that now assailed him, and so began his southward tramp, a boy, alone, in the enemy's country. That part of Georgia is a beautiful country and Tom loved beauty, but it did not appeal to him that afternoon. He was hungry; he was tired; the excitement that had upheld him through the hours of flight on the captured engine was over. He plodded through a little belt of forest and found himself in a broad valley, with a ribbon of water flowing through it. He stumbled across plowed fields to the little river. A dusty road, with few marks of travel, meandered beside the stream. He was evidently near no main highway. Not far away a planter's home, with a stately portico, gleamed in the sunlight through its screen of trees. In the distance lay a little village. There was food in both places and he must have food. To which should he go? It was decided for him that he was to go to neither. As he slipped down the river bank, to quench his burning thirst and to wash his dusty face and hands, he almost stepped upon a negro who lay full length at the foot of the bank, hidden behind a tree that had been uprooted by the last flood and left stranded there. The boy was scared by the unexpected meeting, but not half as much as the negro. "Oh, Massa," said the negro, on his knees with outstretched hands, "don' tell on me, Massa. I'll be your slabe, Massa. Jes' take me with you. Please don't tell on me. You kin make a lot o' money sellin' me, Massa. Please lemme go wid you." "What is your name?" asked Tom. "Morris, Massa." "Where did you come from?" "From dat house, Massa." He pointed to the big house nearby. "And what are you doing here?"