A coincident so amusing in the plagiarism occurred that I shall mention it. Much of the story is an incident in the life of my father, Judge John Moore, still Judge of the Black Belt circuit of Alabama, and Tom’s home coming, bringing my father’s saddle, clothes, and sidearms, is the first distinct memory of my life. In plagiarizing it the author in Munsey did little less than to change the names, and in doing so he changed “Miss Mary” to “Miss Emily,” and thus unintentionally gave all the characters their true names. J. T. M. Columbia, Tenn., October, 1903. Tom was a sly, rollicking rascal of a darkey, with a catfish smile and a jaybird eye. He was ever ready for a laugh, a joke, a drunk, or a profession of religion. He would spend his nights as quickly in a bar-room as at a prayer-meeting, and by day he was equally as ready to battle for politics as for religion. But his strong card was his wonderful experience “endurin’ de wah,” whither he went as a body servant to “Marse John,” and his “hairbreadth ’scapes in the imminent deadly breach” would have put a flush of envy in the dusky cheek of Othello himself. But Tom’s fighting was now mostly under his tongue, and, like many who are yet wearing the blue and gray a full generation after all hostilities have ceased and all animosities should long ago have ceased with them, Tom’s war spirit increased as the square of the distance from the crack of the last cannon. From his own statements there could be no doubt that, besides actually participating in every battle of the civil war, the Confederate forces were maintained in the field as long as they were, entirely on account of his own skill and genius as a “furager.” His other weakness was his habit of disputing upon questions theologic. In this he was peculiarly strong; for, if the discussion waxed hot, and he found he could not convince his hearer with words, he did not hesitate to smite the centurion’s ear, or bite off his nose; and as his war record among the darkies was already Achillean and his fistic abilities unquestionable, there were few who were willing to “’spute de p’int wid ’im.” His great argument was the efficacy of faith over work, and he was so scrupulously religious in his belief that he finally ceased to work altogether, while it required but the spirit of a July sun and a weedy garden to set him to arguing with renewed zeal. Now, a man is what his beliefs make him; and so the effect of Tom’s belief developed one virtue truly apostolic; he took no thought for the morrow, what he should eat or drink; he carried no scrip in his purse, and, at the beginning of this story, he had not even a change of raiment.