The pilot swung the barge over toward the south shore, the bushwhackers following her down the bank until she touched the land. Then the chief, accompanied by about half of his villainous-looking followers, sprang aboard. "I'm Captain John C. Calhoun Yeager, u' the Confederate States army," said he, pompously, throwing out his chest as he confronted Captain Lamont. "Heaven pity the Confederate States army, then!" muttered the mate, who was standing behind him. "What's that?" demanded Yeager, turning sharply. "I said, sir, that the Confederate States Army is honored," replied the mate, meekly. "Oh!" said the guerilla chief, mollified. "You bet." He smoothed down his coat with a satisfied air, then resumed to Captain Lamont, "I'm gonta search this yere boat fer Yankee soldiers, an' if anybody peeps he'll git plugged full o' holes." Wallace, who was standing beside Al, turned pale, for he knew not what this might mean for him. He was in uniform and there was no escape, as Yeager immediately pointed to him and continued, "There's one of 'em. Jerk him up, boys." Half a dozen of his men sprang upon Wallace like cats upon a mouse, pulling his arms roughly behind him. Wallace uttered a cry of pain as his wounded arm was twisted. "Oh, please don't!" he begged. "My left arm is wounded." "The devil it is!" sneered one of the guerillas, giving it an extra twist as he jerked a piece of cord around Wallace's wrists. "Then it needs exercise to limber it up." Al's face turned pale with cold fury. He stepped forward and, before any one could think what he intended doing, his fist shot out into the guerilla's right eye with terrific force, sending him to the deck like a stone. "You dirty cur!" he growled. "I'll give you some exercise, too." "Don't, Al, don't!" pleaded Wallace, now more frightened for his friend's safety than for his own. Yeager, paying no attention whatever to the fall of his retainer, fixed his cold eyes on Al as he heard Wallace call him by name. "I've got it straight," said he, "that there's another blue belly on here, not in soldier clothes. His name's Al Briscoe an' he's a friend o' this yere kid,"--indicating Wallace. "I reckon you're the ticket," he went on, addressing Al. "Take him in tow, boys." "He's not a soldier," exclaimed Wallace. "He's never enlisted." "This is Jim's work," whispered the mate to Captain Lamont. "Nobody else would know about Al." Captain Lamont repeated Wallace's remonstrance. "This boy is not a soldier, Captain Yeager," he declared. "I know that to be a fact." "Well, I got it straight that he is," persisted Yeager, insolently, "so you may as well shut up. Take 'em ashore," he went on, to the men who held Al and Wallace by the arms. Then he added, to the others, "Search the boat." "Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, Al," moaned Wallace, as they were pushed and kicked out on the bank. "It's my fault you were taken."