The familiar address increased the boy's dislike of the man, but he was too young to realize that he was being "sounded" by a spy. He was old enough, however, to know how to keep his mouth shut about the pending plan for an escape. He thought Johnson got nothing out of him, but in the many half-confidential talks the unpleasant Yankee forced upon him, perhaps he had revealed something after all. Perhaps, however, the newcomer got such information as he did from other men in the secret. Certainly he got somewhere an inkling of the plan of escape. That evening, when he stood in a circle of sitting men to tell his story,--a simple tale of Northern birth, of a Southern home, of belief in the Union, of raising a guerilla company to fight for it, of capture in a raid on a Confederate supply-depot,--the unpleasant memory which had been troubling Tom came back and hammered at his head until suddenly, as if a flashlight had been turned on the scene, he saw himself sprawling on the hearth of Uncle Mose's slave-cabin, with this man's hand clutching his ankle. He was sitting on the floor beside Colonel Rose. He leant against him and whispered: "That man didn't come from Tennessee. He was overseer on a plantation in Alabama. He 'most captured me once. I b'lieve he's a spy." Johnson caught the gleam of Colonel Rose's eye fixed upon him. He had seen Tom whisper to him. He faltered, stopped speaking, and sat down. Rose walked across the circle and sat beside him. He had snapped his fingers as he walked and half a dozen men had answered the signal and were now close at hand. "What did you do before you turned guerilla?" asked Colonel Rose. "I don't know that that's any of your darned business," said Johnson. "Answer me." The stronger man dominated the weaker. The spy sulkily said: "I kept a general shop in Jonesboro', Tennessee." "Ever live anywhere else in the South?" "No." "Ever do anything else in the South?" "No, sirree. What's the good of asking such questions?" The Colonel rose to his feet and said aloud: "Major Hamilton." "Here, sir," answered the Major. "Didn't you live in Jonesboro', Tennessee, before the war?" "Yes, sir." "How long?" "Seven years." "Who kept the general store there?" "Hezekiah Butterworth, from Maine." "Did you know him?" "Rather. We were chums. He and I left Jonesboro' together to join the army." "Is this man he?" Rose pointed to where Jake Johnson sat at his feet, cowering, covering his face with his hands. Other hands not too gently snatched Jake's hands from his face. Hamilton looked at him. "He's no more Hezekiah Butterworth than he's General Grant." By this time the whole prison community was crowded about Colonel Rose. The latter called again: "Mr. Strong." "Here, sir," Tom's voice piped up. "Do you know this man?" "Yes, sir." Tom told the story of Jake Johnson on the Izzard plantation.