"Steady--don't fire," repeated several officers along the line.
"What regiment are you ?" shouted a person, as the flag came within speaking distance.
"What are you ?" demanded an officer of the storming party.
"We're the Alabama eighth!" "We are the Massachusetts -- th," replied our men.
"Then you are the villains we want!" returned the rebel, plentifully interlarding the sentence with oaths.
The flag of truce dropped, and the dastardly foe poured in a volley of musketry, before which a dozen of our brave boys fell, either killed or wounded.
"Fire!" yelled the colonel; and the order was obeyed with a will.

"Charge bayonets! Forward--double quick--march!" The men, burning with indignation at the treachery of the rebel horde, sprang forward to wreak their righteous vengeance upon the cowardly traitors.

So impetuous was the charge, that the rebel regiment broke, and sought safety in flight.
"Down with them!" hoarsely screamed Tom, as the line swayed forward, and pursued the panic-stricken foe into the woods on the left.

The even line was broken, and the boys scattered to do their work to the best advantage.
Tom's legs seemed to be in excellent condition, notwithstanding the toilsome marches of the last twenty-four hours; and he dashed forward into the woods followed by only a dozen choice spirits, whose enthusiasm was equal to his own.

A squad of flying rebels in front of them was the object of their present anxiety, and they soon distanced their companions.
The rebels, seeing by how small a force they were pursued, rallied and formed line again.
"Give it to them!" cried Tom, as he led his little force upon the rebels.
"Hold on, Tom!" said Hapgood; "we have gone far enough.