Marse
Bob an' old Stonewall will get tired waitin' fur me to tell 'em how to
end this war in a month."
Dick, holding Warner in place with one hand, held out the other, and said:
"You're a white man, through and through, Johnny Reb. Shake!"
"So are you, Yank. There's nothin' wrong with you 'cept that you
happened to get on the wrong side, an' I don't hold that ag'in you.
I guess it was an innercent mistake."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye. Keep straight ahead an' you'll strike that camp of yourn that
we're goin' to take in the mornin'. Gosh, how it rains!"
Dick retained his idea of direction, and he walked straight through the
darkness toward the Northern camp. George was a heavy load, but he did
not struggle. His head sank down against his comrade's and Dick felt
that it was burning with fever.
"Good old George," he murmured to himself rather than to his comrade,
"I'll save you."
Excitement and resolve had given him a strength twice the normal, a
strength that would last the fifteen or twenty minutes needed until this
task was finished. Despite the darkness and the driving rain, he could
now see the lights in his own camp, and bending forward a little to
support the dead weight on his back, he walked in a straight course
toward them.
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