"That's my son; he's a captain in the cavalry, and he'll know all about it.

He can tell you where yer regiment is," added he, turning to Tom, who was edging towards the door.
"I'm very much obliged to you for my supper," said the fugitive, nervously.

"I reckon I'll be moving along." "Wait half a second, and my son will tell you just where to find your regiment." "The Seventh Georgia ?" said the captain of cavalry, entering the room at this moment with nothing but his pants on.

"There's no such regiment up here, and hasn't been.

I reckon you're a deserter." "No, _sir!_ I scorn the charge," replied Tom, with becoming indignation.
"I never desert my colors." "I suppose not," added the officer, glancing at his uniform; "but your colors desert you." Tom failed to appreciate the wit of the reply, and backed off towards the door, with one hand upon the stock of his revolver.
"Hold on to him, father; don't let him go," said the officer, as he rushed back into his chamber, evidently for his pistols or his sabre.
"Hands off, or you are a dead man;" cried Tom, as he pointed his revolver at the head of the farmer.
In another instant, the captain of cavalry reappeared with a pistol in each hand.