As it passed, he waded a short distance into the water, and stretched forth his musket to the unhappy voyager.

Tom threw down his paddle, and sprang with desperate energy to obtain a hold upon the gun.

He even succeeded in grasping the end of the bayonet.

For a moment he pulled so hard that it was doubtful whether the bateau would be hauled ashore, or Secesh drawn into the deep water.
"Hold on tight, my boy! Pull for your life!" shouted the soldier, highly excited by the probable success of his philanthropic efforts.
"Save me! Save me!" groaned Tom, as he tugged, or seemed to do so, at the bayonet.
Then, while the united exertions of the saver and the saved, in anticipation, were on the very point of being successful, the polished steel of the bayonet unaccountably slipped through the fingers of Tom, and the bateau was borne off towards the opposite shore.
"Save me! Save me," cried Tom again, in tones more piteous than ever.
"What d'ye let go fur ?" said the grayback, indignantly, as his musket, which he had held by the tip end of the stock, dropped into the water, when Tom let go of the bayonet.
The soldier indulged in a volley of peculiarly southern oaths, with which we cannot disfigure our page, even in deference to the necessity of painting a correct picture of the scene we have described.

Tom had a vein of humor in his composition, which has already displayed itself in some of the rough experiences of his career; and when he saw the rebel soldier deprived of all power to make war upon him, either offensive or defensive, he could not resist the temptation to celebrate the signal strategical victory he had obtained over the picket guard.