"The Yankees will have you in a few minutes." Tom did make another ineffectual effort to check the progress of the bateau, and again abandoned the attempt in despair.

The rebels followed him on the bank, encouraging him with words of cheer, and with dire prophecies of his fate if he fell into the hands of the cruel Yankees.
"Can't you help me ?" pleaded Tom, in accents of despair.

"Throw me a rope! Do something for me." Now, this was a suggestion that had not before occurred to the picket guard, and Tom would have been infinitely wiser if he had not put the idea of assisting him into their dull brains; for it is not at all probable that they would have thought of such a thing themselves, for the south, especially the poor white trash, are not largely endowed with inventive genius.
"Save me! Save me!" cried Tom, as he saw the rebels engaged in a hasty consultation, the result of which was, that two of them started off upon the run in a direction at right angles with the stream.
"Try again! Stick to it!" shouted the picket left on the shore.
"I can't do any more; I'm all tired out," replied Tom, throwing himself for the fourth time in the bottom of the boat, the very picture of despair.
The picture was very much exaggerated and over-drawn; but as long as the bullet from the rebel's musket did not come his way, Tom was satisfied with his acting, and hopeful for the future.

The man on the shore, full of sympathy for the distressed and exhausted voyager, walked and ran so as to keep up with the refractory barge, which seemed to be spitefully hurling its agonized passenger into the Federal lines, where death and dungeons lurked at every corner.
While this exciting drama was in progress, the stream bore Tom to a sharp bend in the river, where the current set in close to the shore.

His attentive guardian on the bank ran ahead, and stationed himself at this point, ready to afford any assistance to the disconsolate navigator which the circumstances might permit.
"Now's your chance!" shouted he.