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MISSING JO.

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EAGLE EYE;

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MISSING JO:

THE MYSTERY OF CAMP WHITE.

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MISSING JO.

 

CHAPTER I.

The Outpost Camp—Departure of the Mail
Carrier.

THERE was great excitement in a camp
of Union infantry and cavalry soldiers, lo-
cated among the mountains in Eastern Ken-
tucky, one pleasant day in early summer.
The sky was clear, the sunshine was bright
and warm, and all nature was fresh, balmy
and beautiful. The soldiers had been loung-
ing about, outside of their tents, and in the
clean streets of the camp, sunning them-
selves, and endeavoring to make the tedious
hours of their inactive life pass as swiftly as
possible; but the greater part of them were
now collected in front of a small shanty
that was used as the post-office of the com-
mand.

The day was one of unusual license and
jollification, for mail communication with
the North, after a long interruption, had
again heen established. There had been one
of those “ magnificent raids” into Kentucky,
of which the rebel newspapers had so often,
and with too much reason, proudly boasted,
Railroads had been cut, trains had been
captured, isolated garrisons had been com-
pelled to surrender, dépdts of army stores
had been destroyed, horses and cattle had
been carried off, and many murders and

. robberies had been committed. Among the
posts that were cut off by the raiders was
the camp of infantry and cavalry that has
been mentioned. They had been stationed
there for the purpose of guarding a dépot of
supplies and an important pass. As soon
as Colonel White, of the infantry, who was
in command of the post, learned that his
communications had been cut, and that the
chances of escape, if any existed, were des-
perate, he set his men at work, throwing up
intrenchments and buil¢ing a block-house.

The sturdy fellows labored with such good
will, that in a short time they had a double
line of breastworks around the camp, and a
fort of yery respectable strength and pro-
portions located on a commanding elevation.
The post was then deemed capable of with-
standing any ordinary attack ; but Colonel
White, in order to be prepared for the worst,
caused the stores under his charge to be
piled together, and so surrounded with com-
bustibles, that it needed only the scratching
of a match to immediately set them in
flames, and thus prevent them from falling
into the hands of the enemy. The cavalry
might have escaped, by taking a circuitous
route and trusting to the speed of their
horses; but they preferred to remain with
their comrades, to. assist them in defending
the post, and to share their fate. The little
garrison had sufficient provisions and am-
munition to last them a long time, and the
only requisite lacking was forage for the
horses, which, however, could be easily pro-
cured in the adjacent country.

The post, as it happened, was not touch-
ed by the rebels. Either they were not
aware of its existence, or they hoped to pick
it up easily on their return. When they
were at last driven out of the State, after
committing numerous depredations, they left
Colonel White and his men behind them,
unmolested. The “boys” had not com-
plained of the labor they were obliged to
perform, in making preparations for the de-
fense of the post, nor of their invariable diet
of salt meat and hard bread, but they bad
grumbled audibly and continually at the
deprivation of their mails. Next to receiy-
ing letters from home, there is nothing that
pleases a soldier better than to write letters,
and now, during the whole period of the
raid, they had not been able either to receive

_or send as much as a scrap of paper. Camp

 
 

8 Missing Jo.

life, as a matter of course, had been very
dull and gloomy, and although our friends
exhausted every expedient to while the weary
hours away, in amusements or diversions,
they gradually became discontented, and
longed for a “brush” with the enemy, to
break the painful monotony.

But now the long agony was over, the
enemy had fled before the gathered hosts of
the Union, the danger was past, the camp
and its valuable stores were safe, and—what
seemed better than all to the soldiers—the
mails were again free to come and go, with-
out fear of capture. A courier was ready
to start with the accumulated correspond-
ence of three weeks, and the crowd that had
gathered around the post-office, was there
for the purpose of witnessing his departure.
Jo Bevins, of the cavalry, was the messen-
ger, a man who had acted as mail-carrier
for the command since the camp was first
established.

Jo Bevins was a rough, bluff, good-na-
tured young fellow, who was a general
fayorite with both officers and men at the
post. He had never been known to quarrel
with his comrades, and never had a Gross
word for any one. He was always merry
and cheerful, and seemed to be entirely a
stranger to care or thought; yet there was
not @ man in the camp who was more trust-
ed than Jo Bevins; for his intelligence and
acuteness, as well as his bravery and skill
in the use of weapons, were well known
and appreciated. The possession of these
qualities had caused him to be selected as
mail-carrier, and if Jo took charge of a mail,
it was considered as safe as if a company of
cavalry were sent out as an escort.

As he sat upon his good horse, booted
and spurred, and armed to the teeth, waiting
for his mail-bags, his rosy face glowed with
good-humor, and his eyes sparkled with
pleasure, as he smiled upon the joyous crowd
that surrounded him. He had kind words
and cheerful looks for all, and it is no won-
der that he was regarded by the soldiers al-
most as a second Santa Claus.

“The spell is broken at last, boys,” said
he, “and you shall all hear from home again
—those of you who are so lucky as to have
homes. ‘Won't it be jolly when I come back
with a big bag full of good news from your
sweethearts and' your wives, and your
mothers and all you care to hear from !”

“Yes, indeed! Good for you, Jo! It'sa
pity they hadn’t sent you out before, for I'l
,warrant you'd have carried the mail through

    

   

safely, in spite of all the rebels that were
ever. on this side of the Cumberland.”

“That’s so!’ exclaimed another, “I'd
have trusted you, my boy, though I’ve got a
letter in the bag, for my wife, that’s nearly
bursting with greenbacks.”

“Tf you don’t bring me a letter from my
wife, Bevins,” said handsome Colonel White,
as he came out of the office, “I will put you
on half rations, and that will make you re-
pent, I know.” :

“Yes,” muttered a soldier, “ we will all
be on half rations of grub, and double al-
lowance of hard work, if the colonel’s letter
doesn’t come pretty soon, for he is getting
as cross as a bear with a sore head.”

“TI give yez notice, Jo, me boy,” said
Terence O'Halloran, a merry young Irish-
man, “to be afther sindin’ safe the big let-
ther I writ to Misther Linkin, axin’ him I
wanted to be made a Brigadier-Gineral. If
he knew, the ould thafe av the worruld,
that the O’Hallorans were kings in Ireland
afore this country was iver thought ay, he’d
have been afther huntin’ up one of the
best of the shtock—an’ that’s mesilf—long
ago.”

“True for you, Terry,” said Jo Bevins,
with a roguish smile; “ but don’t you know
that over the door of the shop where he
grinds out the brigadiers, he has put a big
sign, which says that ‘no Irish need ap-
ply’ Pr”

“T's foolin’ yez are, Jo Bevins, and ye’d
better take care that yer tongue don’t run
away wid yer wits, or the letther will niyver
git through at all at all. Sure, and ain’t
Phil Kearney—though he’s dead, now,
poor fellow—and Phil Sheridan and Tom
Meagher the biggest kind ay Ginerals ? And
not a man ay ’em all could iver make a
spache or draw his pay betther than Terry
O'Halloran.”

“You are a broth of a boy for fortifica-
tions,” said Bevins, “and Old Abe ought to
give you command of the spade and pick
brigades.”

“ Be off wid yez, ye blaggard, and tell the
postmasther to sce that Misther Linkin gits
the letther himsilf, for the Washin’ton folks
is only a set ay know nothin’s, anyhow.
Whin the commisshin comes, perhaps I'll
take yez for me ordherly.”

Many were the commissions and instruc-
tions that were showered upon Jo by the
anxious applicants for his favors; for the
mail-carrier was going into the “settlements,”
where many articles of necessity and luxury
The Mail-Carrier. 9

were to be had that were not procurable in
camp.

“Get me two pounds of decent smoking
tobacco,” said one, “ and I will pay you when
you return.”

“Be sure to bring plenty of letter-paper,”
said another, “for the sutler’s stock is nearly
out, and = always charges ten times what
it is worth.

“There is no uge in asking me, boys,”
said Bevins, at last, “and I shan’t make a
memorandum of any thing, though I would
like to oblige you all. Our mail matter for
three weeks is waiting, and I am certain
that the horse will have enough to do to
bring back myself and the bags.” é

“asn’t Dummy any thing to say or to
send for ?” asked a soldier, turning to a pale-
faced, silent and stupid-looking young man,
who was leaning idly against a post. “Can’t
you speak a word for yourself this fine
morning, my precious lump of dough ?”

“T have’a letter in the mail-bag,” answer-
ed the youth, “ and if that gets through safe-
ly, it is all T ask for.”

“Ts it addressed to your angelic and anx-
ious ma, my pet? I hope you have let her
know that you are out, and have sent for
some siveetcakes and jam, for it grieves me
to see that salt horse and shingle bread
don’t seem to agree with your delicate con-
stitution.”

“Leave Dummy alone,” said Jo Bevins,
as the young man’s face flushed. “He is as
good as any and better than many of you.
I have seen him stand up to his work like
a man, in a scrimmage. Let me know,
Dummy, if any of them abuse you, while I
am gone, and if they do, they will have an
account to settle with me.”

A grateful glance was the only reply of
“Dummy,” and Bevins occupied - himself
with securing upon the back of the horse
thé well-filled bag that was then brought
out from the pust-office.

“My eyes!” exclaimed Jo. “Here's a
starter! They had better send. a baggage
wagon with me, to carry this cartload. Old
Ball ought to have an extra feed of oats,
before he starts on this trip; but we will do
the best we can.”

After a few whispered. directions from
Colonel White, the mail-carrier put spurs to
his horse, and trotted out of the camp, amid
the cheers and well-wishes of his joyful
comrades,

——_——

CHAPTER IL.
The Carrier Missing—Dummy Aroused.

In the regular course of eyents, Jo Be-
vins should have returned with his mails
within three days, or four at the very furthest.
During the third day after his departure, his
appearance was anxiously awaited by his
expectant comrades, but he did not arrive.
When the lights were put out on “ taps,”
there were many sad hearts in the camp,
for not a few of the men began to fear that
something had happened to him and the
precious mail; but the morrow was before
them, and it was hoped that the fourth day

would certainly find him among them again,
rosy and smiling as ever.

The fourth day came, and again the ‘anxt
ious soldiers waited and watched; but it
passed, and nothing was seen of Jo Bevins
and the mails. The fifth day came and
passed, and the sixth, and the seventh. A
whole week had gone by since the embargo
was removed, and their trusted mail-carrier
had started toward the North, but he did
not return.

The first, and most reasonable supposition,
of both officers and men, was, that. poor Jo
had been “ gobbled up,” and his mails had
been captured, by some straggling guerrilla
band, that had been left behind by the main
body of the raiders. But another mail was
sent out, with a cavalry escort this time, and
it went and returned in safety. Scouting
parties, led by Major Patten, of the cavalry,
scoured the country for miles around, in
every direction; but it was apparently at
peace; no guerrillas were found, and the in-
habitants were unanimous in declaring that
they had not seen any in the neighborhood
for a long time, It was then thought prob-
able that the missing man might have been
waylaid and murdered by bushwhackers,
and every effort was made to discover the
culprits. All the houses along his route
were carefully searched, in the hope of dis-
covering some trace of the lost mail-bag or
letters; but not a bit of leather, or a scrap
of paper that could be identified, was to be
found... All suspicious chara¢ters in the
neighborhood and along the turnpike, with
many to whom no suspicion could possibly
attach, were arrested and brought to the
camp, where they were subjected to the
strictest examination; but the closest inqui-
ry, whether accompanied by threats or offers
of reward, failed to elicit any thing. Jo
Bevins was well known along the route by

 
    

   

40 Missing Jo.

which he had so often carried the mail,
and several of those who were arrested
stated that they had seen him and had
spoken with him as he was jogging along
on his way, but that was all they knew
about him, One man admitted that Jo
had stopped at his house, where he had
taken dinner, and this man was kept in close
custody until it was clearly proved that Jo
had paid for his dinner and gone his way,
and that he had even been seen on the road,
a mile or so beyond the man’s house.

Colonel White and Major Patten, with
the officers and a large proportion of the
men of their commands, began to entertain
doubts which seriously affected the integrity
of Jo Bevins. The mail that had been
given him to carry was a very valuable one,
for the paymaster had made his appearance
just before the communications of the camp
‘were cut by the rebel raiders, and had dealt
out to the men their long-expected four
months’ pay. Many of them had sent home
to their families a portion of their green-
backs, and the letters were inclosed in Jo’s
well-filled bag. There was money enough
in that leather sack to satisfy the wants of
a reasonable man for a long time, and Jo
Bevins was only a poor private. To be
sure, he had never shown any special de-
sire for money, his wants having been few
and easily supplied, and he had always been
considered a perfectly trustworthy. and re-
liable man. Besides, he had carried the
mails since the camp had been established,
and nothing had ever been missed, nor had
the slightest suspicion ever attached to him,
But the temptation was undoubtedly a great
one, and it was generally feared, if not ac-
tually believed, that he had yielded to it,
and had plundered the mail and made his
way to the North with its valuable con-
tents.

When Jo Beyins had been missing about
ten days, a farmer brought into the camp
a half-starved, dirty and dilapidated horse,
which was recognized as “ Old Ball,” the
animal that had carried Jo on his fatal jour-
ney. The farmer said that he had found
the horse wandering in the woods, and had
supposed, from the brand on his shoulder,
that he belonged in the camp. His saddle
and other accouterments, badly damaged
by rain and ill-usage, were still on. him,
and Jo’s pistols, with every barrel loaded,
were in the holsters. No marks of blood
were found, but those, if any there had
been, might have been washed off by the

rain. The farmer was detained in custody
for a while, but, as nothing could be alleged
against him, he was set at liberty.

With some of the men and officers, this
circumstance staggered their belief in Jo’s
guilt, but the majority were still inclined to be-
lieve that he had appropriated the mail for
the sake of the money contained in it. One
remembered that he had heard him speak
of his “girl” in Indiarfa, wishing that the
war was over, and that he had money
enough to settle down and marry her. An-
other called it to mind that Jo had said,
while they were cooped up behind their in-
trenchments, that he was tired of that kind
of life, and would be glad to leave the ser-
vice. And then so many incautious re-
marks were brought up, and so many insig-
nificant circumstances were tortured into
proof of an intention to commit crime, that
poor Jo Bevins was changed, in the opin-
ion of many, from an honest and good-
hearted fellow, to a hypocritical and con-
summate scoundrel, and the few who still
clung to their belief in his innocence were
so sadly in the minority, that they hardly
dared to say what they thought. He was
entered on the muster-roll as “ missing —sup-
posed to have deserted.” Accurate de-
scriptions of him were sent to the police
authorities at the head-quarters of the De-
partment and at the North, and every effort
was made to apprehend him and bring him
to justice.

Among those who obstinately continued
to believe in the innocence of Jo Beyvins,
was Henry Ainslie, the young man who had
been addressed as “ Dummy,” at the time of
Jo’s departure with the mail. He and
Bevins were from the same town in Indiana,
and a close intimacy had existed between
them since they had joined the regiment,
although they differed widely in character,
Ainslie was a silent and abstracted youth,
who commonly passed for a stupid, and was
often made a butt for the jeers and practi-
cal jokes of his comrades, all of which he
bore with patience, if not with good-humor.
Little as he had to say for himself, he was
always ready to “flare up,” when his friend
was accused of the detestable crime of steal-

ing his comrades’ letters, and to assert his

belief in the innocence of the missing mail-
carrier.

“You are a fool, Dummy,” said John
Armstrong, one of those who delighted in
bluffing the young man, “and more stupid
than I ever supposed you to be. What
“ Enough.”

reason have you for saying that that scoun-
dre] hasn’t stolen our mail?” 4

“Tf he had wanted to steal,’ answered
Ainslie,” he would have kept the horse, for
he would haye needed Old Ball to carry
him off to the North.”

“That is just what he would not have
done, you ninny, for he could disguise him-
self, and the horse would be sure tobe re-
cognized. Ifhe has not run off with the
mail, what has become of him ?”

“He may have been captured by some
guerrillas.”

“ Wouldn’t the guerrillas have taken Old
Ball as well? They would never miss
picking up such a piece of horseflesh.
Besides, there have been no guerrillas about
the country, and there was no sign of blood
on the saddle.”

“There might have been guerrillas around,
without being diseovered by us; or he may
have been shot off his horse by a bush-

whacker, and the horse may have escaped.” .

“That is still more ridiculous. The
mail was fastened to the saddle, and how
could they have got the mail, without secur-
ing the horse ?” :

“T can’t account for that,” answered
Ainslie, feeling that he had the worst of the
argument, “and I know that it all seems
strange, but nothing could ever make me
believe Jo Bevins guilty of such a mean
action, unless he should confess it him-
self.”

“You are a fool!” exclaimed Armstrong,
“and the dullest Dummy I ever saw, or you
are in cahoot with your thieving friend. I
can account for it by saying that he stole
our letters and our money, and in no other
way can it be accounted for. If you had
had as many greenbacks in that mail as I
had, I think you wouldn’t: be so ready. to
stand up for him.”

“T had a letter there,” said Ainslie, “ that
was worth more to me than money.”

“Bah! I wouldn’t give a snap of my
finger for all the letters you could ever
write. Ihave no doubt that you are to get
a share of the plunder for defending the
thief, though I shouldn’t think that any
sensible rogue would pay much to such a
stupid as you.”

Strange to say, Ainslie’s blood was up in
an instant, and he looked not atall like a
“Dummy,” as he answered :

“Tf you say that Jo Bevins stole that
mail, I believe you are a liar; and if you
insinuate that I have shared, or am to share,

Il

in the proceeds of any thieving, I know you
are a liar!”

“A liar, am I? said Armstrong, with a
malicious sneer. “ Take that for your im-
pudence !”

As he spoke, he suddenly struck Ainslie
in the face with the flat of his hand, and
the latter retorted with a blow that caused
the “ claret” to fly from the nose of ‘his an-
tagonist. A ring was quickly formed, and
a regular “set-to” was commenced, in
which Ainslie, who was now thoroughly
roused, beat and battered his insulter so
vigorously, that he was soon glad to cry
enough.

CHAPTER II.
Ainslie and his Love—Terry’s Letter.

Aurnovuer Ainslie’s successful combat
with Armstrong did not tend to. vindicate
the character of Beyins, the display of his
prowess had the effect of causing himself to
be more respected, and of putting a stop to
the too practical jests and persecutions of
some of his fellow-soldiers. Among the
friends he gained by this encounter was
Terry O'Halloran, who was a strong ad-
mirer of muscle and pluck.

“Sure, and you did right, me boy,” he
said to Ainslie, as they were sitting on a
log and sunning themselves. “ You gave
the big blaggard a good b’ating, which he
well desarved that same, and it’s! mesilf
that’s been wantin’ to thrash him, and
wishin’ he’d thrid on the tail of me coat—
more be token it’s got not a bit of a tail to
it—for this many aday. They'll be afther
leavin’ yez alone now, me boy, and if they
don’t, you may call on Terry O'Halloran, for
Tl be a find to yez aslong as grass runs
or wather grows.”

“Thank you,” answered Ainslie; “ but I
hope I shall not need your services in the
fighting line. I dislike to quarrel with my
comrades, and would put up with a great
deal from one of them, rather than strike
him, but I will never allow any man to call
me a thief.”

“ Wid the power that’s to your arm, me
son, you've no call to say that you don’t like
fightin’. As Misther Beyjns, absarved, I’ve
seen yez whin we had the fight at Coulters,
shootin’ and slashin’ wid the best of them,
Give the blaggards a taste avy your knuckles,
Dummy, me boy, and they’ll be glad to kape

 
  

 
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
    
    
   
  
  
   
  
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
   
  
    
  
    
   

   

12 Missing Joe.

their distance. But I heard yez sp’akin’ to
Armstrong about a letther you had in
Bevins’ bag, which you said it was betther
to yez than money. A precious bit av a
letther it must have been, for surely, whin
the blessed greenbacks are so scarce. I’m
jist dyin’ to know what was in that wonder-
ful letther.” y

“You look as if you would live without
knowing it. It was only a private let-
ter.”

“A private letther!. And that’s jist the
kind av aletther ’m always wantin’ to know
all about. Jist tell me what was in it, me
boy, and you'll niver repint it, for its a
friend I am to yez, and it’s a jewel of
sacrecy I am, into the bargain. Tell me,
now, macoulleen, and Ill give yez a good
drop of the crathur that’s thryin’ to burn a
hole through me canteen.”

“T don’t want any whisky,” said Ains-
lie, refusing the canteen, “ but I have no ob-
jection to telling you about the letter, if you
will promise not to laugh at me. There
was nothing wonderful about it, for it was
only a letter to my sweetheart.”

“Yer swateheart! Be jabers, but that’s
betther than the greenbacks, for surely, or
the yaller goold itsilf, for that matter. Tell
me who she is, me darlin’, and all about
her.”

“ Her name is Mary Sanborn,” answered
Ainslie, who really liked to speak of his
lady-love, when he could do so without be-
ing called “spooney.” “She lives in Indi-
ana, and is the best and dearest girl I ever
saw. There may be some who are prettier
and smarter, but there are none like her, in
my eyes. You remember when I had the
fever, a short time ago, and was a little
delirious. Well, Jo Bevins got frightened
about me, and said, in one of his letters
home, that I was dangerously ill. Mary
heard of it, and she wrote immediately, to
ask about me, and said that if I was in dan-
ger, her brother Charles would bring her
here immediately. I had nearly recovered
when I received her letter, but before I could
answer it, the rebels made their raid, and
all our mails were shut off. It must have
troubled her greatly, not to hear from me
for three weeks, while she believed that I
was so very sick, and you may be sure
that I was glad enough when I could write
and relieve her suspense. I told her that I
was quite well, and that she need give her-
self no uneasiness about me, and explained
why I had not been able to write sooner.

  

That letter was in the mail-bag that was
lost with Jo Beyins, and that is the reason
I said it was worth more than money to
me. You may imagine how much the loss
has grieved and troubled me.”

“That can J, jist. Its right you war’ in
sayin’ that the letther was worth more. to
yez than the money. But you sint her an-
other scrap o’ writin’, didn’t yez, Dummy,
me boy—Misther Ainslie I should say, beg-
gin’ yer pardon ?”

“Of course; but nearly another week
had gone by, and think what her feelings
must have been during that long time, for I
know that she loves me truly.”

“ Sorra a bit ay laughin’ matther do I see
about it, me darlin’, and there’s. not a laugh
in the heart ay Terry O'Halloran, but I’m
more like to cry, for my eyes is wet at this
minnit, wid thinkin’ av the swate one a-
mournin’ for yez as dead. And to think
that-such a purty young crathur was in love
wid a Dummy !—beggin’ yer pardon ag’in,
Misther Ainslie. “If it had been a good-
lookin’ and smooth-spoken young feller like
me, wid swate oil on his tongue and the
vargin honey on his lips, I shouldn’t ’a
wondered ; but perhaps they don’t raise dhim
kind av min in Indianny, and she did the
best she could, poor thing. Sure and there’s
no accountin’ for tastes where women is,
but it’s their nathur, and they can’t help it.
As the Scripture says, the heart ay woman
is desateful above all things, and desperate
wicked.”

“What !”

“Don’t be afther gittin’ angry, now, Mis-
ther Ainslie, dear, for there’s no offinse in-
tinded. Thim’s the blessed words av the
Howly Book itsilf, and they can’t be dispu-
ted by any man, whether he’s a Dummy or
not. And so: you don’t think Misther
Bevins stole the mails ?” .

“Think ! I no more believe he did it,
than that I stole them myself. If there
ever was an honest and truc-hearted man,
Jo Bevins is one.”

“Tf that’s what you belaye, me boy, Ill
jist belave the same mesilf, and you mustn’t
take offinse’ at what I said about you not
bein’ as good-lookin’ as mesilf, for there’s
many a true word said in jest, you know.”

“Here is a document for you, O’Hal-
loran,” said the adjutant, handing Terry a
letter, as he passed by.

“ A letther!” exclaimed Terry. ‘‘ Be the
howly poker, and who can be writin’ tome,
I wonder. It can’t be me commisshin, for

 
that ud come in the biggest kind av a let-
ther, wid six hundred yards av red tape and
a pound ay sealin’-wax on it, and what's
more I writ’ to Ould Abe, himsilf, and the
letther was lost in the bag wid Jo Bevins,
and that’s the indav it. Where do ye think
it might be from, Misther Ainslie ? he asked,
handling the enyelope as if it was a hot
potato.

“The post-mark seems to be Harrods-
burg,” answered Ainslie.

“ Harrodsburg, did you say? Be jabers,
T don’t owe a cint to any man in Harrods-
burg, and what for should they be writin’ to
me ?”

“You can easily find out by opening it,”
suggested Ainslie.

“Thrue for ye, me boy,’ said Terry, as
he carefully opened the envelope. After a
short time, which was spent in laboriously
deciphering the contents of the missive, he
jumped up with a yell, and executed a se-
ries of capers that would have done credit
to a Comanche Indian:

“ Give me joy, Dummy, me darlin’ !” he
shouted. “It’s a made man I am from this
blessed minnit! Begorra, I’m bound to be
a brigadier, and Pll make yez a capt’in on
me shtaff. This is the day ay all days, and
we must sillybrate it. I know the shpot
where we can git whisky galore, and we'll
make a night av it !”

“ What is the matter, Terry? Has your
cominission come? Have you heard from
the President ?”

“ Not yit. Ould Abe hasn’t answered me
letther, which he couldn’t do it, ay coorse,
whin it niver got to him at all, at all. But
this is jist as good, or betther.”

“Who is it from ?”

“ Misther Robert Colquitt, he signs him-
self, and he’s a mimber av Congriss. He
says me letther come into his hands acci-
denthally, and, whin he goes to Washin’ton,
he'll give it to Ould Abe, wid his own hands,
and see to, it that I git the commisshin. He
wants me to tell him the,name ay the last
O'Halloran that was a king in Ireland, as he
knows the good ould shtock, right well.”

“ What was the name of that king, Terry ?”

“ Sorra a one o’ me knows, me boy; for
T can’t remimber so far back as that, whin
it all happened long afore Twas born. But
it’s mighty aisy to invint one, and if it wasn’t
Teague O'Halloran as was the last king, it
wasnone ay thim atall,and I'll tell him that.”

“Perhaps this Mr. Colquitt is joking with
you,” said Ainslie.

   

: A Letter for Terry.

 
  

13

“Ts it jokin’? Jokin’ wid me? Id like
to see him dare to do it, the bloodhy spal-
peen! Diyil a bit is he jokin’, me darlin’.
I was half jokin’, 1 know, whin I writ to
Ould Abe, but if this chap isn’t in dead
earnest, you may have me head fer a fut-
ball. You see what it is to come ay the
O'Halloran shtock.”

“JT hope you are right, Terry, and that.
you are indeed in Tuck, but it doesn’t look
probable.”

“Probable! I tell yez, there’s niver a
bit av doubt about it. It’s all as plain as a
pikeshtaff. He says this is a bloodhy warr,
and the counthry must have more and _bet-
ther Ginerals. But howld yer tongue, Dum-
my, me darlin’, and don’t whisper a word
to any mortal man, till the commisshin
comes, for the colonel might be jealous.
Be mum as a mouse, me boy, and I'll go
and write a letther to me mimber ay Con-
griss, at onst.”

* “T don’t understand it,” said Ainslie, mu-
singly. “It seems to me to proye that our
mail was not stolen by Jo Bevins. How do

‘you suppose that letter could have got out

of the mail-bag, and have reached this Mr.
Colquitt 2”

“ That’s more than I can iver tell. Per-
haps Misther Bivins lost it. I hope the com-
misshin “will come safe anyhow.”

O'Halloran hastened ‘to write his letter,
and Ainslie, who had promised to keep
silence on the subject; went into a wondering
fit, trying to explain to himself how Terry’ 8
letter could haye come into the possession
of Mr. Colquitt of Harrodsburg. The more
he thought, the more unexplainable it seem-
ed. There was something very strange
about it, but that was the only conclusion
he could arrive at. He considered it his
duty to write to Mr. Colquitt, to gain some
information on this point, but afterward de-
cided that it would be better to wait until
Terry received an answer to his second let-
ter.

'

CHAPTER IV.
Adjutant Bartling—His Love Adventure.

A. very nice young man was Adjutant
Bartling. He had acted as adjutant of the
regiment of infantry then stationed at the
camp since its organization, and was a gen-
erel favorite with the command. His know-
ledge of the duties of his position, his strict
attention to regimental business, and his
  
  

14 Missing Jo.

undoubted bravery in action, had won him the
esteem and confidence of his superior offi-
cers, while his gentlemanly bearing and the
urbanity of his manners had secured the
respect and won the affection of the men.

Adjutant Bartling had only one fault—he
was too yain of his personal attractions.
He was good-looking, and he knew it; in
fact, he believed himself to be more hand-
some than he really was. He was scrupu-
lously neat in his attire, and spent a con-
siderable portion of his time in adorning
and beautifying his person. He boasted the
best mirror in the camp, and was fond of
admiring his own face as reflected by the
glass. This failing of Bartling’s was well
known, but his many good qualities caused
it to be overlooked. He was often jeered
and joked by his fellow officers, but their
laughter only served to increase his vanity,
as he believed it to proceed solely from
envy.

Bartling’s one fault often brought him
into scrapes, though it had never caused him
any sérious difficulty. He was very suscep-
tible, and believed his fascinations to be irre-
sistible; consequently, he supposed that
every young lady he met would be madly
in love with him, if he should condescend
to encourage the dear creatures. His vanity
cropped out in every thing that he did, said,
or wrote, though it did not prevent him from
being a capable and efficient officer. It was
especially visible in a letter which he had
written when the camp blockade was broken,
and which had formed part of Jo Bevins’
weighty mail. This letter was addressed
to a Miss Euphrasia Maddox, the daughter
of a farmer living about ten miles from the
camp. The adjutant had met the young
lady on several occasions, and had no doubt
that she had fallen a victim to his unparal-
leled attractions. He determined to permit
her to love him as much as she wished, and
had written to that effect, although, out of
tender respect for her feelings, the permission

. had been couched in rather obscure language.

He had lamented his enforced absence of
three weeks, and had requested her to ap-
point a time and place for an interview.
Bartling was sitting in bis tent with his
particular friend, Captain Mordheimer, be-
wailing the loss of his: precious epistle, and
saying as hard things as his kindly nature
would permit him to say, concerning Jo
Bevyins and the disappearance of the mail,
when he was surprised by the receipt of a
letter, evidently directed in a female hand.

No, he was not surprised, for he thought
nothing could be more natural than that he
should receive letters from young ladies, but
he wondered who could have written to him,
at that time.’

The letter had been duly mailed at some
post-office, but the post-mark was illegible,
and could. give no clue to the fair writer,
Bartling opened it, and a smile of gratified
vanity overspread his countenance, as he
read as follows:

“Dear Mx. BaRTuINe:

“T received your affectionate letter, and
oh, it made me so joyful! May I really
love you, and will you come to see me often ?
Ican not forget your beautiful eyes, your
curling hair, and your handsome face, and
I should never get tired of gazing at them.
I can not put what I think and feel on paper,
and I must see you, for I have so much to
tell you! I may not ask you to come to
the house, as pa and ma don’t like the Fed-
eral officers; but if you will meet me on
Thursday night, I will be overjoyed to see
you. A short distance this side of Mr. Har-
fleet’s, on the Richmond road, there is a
small negro cabin. I will’ be there just
after dark on Thursday night, and hope you
will come, forI am dying to meet you again.
This isa bloody war, and you must take
care of your precious life.

“Your own,
“ HUPHRASIA.”

“There, Nordheimer, what do you think
of that?” said the adjutant, complacently
stroking his mustache as he handed the
note to his friend. “If ever a girl was in
love, that young lady is experiencing the de-
lightful sensation. I flatter myself that I
have made quite an impression in that quar-
ter.”

“You seem to be in eyen better luck than
usual,” answered Nordheimer, as he slowly
perused the letter. “She writes well, but it
seems to me to be arather masculine hand.”

“Oh, that is to be expected. The ladies in
these parts are not supposed to be versed in
the delicate Italian style of writing, or in the
softer feminine graces,”

“J suppose so; but it puzzles me to tell
how she could have received your letter,
when it was lost in the bag that Jo Bevins
ran off with.”

“Yes, that is strange, but, it can be ac-
counted for. Perhaps the fellow was a lit-
tle conscience-stricken, and found a way of
sending to their destination some of the let-
ters that had no money in them, I always

  
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
     
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

 
 

na

considered Bevins a good man at heart, but
that rich mail was too great a temptation
for him.”

“That sounds reasonable,” said Nordhei-
mer. “Thisis Thursday. Will you favor
your enchantress with a visit to-night ?”

“Of course! She must not be permitted
to suffer. Say nothing about it, Nordheimer,
for I want no confidant beside you.”

“JT will be mute,” answered his friend.
“ Good-by, and may good fortune attend
you !”

The adjutant spent the greater portion
of the afternoon in “ getting himself up”
for his lady-killing expedition. His uniform
was brushed tenderly but thoroughly; his
boots were polished until they outshone the
face of a Congo darkey over a baked ’possum;
his necktie was irreproachable; “ each par-
ticular hair” on his head was carefully
combed into the proper position and given
exactly the requisite twist, and, in fine, he
looked as if he had just been brought out
of a band-box for this special occasion.

As soon as he had eaten his supper, he

mounted his horse und sallied out from the.

camp, taking the Richmond road toward
Harfleet’s farm. It was a mild and very
pleasant evening, and the rays of the setting
sun glimmered gorgeously among the fresh
foliage, making the tall trees and graceful

‘bushes and waving grasses seem like the

golden and silyer growth of fairyland. The
heart of the adjutant was hopeful, while
his horse trotted merrily over the level road,
and his bosom swelled with pride and ex-
ultation as he thought expectantly of his
conquest. He resolved that he would per-
mit this infatuated girl to love him, and
would shed the light of his countenance
upon her whenever it might be convenient ;
but, at the same time, he would so act as to
prevent her from entertaining any unwar-
rantable hopes or anticipations concerning
an alliance by marriage.

The sun had set, but its place in the sky
was well supplied by the full moon, when
Bartling approached the cabin near Harfleet’s
house, where he was to meet his énamorata.
With customary and reasonable caution, he
did not ride up to the door, but dismounted,
and led his horse into a dense portion of the
wood, where he tied the animal to a tree,
effectually concealing him from the view of
any who. might happen to pass along the
road. He then proceeded the rest of the
way on foot.

When he reached the cabin, he noticed

The Adjutants Enchantress.

 
 

15

a light shining through the window.
augured well. for his success. She was
there and expected him! Her happiness
should be delayed no longer. The blood
mounted to his cheeks, and his heart palpi-
tated, as he knocked at the rude door.

“ Come in,” said a musical voice.

The adjutant lifted the latch, and enter-
ed. Before him, bending over a table, stood
the only occupant of the room, a young lady,
neatly attired in a dark calico dress. Her
face was turned from him, and her head was
covered with a handkerchief, but Bartling
could easily perceive the symmetry of her
form and the grace of her attitude.

“My own Eupbrasia !” he ardently exclaim-
ed, clasping his hands. “At last I meet
you, Ihave flown upon the wings of love.
Allow me to kiss the fair hand that indited so

This

’ precious a letter!”

He rushed toward the damsel, but suddenly
stopped and started back in dismay, as she
turned and exhibited a countenance like that
mentioned in Solomon’s Song, “black but
comely ”-—yes, a countenance as black as a
coal, with the full lips, flat nose and woolly hair
peculiar to the African race, and with the -
‘whites of her eyes rolled up in astonishment.

 Wha—wha—what’s all dis mean?” she
indignantly asked, and then her tone soften-
edas she noticed the uniform of the intruder.
‘S’cuse me, sah; is you Massa Bartlin’ ?”

“Yes,” answered the bewildered officer.
“Where is the young lady?” = +

“What young lady? Dar’ ain’t no young
lady "bout here dat I knows ob, ’ceptin’
me.”

“ Buphrasia—Miss Maddox.
here ?” :

“Miss ’Phrasie! Why, Massa Bartlin’,
you must be crazy, to’spect dat Miss ’Phrasie
would ebber come to dis place. She’s been
up to Frankfort dese two weeks!”

“There must be some mistake,” stammer-
ed the adjutant, looking quite chopfallen.

“P raps dey is,” said the comely colored
person. “Has you fotched dem shirts?”

“What shirts ?”

“Dem shirts what you was gwine to fotch
here to-night, for me to wash and do up so
handsome.”

“J don’t know what, you mean,” said the
officer, his countenance fully expressing his
astonishment.

“Don’t know what I mean! Den you
must be crazy, for shu’, Massa Ossifier. Ain’t
your name John Henry Bartlin’ ?”

“ Yes.”

Is she not

  

 
   

16 Missing Jo.

“ Ain’t you de aajutem, or somefin’ like
dat, ob de sojer men ?”

“ Yes.”

, “ And you purtend to say dat you didn’t
send a letter to me, by a little nigger boy,
signed wid your own hand, tellin’ me "bout
dem shirts, and ‘sayin’ you'd fotch ’em here
to-night ?”

“T never wrote such a letter.”

“Now,I know you's lyin’ to mé,” ex-
claimed the negress, “like a mean, yeller-
backed, hungry, hound dog. You jist want-
ed to come here a-sultin’ me, ’cause I’s.a lone
cullud woman, and you thought you mought
scar me to deff. Git out ob dis house in a
hurry, you dogoned sneak, and don’t nebber
show your ugly face here again !”

As the indignant ebony advanced upon
him with a poker, the adjutant, considering
a combat with such an antagonist entirely
beneath his dignity, beat a hasty retreat out
of the door, but he was not quick enough
to escape a portion of the contents of a pail
of dirty water, which the woman picked up
and threw after him.

With soiled uniform, and in a very dis-
consolate state of mind, Bartling got his
horse, and rode back to the camp, where he
found his friend, Captain Nordheimer,
awaiting him in his tent.

“ How soon you have returned, Bartling !”
exclaimed the captain. “I had not ex-
pected you back for two hours. Didn’t you
gee the fair damsel? Why, what’s the mat-
ter with you, man? You look as if you
had fallen in a puddle.”

Reluctantly, and with a sad heart, the ad-
jutant told his doleful tale, and it required
all his friend’s politeness and self-control to
suppress his mirth as the narration pro-
gressed.

“Did you see the letter that the darkey
said she had received ?” asked Nordheimer.

“No; I hardly had time.”

“ Ai! you were ‘took with a leaving,
just then. I wish you had got it. It might
haye thrown some light on this mystery.
This is the strangest thing yet, and it fairly
beats the Old Nick. Some one has been
making game of you, Bartling—some one
who knew you pretty well, too; and it must
have been some man of this command.
Whoever he was, he certainly must have
seen the letter you wrote to Miss Maddox,
and how did he get it? I am worse puzzled
than I was before.”

“You must not say any thing about it, my
dear fellow,” said Bartling—*not on any

consideration. I would not have it known
in camp for a year’s pay.”

Nordheimer promised to be discreet, and
kept his word, but he lay awake a long time
that night, pondering the mystery.

CHAPTER. Y.

The Mystery Deepens—A Bad Bill—Terry
hears from Harrodsburg.

Joun ArMstTrRone, the young soldier who
delighted in annoying Ainslie, and with
whom “Dummy” had had a quarrel and a
fight concerning Jo Bevins and the lost
mail, was a Kentuckian, from the neighbor-
hood of Covington. He was married, and
it was supposed that he was not on very
good terms with his wife, as letters seldom
passed between them, and as Armstrong
found almost any use for his pay when he
received it, except sending it home.

He had happened, however, to be in a
more generous mood when he was last paid
off, and had written to his wife, inclosing a
ten-dollar greenback. The letter had - been
in the mail that was sent under charge of Jo
Beyins, and, as a matter of course, had been
lost or stolen with the rest. Armstrong
felt himself greatly aggrieved in being one
of the sufferers by the missing mail-carrier,
and often spoke of his calamity, saying that
he had sent the last money he had to his
wife, who was really in need of it. To be
sure, he increased the sum, in his statements,
to twenty dollars, but his comrades were not
aware of that exaggeration, and they pitied
him, while they pitied his wife much more.
This pity was so substantial, that they made
up a purse for him to send to her in place of
the missing money, and Armstrong actually
forwarded to her a portion of the amount
he thus received. This, howeyer, did not
prevent him from bewailing his misfortune,
or from abusing Jo Beyins on every pos-
sible occasion as one of the meanest of
thieves.

Two days after he had sent home this last
letter, containing a part of the money given
him by his comrades, Armstrong was aston-
ished at the receipt of this unaccountable
and unpleasant document :

“Somerset, Ky., June 21st.
“Mr. Jomn ARMSTRONG:

“This is to inform you that your wife,
Mrs. Sarah Armstrong, is now stopping at
my house in this town. She wishes me to

    
  
 
   
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
   
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
   
  
  
   
A Bad Bill. 17

forward to you the inclosed counterfeit ten-
dollar bill, which you sent her a short time
ago, and to say that she is ashamed of you
for treating her so meanly. As soon as she
received the money, and discovered that it
was bad, she set out to visit you, but on
reaching this place she was taken sick, and
is unable to proceed further. As she is en-
tirely destitute of money, she wishes you to
send her some assistance immediately. I
have written at the request of Mrs. Arm-
strong, as she is too weak to hold a pen.
“Yours, etc.,

“Jomn W. Emory.”

John Armstrong, as may be supposed,
was completely “taken aback” by this un-
expected epistle. Here was another snarl
of the tangled skein that had resulted from
Jo Beyins’ villainy, and Armstrong’s indig-
nation hardly knew how to express itself
He had, also, another and more grievous
cause of complaint against “ Dummy,” for
Ainslie had changed a twenty-dollar bill for
him, giving him two tens, and the bill that
hehad sent to his wife was one of those tens.

It would never do, he thought, for his
wife to visit him there. He would prefer to
have his head shaved and be drummed out
of the camp to the disgrace that would fol-
low an exposure of his character. She
must be sent to her home as soon as possible.
But there she was at Somerset, sick, penni-
less, and probably in debt, and he had but
little left of the money that had been con-
tributed by his comrades. He determined
that he would see “ Dummy” immediately,
and get a good ten-dollar bill from him,
which would help the matter to some ex-
tent.

Accordingly, without stopping to con-
sider, or to inquire how the Jost letter could
have reached his wife, he started to seek
Ainslié. He found that young man, and
took him aside, as he did not wish the mat-
ter made public.

“Look here, ‘Dummy,’” said he, “do
you know that you changed me a twenty-
dollar bill, and gaye me a bad ten?”

“T remember changing the pill,” answer-
ed Ainslie, “but am sure that I gave you
good money, for it was some that I had re-
ceived from the paymaster.”

“T don’t know any thing about that, but I
know that I sent one of the bills to my
wife, and now a man sends it back to me,
from Somerset, Where she is at present, and
says it is counterfeit, Here is the bill and
you can judge for yourself.”

Ainslie took the bill and looked at it.
There was no doubt that it was a counter-
feit, and a very palpable one. He asked
Armstrong to let him sce the letter from
Somerset, and the latter handed it to him
with some reluctance. Ainslie read it, and
for several minutes seemed lost in thought,
as he carefully examined the writing and
the envelope.

“ That looks all fair and square,’ he said
at last, “and very probable. John Arm-
strong, I will tell you what I will do. I
am sure that I did not give you that bill;
but I want no difficulty with you, or with
any other comrade. Besides, there is a mys-
tery about this matter that I would like to
get to the bottom of If you. will let me
have that letter, I will give you a good bill
in place of that one, and another ten to
match it.”

“ All right,” said Armstrong, who was
agreeably surprised.

“Come to my tent, then, and I will hand
you the money.” i

“T thought,” remarked Ainslie, as he gaye
Armstrong the ifentical twenty-dollar bill
that he had changed for him, “that your
letter containing money was in the mail
that was lost.”

“So it was.”

“How, then, do you suppose it could
have reached your wife, if Jo Bevins stole
the mail ?”

“Perhaps he didn’t care to keep a letter
with a bad bill in it. But I reckon you and
he know more about that than I do.”

“Take care what you say, John Arm-
strong,” said Ainslie, with a warning look.
“ Give me the letter.”

“That chap seems to have plenty of
thoney,” muttered Armstrong as he walked
away. “I reckon he knows more about
the mystery. than he would choose to tell.”

Henry Ainslie sat in his tent, and thought
and wondered. He wondered how Arm-
strong’s letter could have reached his wife,
and if, indeed, it ever Had reached her. He
was sure that he had not given Armstrong
the bill that had been sent back from Som-
erset, and more than suspected his late an-
tagonist of an attempt to cheat him. He
concluded that he would write to Somerset,
to ascertain if the statements in the letter
were true. If they proved to be so, he
would be inclined to believe it possible that
Bevins had really purloined the mail, and
had forwarded some of the letters to their
owners; if not, then Armstrong should be

 
   
    
   
   
   
  
  
   
   
  
   
   
  
   
   
  
 
   
    
  
   
    
  
  
   
    
  
   
  
   
   
  
  
    

18 Missing Jo.

punished. On second thought, he consider-
ed it best to try to get leave to make a per-
sonal visit to Somerset.

As he was thus cogitating, Terry O’Hal-
loran rushed into the tent, with a wonder-
fully elongated visage.

“ Misther Ainslie, me boy,” exclaimed the
Trishman, “ you're jist the chap I was search-
in’ for. It’s a broken man that’s before you
now, and I’m intirely crazy, wid the throuble
that’s on me, let alone the disapp’intment.”

“What's the matter, now, Terry ?”

“Matther enough, sure, and worse than
matther, for it’s mortification that’ll be the
death ay me, an’ no surgeon can cure it.
You remimber the letther I writ to Misther
Colquitt, the Mimber ay Congriss up to Har-
rodsburg, about the O’Hallorans, and about
me bein’ made a brigadier.”

“Yes; have you heard from him ?”

“ Heard! . Does a man hear the thunder
whin he’s sthruck wid lightnin’? He says
he niyer saw me letther to Ould Abe, and
niver writ a word to me at all; that he
don’t know anythin’ about the O’Hallorans,
and don’t want to—bad ’cess to him, the
dirty thafe, whin the blood av the O’Hal-
lorans is partly Frinch, and as much betther
than his own as good whisky is betther than
ditch wather. And he says, Misther Ains-
lie dear, that he ain’t a bit ov a Mimber av
Congriss, either, and he niver wants to see
Ould Abe, unless he can see him in his cof-
fin. The blaggard—Tld like to be a briga-
dier jist for a day or two, toarrest him, and
tache him manners wid a shtick!”

“Show me the letter,” said Ainslie.

Terry handed him the document which
had excited his indignation, and Ainslie read
it, and compared it carefully with that
which had previously been received from
Harrodsburg. For a while he mused with
a puzzled expression, and then laid down
the papers with a sigh. : ;

“You have no cause to*blame this man,”
he said) “It is plain that some one must
have been writing to you in his name, for
the handwriting in this letter is very differ-
ent from that in the other. ‘Who, in the
name of wonder can it haye been, and how
can he haye got possession of the letter that
you wrote to the President?  Z'hat is the
mystery we must solve if we can.”

“ You're right, me boy !” exclaimed Terry.
“You’ye hit thenail on the head, for surely.
dist solve the mysthery, and thin we'll know
all about it. But, be jabers, whin I come
to think, that’s the very thing we can’t do.

It was a blessed work, anda tough job, for
saint Pathrick to dhrive the shnakes out uy
Treland, but it’s harder work he would have
to do to diskiver what has become of Jo
Bevins and the mail. I wish the howly
saint would risurrict himsilf, and take a
turn at it, anyhow.”

“Tt is certain,” said Ainslie, “ that the man
who sent you that first letter had seen the
letter that you wrote to Washington, but I
can’t, for the life of me, imagine how he
got ‘hold of it. I wish you would leaye
these letters with me, Terry. I want to
think over this matter.”

“Ts it thinkin’ you're afther wantin’ to do?
Shan’t I bring you a drap ay whisky ?”

“No, thank you; that would not help
me.”

“T can niver do any thinkin’ widout it.
Dummy, me boy, good-day to yez, and good
luck to your thinkin’ !”

“Be the howly poker !” ejaculated Terry,
anew idea seeming to strike him after he
had left the tent. “He talks about mysthery
as pat as a praste. I jist wondher, now, if
he didn’t make the letther himself, for, he
knew all I’d been writin’ to Misther Linkin.
Ah, Dummy, me boy, you're sly as an ould
fox, but you’d betther kape your eyes open,

”

or Terry O’Halloran will catch yeza-nappin’.

CHAPTER VI.

Bevins Heard From—A Night Expedition
and its Results.

’ Henry Arysiie intended to go to Somer-
set the day after his interview with Arm-
strong, but he could not obtain permission
to do so, and would not have gone, if the
permission had been given, for there was
such a ferment in the camp, just then, as it
had not known in along time. Indeed, the
excitement far surpassed that which had
followed the first announcement of the great
rebel raid. This was caused by nothing
less than a letter from the missing Jo Beyins
himself! It was addressed to Captain Nord-
heimer, who commanded the company of
which Bevins was a member, and had been
handed to one of the picket-guard by a little
negro boy. The captain was at first very
angry with the soldier, because he had not
detained the boy, but his anger cooled down
when he learned that the man was not ac-
quainted with Bevins’ handwriting, and had
no reason to suspect that there was any

 
 

The Plot

thing strange or unusual about the mis-
sive.

This letter had no date, and its one
were as follows:

“CapTAIn NoRDHEIMER :

“T suppose you have wondered what has
become of me. I was captured by a party
of guerrillas, and am still a prisoner in their
hands. I have attempted to make my es-
cape, but the attempt was unsuccessful. I
have a chance to write a few words, which
I think I can send you, to tell you how to
trap the whole gang. You know the heavy
woods southeast of the camp, where the hills
commence. A blind road leads off from the
turnpike. After following that road about
half a mile, you come toa deep gully, where
it seems to stop, but if you go on further,
you reach a clearing, The guerrillas are
now in that gully and in the clearing. There
are about twenty of them, and if you bring
sufficient force on Sunday night, I think you
can take them. If they should happen to
be away, you can capture a corral of horses
which they have collected there, and are
keeping in the clearing. I hope you will
get them all, and will rescue me.

“ Respectfully yours, Josep Bevuys.”

As soon as Captain Nordheimer had read
the letter, he hastened to the quarters of
Major Patten, who commanded the cavalry,
and laid it before him. Colonel White and
several other officers were summoned, and a
regular council of war wags held over the
important document.

There could be no doubt that the letter
had been written by Jo Bevins. It was
carefully compared with specimens of his
handwriting that, had been left in his tent,
and was found to agree with them. Several
of his comrades, who knew him best, testi-
fied to the authenticity of the manuscript,
and the signature was certainly his.

The question, then, was settled at last,
and the mystery was solved. Poor Jo, who
had been so unjustly suspected, and so cru-
elly accused, was not guilty, after all. He
had not committed the mean and detestable
crime of stealing the letters of his comrades,
but had been, as his well-wishers hoped was
the case, captured by a sneaking and treach-
erous enemy, who had robbed his mail and
had detained him as a prisoner.

The officers who were in council, with
the exception of Adjutant Bartling and Cap-
tain Nordheimer, knew nothing of the letters
that had been received in answer to some
that were sent in Jo’s mail. Bartling was

Thickens. 19
ashamed to show the note that purported to
be from Euphrasia Maddox, as it would lead
to an exposure of his unpleasant adventure,
and Nordheimer, as he had promised, also
kept the secret.. They could only conclude
that some of the guerrillas might have been
actuated by a spirit of diableric, or that the
mail, after they had rifled it of its valuable
contents, might have fallen into the hands
of some scamp, who had thought it an ex-
cellent opportunity to play pranks and make
mischief.

Among the men in the camp the feeling
was one of general joy and gratification, at
learning that their friend and comrade was
innocent. Those who had been the loudest
in accusing him, were the first to retract
what they had said, and to proclaim the
glad news. As for Armstrong, he did not
care to speak of the letter he had received
from Somerset, as it would disclose a family
secret that he wished to hide, and O'Halloran
was equally silent on the subject of his let-
ter from the “ Mimber ay Congriss.” Ainslie
had little to say, but he looked intensely
happy, and hoped that his friend would soon —
be released, and enabled to tell the whole
story.

“Do you know, Misther * Ainslie,” said
Terry, “that I was afther suspicthin’ yez 0’
playin’ a thrick on me, whin I got that last
letther, because it was yersilf that knew what
Td written to Ould Abe? And now it turns
out that it was nayther yersilf nor Misther
Beyins, but jist some dirthy thafe ay a guer-
rilla. IfI could lay my tin fingers on the
throat av him, I'd tache him not to meddle.
wid the private affairs av gintlemin.”

“T can hardly think that any of the guer-
rillas played that trick,” answered Ainslie.
“T can’t conceive what motive they could
have had in doing so. It seems more prob-
able that they may have thrown away the
letter, or lost it, after opening it, and some
one who was inclined to practical jokes, may
have picked it up and used it. But it is
proved that Jo Bevins is not the mean man
that some have accused him of being, and
that is enough good news for one day.”

“Yis, Misther Ainslie; that is a blessed
consolation, for surely. It is just what you
always said, and you shtuck to it like a
man.”

It was quickly decided by the council of
officers, that the guerrillas must be capturéd,
if possible, and that Beyins must be rescued,
Preparations were made accordingly and on
the appointed night a strong detachment of

 
 

20

cavairy set out from the camp, under com-
mand of Major Patten himself, to surprise
the rebels in their den. Ainslie and O’Hal-
loran were in the party.

Tt was'a wild, uncultivated and thinly
settled region through which the expedition
passed. The men rode briskly until they
reached the forest spoken of by Bevins, when
they proceeded more slowly, a scouting party
being sent in advance to reconnoiter. There
was an old, half-worn-out. moon in the sky,
but it was obscured by dark and heavy
clouds, and the night, as Major Patten said,
was as dark as the heart that conceived the
rebellion.

Tt was very difficult to find the “blind
road” mentioned in the letter, but it was at
last discovered, and proved to be a mere
bridle-path, leading into the almost impene-
trable forest. The party could only proceed
in single file, and were frequently compelled
to halt and dismount, for the purpose of
removing obstructions that blocked their
course.

When they had worked ‘their way
through this narrow path, a short distance,
the horse of the man in front suddenly
stumbled and fell, pitching his rider over
his head. Major Patten who was following
him, also dropped, though he managed to
keep his seat. It was then perceived that
a rope was stretched across the path from
tree to tree, by which the horses’ feet had
been tripped. The rope was cut, as was
also another, which was found a few rods
further on.

“We will soon have them,” said the
major. “They have doubtless placed these
obstructions here for the purpose of blocking
the path, and getting notice of the approach
of an enemy. We must go on silently and
cautiously.”

He ordered his men to dismount and pro-
ceed the rest of the way on foot, leaving a
guard. with the horses, and bringing halt-
ers for the animals they expected to capture.

With as little noise as possible, the party
moved on, until they reached the head of
the ravine, or gully, which Bevins had de-
scribed, where they were halted, for the
smoke and smoldering embers of a’ fire
were plainly visible below them. Major
Patten directed the soldiers to surround the
ravine as completely as possible, and, at the
signal of a pistol-shot, to rush down and
capture the guerrillas. It was supposed

. that they would be taken by surprise, and
would offer little, if any, resistance.

ing” that Bevins had mentioned.

Missing Jo. ‘

After sufficient time had been given for
the men to take their positions, Major Pat-
ten fired his pistol, and from both sides they
scrambled down, over the rocks, and through
the tangled vines and bushes. They met at
the bottom of the ravine, but found no one
there except themselves. It. was deserted,
and they got not even a glimpse of any foe.

“ Our birds have flown !” said the major,
as he sadly looked around; “and of course
they have carried poor Bevins with them.
It is possible, however, that they are not
far off, and we will look more closely.”

“ Some one has been here,” said Captain
Nordheimer,” as he pointed to the remnants
of the fire. “They must have left quite re-
cently.”

“Yes; I suppose they had a guard out,
and were warned of danger.”

The major then sent a few men through
the gully, as scouts, to examine the “clear-
They
soon returned, and reported that they could
see nothing of the rebels, but that they ob-
served a number of horses among the
stumps.

“That is better than’ nothing,” said Major
Patten. “ Forward, boys, with your halters,
and bring out the animals. ‘We may thank
Bevins for a supply of horseflesh, though we
have failed to catch the owners.”

The men went up to the clearing, and
secured a dozen fine horses, which ‘were,
indeed, a valuable prize. But it was one
thing to get them, and quite another thing
to get them away. It was impossible to
bring them down through the ravine, and
it was necessary to take a circuitous route
through the dense forest, that was clogged
by a heavy growth of underbrush and wild
vines. It was a difficult undertaking, but
lanterns were lit, and the sturdy soldiers,
working with a will, at last triumphed over
all obstacles, and cleared a way by which
the captured animals could be taken to the
bridle-path. The party then took the back
track, in single file, as before, leading their
prizes, and tediously made their way to the
turnpike.

Tt was nearly daylight when Major Pat-
ten and his command, weary and exhausted,
returned to camp. They congratulated
themselves on the acquisition of a dozen |
good horses, but were disappointed at the
loss of their expected prey, and were espe-
cially grieved at not haying been able to
effect the release of poor Jo Bevins.

—
An Indignant Farmer. 21

CHAPTER VII.

An Astounding Circumstance—Another
Council— Developments.

HENRY AiNnsLIp was as tired as his com-
rades were, when he reached the camp, and
he laid down to get a little rest. He did
not sleep much, however, for he was trou-
bled by weary dreams, and kept awake by
thoughts of his proposed visit to Somerset.
When he arose, he went to the command-
ing officer, and obtained leaye to make the
journey, and then proposed to start for
Somerset. But he had hardly mounted his
horse, when his attention was arrested, and
he was again induced to postpone his visit,
by an untisual circumstance that occurred in
the camp.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning,
when Cyrus Jennings, a well-to-do farmer,
rode up to the camp, accompanied by several
residents of the neighborhood. Being
asked his business, he said that he wished to
see Colonel White, and was conducted,
with his friends, inside of the lines, where
he found that officer walking in the pa-
rade ground, in company with Major Patten.

The colonel, who was well acquainted
with Mr. Jennings, was glad to see him,
and greeted him cordially, but the farmer
was gruff and even rude in his manner, re-
pelling the advances of the Federal official
quite roughly.

“T have come here, Colonel White,” said
he, “to ask you why your men have car-
ried off my horses ?” z

“What!” exclaimed the colonel. “Do
you mean to charge that any of my men
have stolen your horses? It is impossible,
sir, for my orders have always been very
strict, that no private property o any kind
should be taken, except on my own order
or that of Major Patten, and none of the
men are allowed to leave the camp without
permission.”

“That all sounds very well, Colonel
White, and we have believed your promises,
and for that reason have not kept our stock
and other property as close as we might
have done. But when such wholesale dep-
redations are committed, right under our
noses, We can’t help noticing them and com-
plaining of them.”

“TJ must request you to explain yourself,
forI am utterly at a loss to imagine what
you mean.” :

“ Didn’t.your men bring in a lot of horses
last night or this morning ?”

F6 2

“Yes; but I hardly think you will claim
those animals. We received reliable infor-
mation of the whereabouts of a band of
guerrillas, who had captured one of our
men, with a valuable mail, and who had a
corral of horses near their encampment. I
sent out a body of cavalry, under Major
Patten, who found that the guerrillas had
fled, but he captured the horses, and brought
them into camp.”

“Those were my horses, Colonel White,
as sure as you are standing there. I bought
them in the spring, on speculation, and had
them out to grass, in a clearing, where I
thought thieves wouldn’t be apt to find
them. As for that guerrilla story, it is all
bosh ! Somebody has been fooling you.
If there had been any guerrillas in that
neighborhood, it is likely that I would have
known it, and it is morally certain that they
would not have left my horses there till this
time,”

“This is a very strange statement, Mr.
Jennings,” said the colonel, “and you must
excuse me for saying that I can hardly be-
lieve it.”

“Well, colonel, there’s no use in having
any words about it, for it can easily be
proved. I saw the path your men cut
through the wood, and tracked the horses
over the road to this camp. Just take me
where you keep your horses, and I will en-
gage to pick out every one of mine, and if
I don’t do it, you may have them. Besides,
Ihave brought some of my neighbors with
me, who are well known men, and who can
swear to the animals.”

Colonel White looked at Major Patten,
who answered the glance with a stare of
bewilderment, and led the way to the
stables. Mr. Jennings immediately pointed
out his twelve horses—the same that had
been brought in by the cavalry expedition—
and showed a private mark upon each of
them. They were also identified by the
men who'had come with him.

There could be no doubt about this mat-
ter. Cyrus Jennings was a man of unques-
tioned loyalty, and his friends were known
as loyal and responsible men. Moreover,
the horses had been identified beyond the
possibility of a mistake, and there was noth-
ing left to do, but to return them to their
rightful owner. They were, therefore, de-
livered to him, with many apologies, and
were led away, Major Patten not thinking
it worth while to claim the halters.

The astonished and puzzled officers held

 
    
  
  
  
    
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
 
  
  
  
 
   
  
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
  
   
    
  
    
   
   
  
 
 
 
 

 

22 Missing Jo.

another council, of consultation, if not of
war, and considered the subject in the new
light that had been thrown upon it by this
last development. It was unanimously
agreed—indeed, it would have been impos-
sible to arrive at any other conclusion—that
the letter which had purported to give infor-
mation concerning the guerrillas was a hoax ;
but the question arose, who was the writer,
and why had he written it? The letter
was again produced, and carefully compar-
ed with specimens of Jo Bevins’ handwrit-
ing, and his comrades were again closely
examined, but nothing was elicited that did
not tend to confirm the belief that he had
actually written the letter. If he had, what
was his motive in so doing, and where could
he have concealed himself? It was prob-
able that he was still somewhere in the neigh-
horhood, and it was reasonable to suppose
that he had accomplices in his villainy.
Had he been acting as a spy all this time,
and had he at last gone over to the enemy ?
These were questions that no one could an-
swer.

Captain Nordheimer, who had been cast-
ing curious glances at Adjutant Bartling,
and telegraphing with him by means of his
fingers, spoke at last, with some hesitation
and reluctance.

“T think,” said he, “that Lieutenant
Bartling might be able to give some infor-

mation on this subject, if he should consider

it proper to do so.”

All eyes were turned upon the adjutant,
who blushed up to the roots of his hair,
when he thought of the information that he
might give. Being earnestly requested to
tell what he knew about. the matter, he felt
that he could not refuse, and, with a re-
proachful glance at, Nordheimer, he proceed-
ed to relate the circumstances. connected
with the letter that purported to be from
Miss Euphrasia Maddox, and with his visit
to the negro cabin, in accordance with the
request contained in that letter. His ludi-
crous narration provoked the risibilities of
the assembled officers, but they succeeded
in repressing any violent demonstration of
merriment, and Colonel White requested the
adjutant to produce the letter. He laid it
before them, and it was duly commented
upon, and served to increase their interest
and highten their wonder, without, how-
ever, affording any clue to the mystery.

During the conversation between Cyrus
Jennings and Colonel White, and while the
farmer and his friends were identifying the

 

horses that belonged to him, a number of
soldiers had gathered around them, who
had listened to what was said, and had
watched the proceedings with undisguised
astonishment. When the facts came out,
concerning the bogus guerrilla camp, and
when the horses were delivered to Mr. Jen-
nings, the news spread quickly through the
camp, and the soldiers discussed the matter
as freely, and perhaps as sagely, as their
superiors. The conclusion among them
was unanimous, that Bevins had written the
letter, and that if had been written for the
purpose of hoaxing the command, if not
with a worse intent. The. majority of the
men said, as the officers were inclined to
think, that Bevins was probably a spy, that
hé had been bought over by the enemy,
and had pursued his ayocation without ex-
citing suspicion, until he found himself able
to make a “rich haul” by securing a really
valuable mail, and had then deserted. They
went so far as to express their belief that he
had not only given verbal information to the
enemy, but had frequently purloined im-
portant correspondence from the mails in
his charge, which he had given to his rebel
friends. Those of the cavalry who had
gone on the expedition of the night before,
were well laughed at, and were styled the
“ Horse Stealers,” a sham general order be-
ing circulated through the camp, giving
them permission to inscribe “ Twelve
Herses” on their colors. As for the fugi-
tive Jo Bevins, he was thoroughly anathe-
matized, and denounced as a scoundrel of
the deepest dye.

Henry Ainslie, who had maintained a dis-
creet silence, and who was as completely
puzzled by this new development as any of
his comrades, thought that the time had
come for him to tell what he knew, as it
might throw some light upon this strange
affair. He asked for and obtained admis-
sion to the council of perplexed officers, and
first laid before them the letter that Arm-
strong had received from Somerset, relating
the circumstances which had led to it and
the manner in which he had obtained it,
declaring his certainty that he had not
given Armstrong the ten-dollar bill that was
returned in the letter. With his usual kind-
ness of heart, although he felt that he had
been wronged, he requested the officers not
to afflict Armstrong by making it public, as
it might tend to bring him into disrespect
with his comrades.

He then showed them the letter Terry

   

 
 

The Investigation. 23

O’Halloran had first received from Har-
rodsburg, purporting to be written by Rob-
ert Colquitt, and the genuine letter from Mr.
Colquitt, that had subsequently arrived.
When he described Terry’s expectations, and
the style and matter of the letter which he
had sent in Jo Bevins’ mail-bag, and of that
which he had written to Harrodsburg, the
listeners gave vent to their mirth in explo-
sive bursts of laughter, and eyen the gloomy
features of Adjutant Bartling relaxed, when
he Jearned that he had not been the only
person victimized, although his companion
in misfortune was only an Irish private.

Ainslie was dismissed by the officers,
and John Armstrong was summoned before
them. When he was asked about the let-
ter from Somerset, he admitted that he had
received it, and confirmed what Ainslie had
said. Naturally enough, he was angry
with the young Indianian, because the lat-
ter had felt it his duty to expose this pri-
vate matter, and he did not omit the oppor-
tunity of endeavoring to do him an injury.
He more than hinted that Ainslie knew
something concerning the missing mail and
its carrier that he did not choose to disclose,
and suggested it as probable that he was a
sharer with Bevins in the proceeds of the
robbery.

“What reason haye you for entertaining
such a suspicion ?” asked Colonel White.

“ Because, sir,” answered Armstrong, “he
was always so thick with Bevins, and be-
cause he seems to haye plenty of money,
and because he was so ready to give mea
good ten-dollar bill in place of that bad one,
and another ten for the letter.”

“That certainly seems strange,” said’ the
colonel, “but if he wished to conceal the
matter, he would not have told it to us so
openly and boldly.”

Armstrong could only remark, malicious-
ly, that perhaps the young man wanted to
turn State’s evidence, and he was permitted
to retire, to give place to Terry O’Halloran,
who was quite indignant when the Harrods-
burg letters were produced, and he was ask-
ed if Ainslie’s statement was true.

“ Indeed, sir,’ answered Terry, “I can’t
ixacthly say but what it might be bordherin’
on the truth, or thereabouts, though for
what that shtupid divil av a Dummy should
be afther tellin’ it to yez is what I’m won-
dherin’ at, as well I may, and faix I may
say that it’s niver the likes ay Terry O’Hal-
loran that would be spakin’ to yer honors,
as you're sittin’ there in judgment, about

a dirthy thafe av a shecessionist who had
the impidince to say that he niver wanted
to see our illigant Ould Abe ixcipt he could
see him in his coffin, bad ’cess to him—.
more be token he said he didn’t know noth-
in’ about the O’Hallorans and didn’t want
to, which it shows his ignorance I’m sure,
poor sowl, and dhraftin’ is too good for such
a bloodhy baste !”

“ Just tell us, O'Halloran,” said Colonel
White, “without using so many words,
whether you received these letters, and
whether Ainslie has told us the truth.”

“AsI told yez,” said Terry, “I won't
deny that I might have got the dirthy
letters, though how they iver got into the
camp is more than I can purtend to give a
guess at. And I won’t deny, nayther, that
there might be the laste particle ay truth in
what has been said to yez, for far be it from
me to accuse Misther Ainslie of lyin’, whin
Iniver knew him to do that same, lastewise
to my knowledge, though divil a bit should
I wondher if it turned out that Dummy
himsilf was at the bottom ay all the mis-
chief.”

Terry was dismissed, and the officers con-
sidered the matter with as much serious-
ness as the ridiculous features of it would
allow, and thought that it required the
strictest investigation. They concluded,
firstly, that Jo Bevins had stolen the mail,
and, as a matter of course, had appropria-
ted the money; secondly, that he had writ-
ten, or caused to be written, with some ma-
licious or mischievous intent, the letters to
Adjutant Bartling, to O'Halloran and to
Armstrong; and, thirdly, that he must still
be in the neighborhood. They could not
explain why he lingered in that part of the
country, except on the supposition that he
was really a spy, in the pay of the enemy,
and was concealed by some person of rebel
proclivities in the vicinity.

As for Ainslie, they thought that there
was some reason to suspect him of being an
accomplice, or of knowing more about the
affair than he ought to, and it was deter-
mined to put him under surveillance,

 

CHAPTER VIII.
A Visit to Somerset—More Mystery.

ALrHoveH it was the unanimous opin-
ion of both officers and men in the camp,
that Jo Bevins was guilty, Henry Ainslie
 

24

was slow to share in the general belief,
even when that conclusion did not seem to
admit of a doubt. He was sure that Bevins
was an honorable man, and could not con-
sider him a spy, especially as he knew that
Jo had enlisted, as he himself had done,
from patriotic motives.

Yet, he was equally certain that Bevins
had written the letter concerning the guer-
rilla camp and the horses, and that puzzled
him more than any thing else. Perhaps the
men who had captured him had ferced him
to do it; but what object could they have
had in wishing to send a party of Union
cavalry on a wild-goose chase? Besides,
Bevins was a brave man, and not one to be
forced into such a thing.

Ainslie’s conclusion, like Jack Bunsby’s
argument about the ship, lay “in two
pints.” Either Bevins had stolen the mail,
or he had been, as he had said, captured by
guerrillas, If he had stolen the mail, why
did he not make off with his plunder, in-
stead of lingering in that part of the coun-
try, where he was, to say the least, in great
danger of being apprehended ? If the mail
had been taken by guerrillas, who were
they, where did they come from, and why
had they never been seen or heard of ? What
possible ‘motive could they have had in an-

swering the letters of O'Halloran, the adju-

tant, and Armstrong—if, indeed the letter
from Somerset was really a hoax? Again,
if Jo Bevins was an honest and innocent
man, why did he give the information which
was so evidently false, concerning the bogus
guerrilla camp?” Taken all together, the
evidence bore so strongly against Bevins,
that it required all Ainslie’s charity, and his
knowledge of the previous unblemished
character of his friend, to believe even in the
possibility of his innocence.

As nothing more occurred to turn him
from his purpose, he mounted his horse and
set out for Somerset. He wished to learn
whether the counterfeit ten-dollar bill had
really been returned by Armstrong’s wife,
or whether that young man of lax morality
had been swindling him. If it should prove
that the letter had really been sent from
Somerset, he would be disposed to share the
belief of his comrades.

He arrived at Somerset after a pleasant
ride, inquired for John W. Emory, and
learned that that individual was the proprie-
tor of an inn at the town, called the “ Eagle
Hotel.” Proceeding thither,he found that
it was a very respectable house, and that the

Missing Jo.

landlord was a portly, good-humored and
communicative person, who received him
very kindly.

Ainslie showed him the letter to Arm-
strong, and asked him if he had written it.
Mr. Emory’s countenance expressed his as-
tonishment as he read it.

“T did not write that letter,” said he, “or
any thing like it, nor have I ever seen it be-
fore. There is not,and has not been, any
lady named Armstrong stopping at my house.
There is a letter here, that lately arrived, for
a Mrs. Sarah Armstrong, but I know no-
thing of her. I supposed her to be some
one who would shortly arrive here, and I
have retained the letter for her.”

“Do you know the handwriting of this
letter to John Armstrong ?” asked Ainslie.

“No, sir. It looks somewhat like the
writing of our county clerk, but of course it
can't be his doing. It is a much better
hand than I can write.”

“ Will you show me the letter that you
have received for Mrs, Armstrong ?”

“ Certainly.”

Mr. Emory produced the letter, and hand-
ed it to the young man, who examined the
envelope and instantly perceived that it was
directed in Armstrong’s handwriting, and
that it had been sent from the camp.

It was easy to arrive at the conclusion
that Armstrong had not been attempting to
swindle him, but had really been deceived
by some designing person; but Ainslie could
imagine no better or worse object for
the deception than that of mere annoyance,
as in the cases of O'Halloran and Bartling. |
He was almost certain, now, that Bevins had
stolen the mail, but he was still in the dark
concerning his motive in remaining there
and playing such mischievous pranks upon
his comrades.

“T know the writer of this letter to Mrs,
Armstrong,” he said to the landlord. “It
is her husband, whois one of my comrades.
He was induced to believe by that letter
which purported to have come from you, that
she was here, sick and in need, and I gave
him some money to send to her. If you
will give me the letter, I will return it to
him.”

“Why didn’t he come to see her himself,
and bring the money ?” asked Mr. Emory.

“Tt is a long story, but the short of it is
that they are not on good terms with each
other, and ‘there may be some other private
reason that I know nothing about.”

“JT don’t know about giving you this

‘

 
 

Dummy Suspected.

letter without an order from Mrs. Armstrong
or from the writer. For all I know, she
may soon arrive here and claim it.”

“T assure you, upon my honor, that it
will be all right, and will make oath, if you
wish, to the effect that I will deliver the let-
ter to the writer.”

“That would be of no use. Such an
oath would not be binding in law, and per-
haps the letter ought not to be returned to
the writer.”

“Will you send it to John Armstrong,
and write hima note, explaining the cir-
cumstances ?”

“No, sir; I could not send the letter, be-
cause I don’t know any John Armstrong,
and have only your word that there is such
aman, and your word can go for nothing,
as I am not acquainted with you. I will
write to this John Armstrong, if you wish,
and tell him about the letter and ask him
what I shall do with it.”

Ainslie felt perplexed, for he wanted that
letter. He knew that his intention was an
honest one, and thought that the landlord
had no right to suspect him.

“You*can safely let Ainslie have that let-
ter, Mr. Emory,” said a soldier who stood
near. “I will guarantee you that it is all
right.”

Ainslie looked around in surprise, and re-
cognized an infantry sergeant, a shrewd and
intelligent man, who was acting as Colonel
White’s orderly.

“Very well, Mr. Lefferts,” said the land-
lord. “If you say so, he shall have the
letter.”

He then handed Ainslie the document,
taking his receipt for it, and the young
man mounted his horse, and rode back to-
ward the camp.

Before he had proceeded far, he noticed
that some person was following him, and
when he got to camp he perceived that that
person was Serg’t Lefferts, who arrived there
directly after Ainslie had entered the lines,

As soon as the young man had taken care
of his horse, he sought John Armstrong,
whom he soon found.

“ John Armstrong,” said he, as he held
out his hand, “TI believe I have an apology
to make to you””

“T think so, too,” answered Armstrong,
refusing the proffered hand, “and it must be
something More than an apology that will
satisfy me. Why did you show that letter
to the officers, and tell them all about my
wife and that ten-dollar bill ?”

25

“T thought it my duty to do so. I thought
it might throw some light on the mystery.”

“ Mystery be blowed! There is precious
little mystery about it to my thinking, and I
reckon the whole camp will soon see it in
the same light. But what do you want to
say to me now ?”

“T wish to apologize to you, Armstrong,
not for any thing I haye done or said, but
for my suspicions. When you showed me

-the letter from Somerset, and the counter-

feit bill, I suspected that you were trying to
swindle me, as I was sure that I had not
given you that money.”

“Humph! I reckon the only swindling
that has been going here has been done by
you and Jo Bevins. What makes you
think, now, that I ain't a rogue ?”

“You wrote a letter to your wife, direct-
ed to Somerset, supposing she was there ?”
“Yes, I did. How did you know it?”

“Thave been to Somerset, and have sgen
Mr. Emory. He told me that Mrs. Arm-
strong had not been there; that he had not
written the letter to you, and knew nothing
about it,”

“Thunder! And I sent her twenty dol-

_lars to go home with.”

‘““T was then sure,” continued Ainslie,
“that you were deceived, instead of trying
to deceive. Mr. Emory gave me the letter
to bring back to you, and here itis. It is
none of my business, I know, but I hope
you will send the money to your wife.”

“T shall do just as I please, and I don’t
consider that I owe you any thanks for un-
doing your own mischief.” :

“Take care how you talk, Armstrong.
For my part, I mean to do’ my best to un-
twist this tangle.”

“T don’t doubt that you can do it,” said
Armstrong, with a sneer. “None can find
as well as those who hide.”

“ Armstrong, if Ihear you say any thing
like that again, I will flog you.”

“Pitch in and try it, then. I wish: you
would, and get yourself in the guard-house.
It won’t be long before you will be there -
with a ball and chain on your leg.”

As Ainslie turned and walked away, he
perceived Sergeant Lefferts, who had doubt-
less been a listener to all that was said. He
also noticed that the sergeant remained,
and entered into conversation with Arm-
strong.

He naturally came to the conclusion that
he was suspected, and that a watch had
been set upon him.
‘ing wink.

26 Missing Jo.

CHAPTER IX.
Another Letter for Terry—Suspicions.

Iv was not the nature of Terry O’Hal-
loran to bear malice. He had been quite
angry with Henry Ainslie for exposing his
starry expectations of a brigadiership, and
for showing the bogus letter that he had re-
ceived from Harrodsburg ; but his anger was
evanescent, and was soon changed to admi-
ration of what he considered Ainslie’s splen-
did talent for mischief, if not for something
more reprehensible. It was with a merry
look and a knowing smile that he greeted
Ainslie, the morning after the return of the
latter from Somerset.

“The top av the mornin’ to yez, Misther
Ainslie. It’s a fine mornin’ to lay low for
black ducks and mail-bags. What mischief
have you got in your head this mornin’ ?”

“No mischief, I hope, Terry.”

“ Ay coorse not; but sure and it ain’t long
you can rest widout shtartin’ somethin’ new.
Who will you be afther pouncin’ onto the
nixt ?”

“T don’t know what you mean,” answered
Ainslie.

“ Av coorse not, me boy. That’s all un-
dhershtood, and Terry O’Halloran would be
the last to blow on yez, for I’d always like
a plucky man and a shmart one, if he was
the biggest thafe in the worruld. But you
must be careful who you play your thricks
wid, Misther Ainslie, for it isn’t ivery one
would take it as aisy as mesilf, and more be
token, you're suspicted and watched at this
minnit.”

“Watched! Why am I watched? How
do you know it ?”

“ What's aisier than to see it? It isn’t
Sergeant Lefferts, me boy, would be follerin’
yez around for nothin’? Set a thafe to catch
a thafe, is the ould sayin’, though I’m sure
I don’t know anythin’ against the sergeant,
but belave him to be an honest man,
wid not the laste bit avy a thafe about
him.”

“Do you think J am a thief, Terry ?”’

“Av coorse not, Misther Ainslie, me dar-
lin’,” answered the Irishman, with a know-
“Tm mum as & mouse, and will
niver tell tales on a friend. Av coorse you
didn’t sind me that letther from Harrods-
burg, which I thought it was from a Mim-
ber ay Congriss, and he promised me I
should be a bully brigadier, and wanted to
know all about the O’Hallorans—ay coorse
not. And av coorse you hayen’t taken the

throuble to sind me another letther all the
way from New York.” :

“ Another letter!’ exclaimed Ainslie.
“You surely can’t have received a bogus let-
ter from New York.”

“But I have, that. You didn’t think it
would come so soon, did you, me boy? I
guess you must have sint it be the telegraft.
I got the letther yistherday, and it’s in me
pocket at this minnit.”

“Will you let me'see it?” asked Ainslie,
anxious for more light on this dark subject.

“ Ay coorse. I haven’t opened it at all,
but have kept it for yez, for no man can
rade writin’ aisier than him who writ it.”

Terry took a letter from his pocket, and
handed it to Ainslie, who scrutinized the di-
rection and the postmark.

“ This letter has certainly come from New
York,” said he. ‘“ At least, there is the New
York postmark on the envelope. I can’t
imagine how a letter could have been sent
from this camp, or from this neighborhood,
to New York, and returned here, since our
mail was lost. May I open it ?”

“Av coorse. Who has a betther right ?
I'm wantin’ to see what the joke av it is.”

“T think I can safely assure you that,there -
is no joke about this,” said Ainslie, as he
opened the letter, and read as follows:

“New York, June 8th, 1863.
Mr. TERENCE O'HAttoran, Fourth In-
diana Cavalry, Camp White, Ky: :

“DeEaR Stir: This is to inform you that
your respected uncle, Timothy O’Halloran,
lately died in this city. By his will he di-
rected that his property should be equally
divided between yourself and your brother,
Michael O’Halloran. In accordance with
the provisions of the will, we, as executors,
have converted the property into money, and
your share, amounting to five thousand dol-
lars, has been placed in bank, subject to
your order. If you have no immediate use
for the money, we would advise you to au-
thorize us to invest it in'U. S. securities, as
they pay a good interest in gold, and you
can sell them out whenever you require your
capital.

“ An early answer is requested.

“ Respectfully yours,
“Krautao & Sanpers, Attorneys.”

“Be jabers, but that bates the brigadier
letther,” said Terry, as he lit his pipe. “Tl
jist have a shmoke over it, though it’s good
enough to kape widout bein’ shmoked. How
did you know I had an uncle Tim, Misther
Ainslie, and a brother Mike ?”

 
 

Of Course Not. 27

“ You don’t mean to say, Terry, that you
think this letter is a humbug ?”

“ Av coorse not, me boy. Tm as unsus-
pictin’ as the child unborn, in its mother’s

‘arms. I was jist a wondherin’ how you
kim to know me uncle Tim and me brother
Mike. Perhaps, though, I’ve towld yez
about thim, some time or another.”

“ Terry O'Halloran, I am surprised at you,”
exclaimed Ainslie. ‘Do you really think
that I wrote this letter, and had it sent from
New York ?”

“ Ay coorse not, me boy. You ought to
know your own writin’ best, and it isn’t for
the likes av me to be disputin’ wid yez.
But a burnt child dhreads the fire, and a
dhrounded man dhreads the wather, and I
won't be caught twicet. It was enough to
be fooled about the brigadier.”

“ Didn’t you have an uncle Timothy, and
don’t you believe he has died and left you
that property ?”

“ Sure an’ I know me uncle Tim as well
as you know him yoursilf, Misther Ainslie,
though how you kim to know him at all is
what's puzzlin me. He is a warrum man,
too, as the letther says, and I don’t doubt he
is worth his tin thousand dollars, ivery cint
ay it, but he isn’t the big fool to go off and
die, whin he’s been- makin’ so much money
since the warr began.” .

“You are foolish to be so incredulous
about this matter,’ persisted Ainslie. “T
don’t think there can be a possibility of a
doubt that this letter is from those attorneys
in New York, and I advise you to answer
it immediately, for you might lose by the de-
lay.”

“You're not shmart enough for me this
time, Dummy, me boy,” said Terry. “It’s
a very good joke, and very well played, but
as I tould yez, I won't be fooled twicet. Take
the letther and answer it yoursilf, if you
want to, for you ought to know all about it.
But take my advice, Misther Ainslie, dear,

and be careful who you play your thricks.

wid, for it’s mighty bad you're suspicted, and
mighty close you're watched.”

Henry Ainslie did not like to be suspect-
ed of any thing, even of playing practical
jokes. The very idea was repugnant to
him, and made him feel nervous and unplea-
sant. It suddenly flashed upon his mind
that Sergeant Lefferts had gone to Somerset
the day before, had followed him back to
camp, and had listened to his conversation
with Armstrong, for the purpose of watch-
ing him and reporting to his superiors any

thing suspicious in his words or actions. He
well knew‘ that if Colonel White wished
any one to be watched, Lefferts was the very
man he would put on the track. This was
very amazing to Ainslie, because, aside from
the personal inconvenience and the feeling
of uneasiness caused by being thus dogged
about, he knew that suspicion, once aroused,
grows rapidly, and felt that he might soon
be accused of being an accomplice of Jo
Bevins in robbing the mail. After that the
guard-house, and, perhaps, the gallows. He
determined to use his utmost exertions to
get at the bottom of the mystery, to clear
his own character from suspicion, and to ar-
rest Bevins if possible, and bring him to jus-
tice.

“Terry,” said he, after a few moments’
thought, “I suppose that nothing I could
say would induce you to believe that I have
not been endeavoring to play practical jokes
on you, or to do something worse.”

“ Divil a bit av it, me boy,” interrupted
Terry. “It would be no inducemint at all.
But I hope it’s nothin’ worse you’ve been
doin’.” ;

“As I am sure you wouldn’t believe me,”
continued Ainslie, “I shall deny nothing.
T assure you, however, that I shall set at
work in earnest to discover what has be-
come of Jo Bevins and the mail, and I hope
that, you will help me. If you do believe
me guilty, I feel certain that you will say
nothing about it, and will give me a chance
to prove my innocence.”

“That will I, me boy. Sorra a word shall
pass me lips about it. But please tell me,
Misther Ainslie, dear, how you kim to know
me uncle Tim.and me brother Mike.”

“J will see Colonel White this evening,”
said Ainslie, not regarding the entreaty of
his friend, “ and if he will give the permis-
sion, we will take our horses and scout
around the country, among the farmers’
houses, to see if we can learn something
about this ugly matter. Will you go with me?”

“Av coorse I will. But please tell me,
Misther Ainslie, darlin’, how you kim to
know about me uncle Tim, and me brother
Mike.” ai

“T think you will have to wait for that
information,” answered Ainslie, with an
attempt at a smile, “as I never heard of
them before this day.”

 
a

a

 

 

28 Missing Jo.

‘ CHAPTER X.
A Tour of Investigation—Samson Hasper.

AINSLIE dressed, and brushed himself
well, and went to the office of Colonel
White. He knew that a neat and trim
soldier always found favor in the eyes of
the commanding officer, and, therefore, he
had paid particular attention to his personal
appearance, before applying for the permis-
sion mentioned in the last chapter.

He said nothing of the suspicions under
which he rested, or of the watch that had
been set upon him, but spoke of the mys-
tery attending the disappearance of Jo Bey-
ins, and the loss of the mail, and expressed

- his desire to endeayor to fathom it, especi-

ally as Beyins had always been his particu-
lar friend, and as, even yet, he could hardly
believe him guilty. For this purpose, he

-asked leave to take O'Halloran, and scout

around the neighboring country, in the hope
of gaining some information.

There was a strange, almost a quizzical
expression on the handsome countenance
of Colonel White, as the young man prof-
fered this request. For several minutes he
sat, lost in thought, and drumming on the
table with his fingers, before he answered.

“Very well, Ainslie,” he said at last.. “I
see no objection to it, and will write you a
pass, I hope, most sincerely, that you will
discover something that will tend to clear
up this mystery. But it seems to me that
two men are hardly enough for such an un-
dertaking, and O’Halloran, you know, is
naturally careless and reckless. You had
better take another man, and I will send
Sergeant Lefferts with you. Of course, he
will be considered the leader of the party.”

Ainslie felt sure that the sergeant was to
be sent out with him as a watch upon his
actions, but he was conscious of his own
innocence, and did not fear an inyestiga-
tion.

“Thank you, Colonel White,” he. said.
“Sergeant Lefferts ig an excellent man for
any business that requires prudence and
shrewdness, and I will be happy to haye
him form one of the expedition.”

The colonel again looked at him with

 

that strange, almost quizzical expression, ,

and wrote a pass.

“Never mind it now,” he said, as Ainslie
held out his hand for the paper. “Tell
Lefferts at what time you wish to go, and
he will have the pass. You may retire.”

Early the next morning, Henry Ainslie,

accompanied by Sergeant Lefferts sand
O'Halloran, left the camp, and proceeded on
the contemplated expedition. Lefferts was
silent and observant, as was his wont, and
Terry was as jovial and talkative as usual,
but Ainslie seemed troubled, abstracted and
anxious. His appearance was well caleu-
lated to confirm, in the mind of Lefferts,
the suspicions entertained by his superiors,
and by his comrades,

The party first went to the house of the
farmer who had found Bevins’ horse in the
woods, He waS a man who was well ac-
quainted with the surrounding country and
its inhabitants, and Ainslie, after explaining
the object of the expedition, requested him
to accompany them as a guide. As. the
farmer, whose name was Owens, had once
been in custody, on suspicion of haying been
concerned in the robbery of the mail, and
as his character had not been fully cleared
of the imputation, he gladly accepted the
invitation, and mounted his horse.

They next called on the negro woman
whom Adjutant Bartling had unfortunately
met at the cabin where he had expected to
find Miss Euphrasia Maddox. After a little
conversation, Ainslie drew out her account
of the adjutant's adventure, which she told
very glibly, and with much indignation.

'“T hain’t got the leastest doubt,” said she,
“but what dat dar’ ossifer man come here
jest a puppus for to ’sult me, ’cause he
started at me, when I was ironin’, jest.as if
he was gwine to kiss me. But he didn’t,
and I ’spect I sp’iled some of his good
clothes, though I didn't git no washin’ from
him.”

“That's a lie, you dirthy thafe of a nay-
gur,” exclaimed Terry, suddenly “ getting
his Irish up.” “The adjutant is a gintle-
man, and would never be afther kissin’ the
likes ay yez.” :

“What you got to say "bout it, you red-
mouf furrener? Best pull de ha’r out of
your: teef, fore you talk dat way to a decent
cullud woman. Tl jest smash your rotten
head wid dis poker.”

As this warlike discussion threatened to
become serious, Sergeant Lefferts enjoined
silence on the indignant Irishman, and. as-
sured the girl that she should not be ill-
treated or insulted by any of that party.
He also told her that Adjutant Bartling
would not stoop to commit an ungentle-
manly action, and’ that there must be some
mistake about the matter.

When the irate African had cooled down,

 

RE

 

 
 

A Crazy Man.

Ainslie asked her for the letter that pur-
ported to be from the adjutant, and.she pro-
duced it. It was addressed to “ Mr. Har-
fleet’s Phillis,” and was as follows:

“JT will be at your placé on Thursday
night, and wish to find you there, as I will
bring some shirts for you to wash, and want
to give you particular directions about doing
them up, for I want them starched and
ironed nicely, and I will pay you well.
This isa bloody war, and it is hard to keep

our shirts in good order, but I am very

careful of mine.
“Joun HENRY BaRriine,
“ Adjutant, Camp White.”

“That is a very strange and silly note to
send to a washerwoman,” said Ainslie, as he
handed the paper to the sergeant. ‘‘ Does
it look like the sergeant’s handwriting ?”

“Tt is a pretty good imitation,” answered
Lefferts, “but I am sure that it was not
written by him.”

“Who brought this note to-you, Phillis
asked Ainslie.

“Some little nigger boy,) what I didn’t
know. JDidn’t know nuffiin’ ’bout him;
nebber see him ’fore dat time, and hain’t
nebber seen him sence.”

“TJ will give you a dollar for that note.”

“ Berry well, sah. You may hab it. I
don’t want nuffin’ to do wid itno more. [I'd
jest like to know what dat ossifer meant by
comin’ here and axin’ for Miss ’Phrasie.”

“ What did the boy who brought the note
look like ?” asked Ainslie.

“Look Jike! De Laud. bless ye, he look-
ed jest like all little nigger boys. What
would white folks know ’bout it, ef I should
tell’em? Mought as well try to scribe one
sheep out ob a flock, so’s you'd know it
when you see it.”

Ainslie paid the girl a dollar, and re-
ceived the letter, and the party again pro-
ceeded on their tour of investigation, Terry
O'Halloran’ feeling very surly, and express-
ing his anger at having been obliged to
“pack down toa dirthy naygur, wid her
leg shtuck in the middle ay her fut, like a
darnin’ needle in a melon seed.”

Stopping at all the houses on their route,
and making inquiries of all persons who
had and who had not seen Jo Bevyins and
his mail on the memorable day of his disap-
pearance, they reached the house of the
farmer who had admitted that Jo had taken
dinner with him.

He was called in from lis corn-patch,
and was subjected to-a close examination by

9”)

‘house,” said Mr. Owens.

29

both Ainslie and Lefferts, but nothing new
was. elicited. He still stoutly averred that
the missing mail-carrier had only stopped
there to dinner, and had then gone his way,
and in this assertion he was borne out by
the evidence of his wife, children and ser-
vants.. As it had been. abundantly proyed
that Beyins had been seen, on his journey,
beyond this man’s house, it was not thought
necessary to pursue their inquiries concern-
ing him any further, and the party again
mounted their horses, and jogged along.

It was near sunset, and they were pretty
well tired of their trip of investigation, and
rather hungry withal, when Lefferts pro-
posed a return to camp—a proposition that
was favored by all, with the exception of
Ainslie. That young man was grievously
disappointed at having learned nothing to
the purpose, and seemed, if any thing, more
troubled and anxious than when he started.
He did not wish to return without getting
some little ray of light shed on the myste-
rious affair, ‘

“T see a house beyond,” said he, as the
party halted. “Suppose we call there, be-
fore going back to camp.”

“There is no use in stopping at that
“You wouldn’t

”

learn any thing there.”

“Why so? Whose house is it ?”
“Samson Hasper’s. He is a crazy man,
r sorter light-headed.”

“ Who is he, and what is he ?”

“Well, there ain’t much of a story about
it. He is a very well-educated gentleman,
Tye heard tell, and used to teach school in
these parts; but a rich relation died, and
left him a lot of money, and, since that, he
hasn’t been in his right mind.”

“Why-is he not sent to an asylum ?”

“Oh, he isn’t what you might call right
down crazy. That is, he is never violent,
and never tries to hurt anybody. They had
him before the court once, and wanted tw
app'int a guardian for him, but the judge
thought he could manage his business as
well as anybody else, and let him go.”

“Let us give hima call, It will take
but a few minutes.”

“T vote in the negative,’ said ‘Lefferts,
« for I am tired and hungry.”

“«T vote wid Misther Ainslie,” said Terry,
“and, be jabers, I'll vote twicet if he wants
me to, for I hayen’t seen a crazy man sinst
me owld father died, and he wint ravin’
mad jist because he was shtruck on the
head wid a bit ay a shillaley—bad luck to

S
 

 

 

 

 

 

30 Missing Jo.

his thin skull—it’s niver the head av Terry
O'Halloran they’d have cracked so aisy.”

Terry’s vote settled the question, as farmer
Owens had no particular objection, and they
rode up to Hasper’s house and dismounted.
They knocked at the door, which was
opened by the owner of the house, a rough-
looking man, with a pleasant countenance,
who invited them to enter. They did so,
and found themselves in a cheerful and
neatly-furnished room, well supplied with
books and pictures. <A bright fire was
burning in the fireplace, by which a little
negro boy was toasting some bread, and a
kettle was singing merrily over the coals.

“T am glad to see you, gentlemen,” said
Mr. Hasper, as he placed seats for his guests.
“This is a bloody war, but I respect the
Federal uniform, and am always happy to
entertain those who wear it. Make your-
selves at home, and in a few minutes I will
get some supper for you. Jump up, Pbs-
sum-fat, and bring in some cold meat, and
every thing else you can find to -eat, while
I set the table.”

“His name is Jehosaphat, gentlemen,”
explained Hasper, “ but he finds it easier to
call himself Possum-fat, and I have fallen
into the same habit.”

Ainslie looked at this lunatic, and thought
that he was a very companionable creature.
There was a rather wild and unsettled look
about his eyes, but nothing else to denote a
person out of his mind. He certainly
seemed very intelligent, and his conversation
was unusually elegant for that section of
country, his words being all well chosen,
and properly placed. Ainslie did non won-
der that he was considered capable of man-
aging his own property.

While the table was being prepared, Lef-
ferts introduced the subject of the disap-
pearance of Jo Bevins and the mail, and
Hasper was closely questioned ; but the ex-
amination brought out nothing. He had
occasionally noticed a mail-carrier, he said,
riding by his house, either in going from
the camp or returning to it, but did not
know one of them from another, and could
not remember that he had noticed any car-
rier on the day mentioned as that of poor
Jo’s last mail-journey.

When this business was finished, he in-
vited his guests to sit down to supper, and
they all, with the exception of Ainslie, who
seemed lost in thought, ate a hearty meal
of cold meat, preserves, and good bread,
washed down with excellent tea, after which

Lefferts said that they must depart. Mr.
Hasper pressed them to stay longer, and
politely attended them to the door.

“You must come and see me again, gen-
tlemen,” he said, as he bid them good-night,
“and, in the mean time, must take care of
yourselyes. This is a bloody war, but I
hope that none of you will be among the
slaughtered.”

As it was then night, it was unanimously
agreed that it was not worth while. to in-
vestigate further at that time, and the dis-
appointed party turned their horses’ heads
toward camp.

“ He says this is a bloody war,” muttered
Ainslie, as he rode off, gloomily, with his
companions. “I think I haye heard that
expression before.”

“Sure, an’ I'd like to be a loonytick,
mesilf,’? was the sage remark of Terry
O’Halloran, “ if I could live like that chap.”

CHAPTER XI.
Mary Sanborn—Another Development.

Wuitr these events were occurring at
Camp White, quite a different scene was
being acted at a pleasant village in Indiana.

In a bright room in a neat house, of
moderate size and of no great pretensions,
sat a fair young girl, busily engaged in sew-
ing. Though her nimble fingers caused
her needle to fly rapidly through the deli-
cate fabric, her thoughts evidently had other
occupation.

“J wish Charley would return from the
post-office,” she murmured. “It seems to
take him so long to go and come, and he
knows, too, how anxious I am. To-day,
particularly, he ought to hurry, for some-
thing tells me that I shall have a letter
from Henry, and I do so hope that it will
be good news. Hark! is that his step ?”

“A letter for you, Mary. What will you
pay?” exclaimed a cheerful yoice, as a
fresh-faced and handsome young man burst
into the room.

“ Who is it from, Charley? From Henry ?”

“Of course, Miss Anxiousness. Who
else would be absurd enough to write to
such a little goose as you? Pay me, and
you shall have the letter.”

A. kiss was the response, as Mary San-
born snatched the precious missive from her
brother’s hand.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed, as she

 
 

A Postscript. 31

tore it open, and hastily glanced over the
pages. “He is well—quite well—and says
that we need not be at all alarmed. He
had a bad fever for a while, and when he
got well, he did not write, because the
rebels were all around them, and they could
not send off any mails.”

“TJ told you so, Mary. Iwas sure that
that last rebel raid had cut them off.”

“ But, now, the State is clear, he says—
that part of it, at least, and they are getting
on so peaceably and comfortably ! Charley,
we must make up a box of good things,
and send it to him.”

“Yes; the poor boy ought to have some
sugar candy and sweetmeats. I will bet a
box of cigars that he is fatter and heartier
than I am.”

“Charley Sanborn, you are a heartless
wretch, but I am too happy to scold you
now. I am so glad to hear that Henry is
well, that I feel like loving everybody. I
was sure that I would have good news from
him to-day, and I will work you a pair of
slippers, Charley, for this letter. But what
is this ?” she exclaimed, starting and turn-
ing pale. “A postscript, or another note.
It is not Henry’s writing. Oh, my God!”

She fell fainting upon the floor, and her
astonished brother raised her and placed
her on a sofa, and called vociferously for
his mother, who soon made her appearance,
and by their joint efforts, the poor girl was
restored to animation.

Charles Sanborn took the crumpled note
from her hand, and read it aloud, as follows:

“Miss SANBORN: I take the liberty of
opening my comrade’s letter, as he is now
delirious, for the purpose of informing you
that he has been thrown from his horse,
and terribly injured. As his life is despaired
of by the surgeon, I have believed it right
that you should be made acquainted with
his condition. It is thought that he may
live a few days, and if you hasten, you may
he able to see him once more en the earth.
It pains me to send you such sad news, and
J would gladly refuse the task; but this is
a bloody war, and we must become accus-
tomed to scenes of blood and death.”

“Respectfully yours,
“W. H. Perry.”

“Jt is no wonder she fainted,’ said
Charles Sanborn, while his mother had re-
course to her handkerchief. ‘ This is, in-
deed, too dreadful—to receive such news, in
the same letter that tells of his recovered
strength. Poor child! What shall be done ?”

“There is but one thing to do,” ex-
claimed Mary, raising herself with an effort.
“ Charley, you told me, when he was sick—
dangerously ill, as we feared—that you
would take me to him if I wished to go. I
claim the promise now, brother—now,
when he needs me more than ever. Take
me to him. I must see him before he dies.”

“J will, Mary,” he answered, folding the
weeping girl in his arms. “ How soon will
you be ready ?”

“Now. Let us lose no time.”

“We can hardly leave before the next
train passes—at ten o’clock; then we will
start. Take nothing with you that you do
not really need. Ican pack up in ten min-
utes. You haye nearly two hours. We
must go to Cincinnati, to get a pass. Poor
fellow! What a shock it is!”

At ten o’clock they took the first train
for Cincinnati, followed by the thoughts
and prayers of their sorrowing mother.

Thus it happened that Henry Ainslie,
when he returned, with Lefferts and O’Hal-
loran, from his unsuccessful expedition, was
surprised to learn that a lady and gentleman
had arrived at the camp, and were inquir-
ing for him.

“A lady and gentleman to see me!” he
exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment. “ What
can it mean? Who can they be? Is it
possible that Charles and Mary Sanborn
have come to see me, believing me to be
sick? Of course they could not have re-
ceived the letter I sent in Jo Bevins’ mail,
but I have written since that time, telling
them that I was entirely well.”

“You're a quare spicimint av a man,
Misther Ainslie, for surely,” said Terry.
“Tt’s not Terry O'Halloran would be after
wondherin’ and talkin’ if a purty girl should
kim to sée him, but he wouldn’t waste a
minnit before imbracin’ the opportunity
and the girl, too.”

Ainslie acted upon this sensible advice,
and requested O’Halloran to take care of his
horse, while he made himself presentable.
This done, he hastened to head-quarters,
As he opened the door, Mary Sanborn, pale,
but lovely in her paleness, sprung from her
seat, and fell into his arms.

“This is an unexpected meeting,” said
Ainslie, “ but it is a joyful surprise. What
has brought you here at this time ?”

“Steam and a buggy, principally,” said
Charley, answering for his sister. “ You
look very well and hearty, my boy,,. after
such a terrible accident.”

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

32 Missing Jo.

“Accident! I have met with none.”

“So Colonel White informs us, and we
are at a loss to know what it means. Your
comrade wrote that you had been thrown
from your horse, and that your life was
despaired of.”

“What comrade? not Jo Bevins?”

“No; I think his name is Perry. Here
is his note; it was inclosed in your letter.”

Ainslie led Mary to a seat, and read the
paper with an air of astonishment.

“TI don’t Know the man,” he said.
“Phere is no such person in our regiment.
This letter of mine, in which it was inclosed,
is the yery one I sent in Bevins’ mail, and
it has been opened by some designing per-
son, Who hag written. this. Is it possible
that Bevins would treat me so? But J
wrote again, Charley. Did you receive no
other letter ?” ;

“No,” answered Sanborn’ “T suppose
we must have passed it on the way, for we
started as soon as that letter came, and were
delayed at Cincinnati.”

Ainslie then explained to his friends the
disappearance of Jo Bevins, and the conse-
quent loss of the mail, but was unable to
account for their haying received his letter,
or to conceive who could have opened it
and inserted the account of his “ accident.”

Mary ‘Sanborn was kindly taken in charge
by the wife of Major Patten, who was then
sojourning in the camp, and Charley was
domiciled with his sister’s lover. Horses
were provided for them, and they enjoyed
themselves greatly, Charley writing home
to his mother an account of) the affair, and
assuring her that it was “the best fun he
had had in a long time.”

The natural result of this development
was to clear Ainslie of any suspicion of
having been engaged in the theft of the
mail, or in the pranks that had been played
in the camp. He surely would not have
sent a letter that was calculated to cause
such anxiety in the heart of her he loved,
especially when the falsehood could be so
easily proved. ‘There were still a few ma-
licious ones, however, who hinted that this
might be only a part of his “game.” Ail
in the camp were more in the dark than
ever, With the exception of Ainslie, who
thought he saw light ahead, and who kept
his ideas to himself.

CHAPTER XII.
Fetiers—Light on the Subject.

Henry AINSLIE, on the second day after
he arrival of the Sanborns, was ordered,
being then on duty in the quartermaster’s
office, to proceed to the county town of an
adjoining county, to make some purchases.
Among other things, he was directed to pro-
cure, if possible, at a hardware store, a few
sets of handcuffs, as some recruits had lately
been received, who exhibited a refractory
spirit, compelling the adoption of severe
measures to restrain them.

He started-at an early hour in the morn-
ing, in an ambulance, accompanied by
Charles Sanborn. On the way he related
to his friend the events, connected with the
loss of the mail, that had transpired subse-
quently to its disappearance, and asked him
if he’ could form any opinion as to how,
why,'or by whom, the answers had been
sent to the letters of O'Halloran, the adju-
tant, Armstrong and himself.

“That is rather too tough a question for
me, Ainslie,” replied Sanborn. “If it was
not for that letter to Mary, I should be
inclined to believe that you had a hand in
it, but that stpposition is knocked in the
head, of course. Are you sure that Bevins
wrote that letter about the guerrillas ?”

“ As sure as I can be of any thing.”

“Then he must be the very one who has
stolen the mail, and who has made all the
mischief’ That seems plain enough, but I
can see no reason why he should trouble
himself with the letters, after he had got
the money out of them, nor can:I imagine
why he still remains in the neighborhood.”

“T think I have a clue to the mystery,”
said Ainslie, “and I shall investigate it
thoroughly, as soon as I have time.”

“ What is this clue?” ;

“Tt is only a fancy of mine, and I have not
learned any thing definite. In the course of
a few days, I hope to be able to astonish
the:camp.”

Before noon, they reached their destina-
tion. After Ainslie had procured the dif-
erent articles ordered, he thought of the
handcuffs,

“Tt doesn’t seem probable,” said he, as he
walked with his friend to the hardware store,
“that any such wrist-ornaments are to be
had here in the country; but, as this is a
county town, it is possible they may be kept
for the accommodation of the jailers.”

He inquired at the store for handcuffs,

 
 

 

but was informed that they were not to be
had at that place..

“JT had a pair,” said the store-keeper,
“and a pair of leg-irons, too; but I sold
them, a week or two ago.”

“Did the sheriff buy them, or the jailer ?”

“No; they have had no use for such
articles in a long time, and I was glad to
get rid of the last of my stock.” :

“T am curious to know,” said Ainslie,
“to what man, in this part of the country,
you sold them, for they are not very hand-
some parlor ornaments, and would not be
considered useful in a kitchen.”

“They were bought by a half-crazy man,
named Samson Hasper, who lives down to-
ward your camp.”

“ Did he tell you what he wanted of them ?”
_ “No; but I suppose it was only one of
his whims. He is harmless, though he has
a great many odd notions.”

“ Come, Charley, we must be getting home.”

Ainslie was quite silent during the ride
back to camp, and, as soon as he had de-
livered his foad, and an account of his pur-
chases, to the quartermaster, he left his
friend, rather abruptly, and sought Captain
Nordheimer. Ainslie expressing a desire
to speak to him in private, the officer led
the way to his tent,

““JT wish,’ said Ainslie, “ to say something
to you about Beyins and our lost mail.”

“ Very well,” answered the captain, “TI
shall be happy to hear it, if you can tell me
any thing new. I may say to you, now,
that you were. strongly suspected at one
time, and that your arrest was nearly deter-
mined upon; but I believe you are consid-
ered clear of the charge.”

“T can’t say that I have really any thing
new,” said Ainslie. “I must first give you
the grounds of my opinion, and see if they
lead you to the same conclusion. Will
you please get the letter that was sent to
the adjutant ?”

Nordheimer produced the letter, and then
Ainslie laid before hith those received by.
O'Halloran, Armstrong, the negro Phillis
and himself.

“ Please examine those, closely,” said he,
“and tell me whether you see any resem-
blance in the handwriting.”

“J think I do,’ answered Nordheimer,
after a while, “though they are all written
in feigned hands. ‘The letter to the adjutant

is a good imitation of a lady’s manuscript.
If they were all written by one man, he
must be an excellent penman.”

   

A Clue to the Mystery. 33

“The man I suspect,” said Ainslie, “ ought
to be an excellent penman, for he is a well-
educated gentleman, and his profession has
been that of a school-teacher. Will you
please notice, also, a singular similarity of
expression in nearly all of the letters ?- That
to O'Halloran says that this is a bloody war,
and we must have more and better Generals,
That to the adjutant says that this is a
bloody war, and he must take care of his
precious life. That to the negro woman
says that this is a bloody war, and it is hard
to keep shirts in order; and that to Miss
Sanborn says that this is a bloody war, but
we must become accustomed to scenes of
blood and death. Now, I know a man—I
was at his house the other day—who twice
used that expression while I was there.”

“That affords grounds for suspicion. Do
you suppose that this man has murdered
Beyins, and kept the mail?”

“No, sir; because the letter concerning
the guerrillas was surely written by Bevins.
It is my idea that he is concealed as a pri-
soner. I learned, to-day, that the man of
whom I speak, lately bought a pair of hatd-
cuffs, and a pair of leg-irons.”

“That. strengthens the suspicion.
what. could be his object in all this ?”

“The man is insane, or partially so.”

“Tndeed !” exclaimed the captain, jump-

 

But

ing up. “There may be something in what
you say. It would be extraordinary if your

belief should turn out to be correct. You
haye quite excited me, and I am determined
that the matter shall be investigated. _ I will
go with you, Ainslie, to see this man.”

“Thank you, sir, It is too late this eve-
ning; but, if you please, we will start as
early as possible in the morning.”

CHAPTER XIII.
The Mystery a Mystery no More.

Ir was hardly dawn, when Captain Nord-
heimer, accompanied by Ainslie, O'Halloran
and Charles Sanborn, left the camp. The
object of their journey had been kept a

. secret from all except Colonel White, and

their departure was not noticed. All were
well. mounted, and, it was still early when
they reached their destination... They found
Hasper at breakfast, and were cordially grect-
ed by him. He insisted that they should
take breakfast, and busied himself, with his
negro boy, in preparing the eatables.

  
34 Missing Jo.

“Captain Nordheimer,” whispered Ains-
lie, “ was not the letter from Bevins brought
to the camp by a little black boy ?”

“ Yes.”

“A little black boy brought the note to
the negro woman, also. This man has a
little black boy. ‘Will you have the kind-
ness to remain here, after breakfast, with
Sanborn, and prevent the man and the boy
from leaving the room, while I take O’Hal-
loran and look around the house ?”.

“Certainly ; but I fear that you will find
nothing to confirm your suspicions. This
crazy man seems to be as sane as any of us.”

Breakfast was soon on the table, and
Hasper invited his guests to partake of the
meal, He took his seat at the head of the
table, and said grace before helping them.

“This is a bloody war, gentleman,” said
he as he concluded, “but we must not for-
get to give thanks for the blessings that are
still left to us.”

Ainslie nudged Nordheimer under the
table, and the latter responded with a pinch.
Hasper was very affable, and conversed with
his guests, making his conversation interest-
ing—treally exhibiting unusual intelligence.

As soon as Ainslie had finished his break-
fast, he excused himself by saying that he
wished to look after the horses, and stepped
out of the front door, followed by O’Hal-
loran. The two then walked around the
house, and carefully examined the precincts.
There was a barn in the rear, a few small
out-buildings, and a log house. This last
was evidently intended for what is known
on every Kentucky farm as the “smoke-
house ”—although somewhat larger than
such structures usually are—in which meat
is not only cured, but kept after curing.

“Let us look in here,” proposed Ainslie.

“Pm wid yez, me boy,” said Terry.
“We'll be afther findin’ somethin’ to ate, if
nothin’ more, though it would be a sin to
stale from such a clever owld chap.”

The door was fastened with a padlock,
which Ainslie quickly pried open with his
bayonet, and they entered the smoke-house.
The large room was nearly filled with
boxes, barrels, and other articles, and from
the rude rafters hung many descriptions of
cured meat,

“Be jabers,” ejaculated Terry, after they
had examined the room as well as they
could, considering its littered up condition,
“there’s nothin’ suspictful about this shanty,
as I see, ixciptin’ the blessed mate that’s
hangin’ around and above us. Sure, an’ it

pays well to be a loonytick in this coun-
thry.” .

“Whoop !” suddenly exclaimed the Irish-
man, as he leaped up, to come down on
the floor with a force that shook the heavy
frame of the smoke-house. “ Jist fix your
two eyes on that illigant bit av a ham,
that’s depindin’ from the pole beyant. It’s
the purtiest piece of porrk Tye seen for
ghis many a day—good luck to the pig that
raised it !”

“ Hello-o-o !” came, in smothered tones,
from somewhere about the building.

“Hark!” said Ainslie. “ What’s that ?”

“ Hillo, yoursilf!” said Terry.

“Hello, up there! Is that you, Terry
O’Halloran ?” '

“Yis, indade, if I know mesilf. Is it a
ghost you are? If yow’re a ghost, this is
no time o’ day for you to be walkin’ around.
Where are you thin ?”

“ Down in the cellar.”

“To think ay a cellar to a shmoke-house !
How shall we git to yez, Misther Ghost ?”

“ Lift the trap.”

“The thrap, did you say? It’s findin’
it first, me boy, we must be, afore liftin’ it.”

But Henry Ainslie’s eyes were quicker
than those of his mercurial friend. Spying
a ring in the floor, he pulled it, and raised
a trap-door, which had been partly conceal-
ed by a box. Looking down through the
trap, he perceived a deep cellar, which was .
entered by a ladder, and lit by a lamp.

Hastily descending, he saw a man seated
on a sort of lounge. His hands and feet
were confined by manacles, and his face, in
the dim lamp-light, seemed very pale.

“Terry !” shouted Ainslie, “come down
quick! It's Jo Beyins!”

“Howly mither av Moses!” exclaimed
the Irishman, as he tumbled down the lad-
der. “I towld ye ’twasa ghost !”

It was, indeed, the long-lost Jo Bevins
himself, who rose to his feet as he recognized
Ainslie, and attempted to advance toward
him, but he stumbled, and his young friend
caught him in his arms, The next moment
Terry O’Halloran was hugging them both.

“Get me out of this!’ was all that
Bevins could say, and that, of course, was
the first thing to be done. Ag his irons
could not be got off, they were obliged to
lift him up through the trap, which they
accomplished with considerable difficulty,

When our friends made their exit from
the smoke-house, the door of the house was
violently thrown open, and Samson Hasper

 
 

The Man in the

endeavored to rush out, but was held back
by Captain Nordheimer and Charles San-
born, who were obliged to use all their
strength to restrain him.

“Let me go!” he shouted. “I will go!
It is my house, and you haye no right to
stop me. I know what they are doing, the
scoundrels, the thieves! They are after
my Baron Trenck, my Silvio Pellico, my
Prisoner of Chillon, my Man in the Iron
Mask. Yes, they -have found him, and
they are bringing him out. Let him loose,
you villains! Let him loose! He is mine.
I found him, and he belongs to me.”

Uttering a savage yell, as his eyes fell on
the fettered form of Jo Bevins, he dropped
on the floor in a fit.

Our friends used restoratives as well as
they could, and the insane man shortly re-
covered his senses,’ such as they were. He
was then seated in a chair, and behaved very
quietly and demurely, seeming to regard the
affair as an excellent joke. A bunch of
keys had been found in his pocket, with one
of which Jo Bevins’ fetters were unlocked.
Refreshed with a cup of coffee, Jo was re-
quested to give an account of himself.

“ How long have you been here, Bevins ?”
asked the captain.

«Hyer since the day I started with that

unlucky mail. I had made slow time with
that heavy bag, and stepped in here to get
something to eat. I happened to drop my
knife on the floor, and as I stooped to pick
-it up, this man suddenly grabbed me from
behind, and before I could think, or ask
what was the matter, he had my arms tied
tightly, and then he bound my legs, and
took me to the smoke-house, and lowered
me down into the cellar, where I have been
ever since. I had nearly gnawed through
the ropes, and hoped to get out, but he
brought these irons, and put them on, and
I gave up the attempt.” :
_“ How have you fared? You are look-
ing well, though rather pale.”

“T have nothing to complain of, except
the imprisonment, for he gaye me the best
of food, and plenty of it. He also brought
me books to read, and used to come down
and sit with me, and amuse me by reading
letters that he had taken out of the bag.
So, you see, I know all the secrets of the
camp. I reckon some of you must have
been badly bothered, at receiving answers
to your letters.”

“ Indeed we were,” said Ainslie,
do you know‘about them ?”

“« What

Smoke-House. 35

°

“He showed me letters that he had writ-
-ten to Adjutant Bartling, 'to John Arm-
strong, and to Terry O’Halloran there.”

“And this was the man,” exclaimed
Terry,“ who was bound to make me a
brigadier! I don’t belave he was crazy,
afther all, whin he shows so much sinse

_about the O’Halloran shtock.”

“Did you write a letter to me,” asked
Captain Nordheimer, “ saying that you had
been captured by guerrillas, and telling us
where to find you ?”

“Yes, sir; but I couldn’t help it. I re-
fused to do it, and the old sinner said that I
should have nothing to eat or drink until I
complied. He kept his word, for I was
nearly dead when I gave in. I would not
have written it, then, unless I had been sure
that it could do no real harm.”

“There was no damage done, Bevins,
but it was pretty hard on the cavalry. I
wonder what has become of the mail.”

“JT reckon you will find it somewhere
about here,” answered Bevins.

Search was accordingly made, and the
missing mail-bag was discovered in a wood-
en chest, which was unlocked with one of
the keys in Hasper’s bunch. The envelopes
had all been opened, but the Jetters had
been carefully replaced, and no money seem-
ed to have been abstracted. In fact, when
the letters were afterward delivered to
their owners, no one was found to allege
that he had lost any thing—not even Arm-
strong, who recovered his ten-dollar bill,
and forgot to say any thing to Ainslie con-
cerning the twenty that he had received
from him.

Samson Hasper, whose capture of Bevins
had probably been without any definite pur-
pose, had amused himself greatly with the
letters, and, with an insane man’s ingenuity,
had employed his skill in penmanship in
manufacturing replies that were well cal-
culated to deceive those to whom they
were addressed. He had kept Bevins as a
prisoner, through fear that he would be de-
tected, if the soldier should be let loose.

Mounting Hasper and his negro boy on
one of his own horses, and Bevins on an-
other, the party returned to the camp with
their prizes. The reader may imagine, if
he can, the surprise and joy of both officers
and men at Camp White, on recognizing
their lost mail-carrier, and learning the
manner of his disappearance.

 
Missing Jo.

®
CHAPTER XIY.

Terry in Luck—Conelusion.

“A visitor for you, O'Halloran !” said a
soldier, as our Irish friend was standing in
the midst of a throng of his laughing com-
rddes, declaring his intention of. putting
Samson Hasper’ to the torture, to learn
“how the chap kim to know me uncle Tim
and me brother Mike.”

“ A visithor for me! Sind him along, me
boy, and [ll resaye him like a gintle-
man, ’specially if he brings a dhrop av
whisky.”

As Terry looked around, the crowd open-
ed, and made way for a well-dressed young
Irishman, who threw ‘himself into the arms
of our jovial acquaintance.

“Talk av the Divil,” said Terry, when
the first transports had subsided, “and you'll
thread on the tailay him the nixt minnit.
Be the mortial, brother Mike, what brought
yez here, so far from home ?”

“Wasn't the letther come that the law-
yers writ to yez, Terry 2”

“The letther, is it? Sure an’ I gota
letther, but I jist thought that owld thafe av
a loonytick was afther thryin’ to humbug me.”

“There’s no humbug about it at all) me
boy. Your rich ‘uncle, Tim O'Halloran,
is dead for sure, Terry, and has left all ‘his
property—God rest his sowl !—to me and
yoursilf, and I jist kim out here to ax
whether you’re dead or alive.”

“ Faix, and I hardly know at prisint,’
answered Terry, giving his brother another
hug, “ for what wid sorrow for the death ay
the poor ould man—though he was a rich
one, good luck to him !—and the properthy
and all that, it’s nearly dead I am’ wid joy.”

“Ts truth I’m tellin’ yez, Terry,” said
Mike, returning the hug. ‘“ Our uncle Tim
died in p’ace, and left yez five thousand dol-
lars, that’s in the bank a-waitin’, though it
will cost somethin’ for niasses.”

“Pay ’em up, Mike; pay ivery cint, for
the ould’ man has fairly arn’t it. Misther
Linkin» may make as many brigadiers as
he plases, but he won’t: git Terry O’Hallo-
ran into any such dirthy business.”

“Give me the letther from the lawyers,
Dummy, me boy,” said he, “ that tells about
me wondherful fortin’, for I. want to rade it
again, and I’m axin’ your pardon for sus-
pictin’ yez of playin’ thricks on me.”

“Tam glad that it has turned out so
well,” answered Ainslie, “and hope that

you will live long to enjoy your newly- ©
acquired property. “I congratulate you with
all my heart.”

“Sure and it’s yoursilf that ought to be
congratulated,” said Terry, “for the swate
and beautiful young lady that’s standin’ be
your side is betther than any fortin’, wirether
i’s in greenbacks or gowld. And be the
same token, the chaplain ‘has jist got back
from his two months’ spree in Ohio, and he
can tie a knot for yez as tight as any man.”

Strange as it may not seem, this apropos
suggestion was acted upon, and the services
of the chaplain were called into requisition,
the next evening, to unite in the bonds of
matrimony, Henry Ainslie and Mary San-
born. Adjutant Bartling, who had recoyer-
ed from the fit of mortification caused by
his unpleasant adventure, was kind enough
to bring the fair Euphrasia Maddox to the
wedding, and those two stood side by side
with the young couple during the sacred
ceremony, while Charley Sanborn gaye
away the bride. Report has it that the
handsome adjutant was so impressed by the
interesting nature of the occasion, that he
offered his hand and heart to the scion of
the house of Maddox, who accepted them,
and he is expected to inherit, jointly with
her, the property of the old farmer.

Samson Hasper was retained in custody
but a short time. He was examined by
Colonel White, and it was so evident that
he was not in his right mind, and. conse-
quently not responsible for his actions, that
he was discharged. It was noticed, how-
ever, that his mental condition began to im-
prove from the day of his discharge, and
it continued to improve, until he was pro-
nounced perfectly sane.

Terry O'Halloran showered his blessings
on Henry Ainslie and his wife, and when
he got a furlough, he invested a part of his
five thousand dollars in a gold cup, which
he sent to Mrs. Ainslie, “ wid me rispicts to
be presinted to the first ay ’em, purvided it’s
@ boy.”

Henry Ainslie was promoted to a licu-
tenancy, but did not long retain the position,
for, at the close of his two years’ term of
enlistment, he left the service, and returned
to Indiana and his wife.

Jo Bevins again became the mail-carrier
of Camp White, and neither his mail nor
himself was thereafter numbered among the
mnissing. ,

THE END.

 
A LITHRARY NOVELTY,
AND A

PATRIOTIC OFFERING TO LIBERTY AND LABOR!

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he lay the foundation,
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half the continent for its loeation.

f-Tree midst wildest commotion; 2”

trom ocean to ocean,
anner then waved from its dome!

ere the House he began ;

and so wide did
houted, ‘ This, this is my home !”

tthe Pillars,
read the Roo:

so dee
Of Human Rédemption out here in the West, © -
Where, free from oppression, the weary may res

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For millions of Freemen wikl soon fin

No matter; the larger. the better

So Jack had designed,

A glorious-b
And LIBERTY s

So, up wen
* And, out sp

And
+ That it too.

BY LEWIS WHITEHEAD, Sr.

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