oung men are doing, instead of idling around at a safe
distance from the bullets?"

At this sally a shout of laughter went up from the crowd. It was evident
that the dapper young man was not popular. He made no answer, but went
away. "Will that freight never turn up?" thought Andrews.

Suddenly there came a barking from the baggage car nearest the tender,
wherein were confined the majority of the party. George's heart beat the
faster as he listened; he knew that the querulous little cries were
uttered by Waggie.

An old man, with snow-white hair and beard, cried out: "Is that dog in the
car part of your ammunition?" His companions laughed at the witticism. For
once Andrews was nonplused. George came bravely to the rescue.

"It's a dog in a box," he said, "and it's a present to General
Beauregard."

"Well, I hopes the purp won't be blown up," remarked the old man. There
was another titter, but the story was believed.

"Things are getting a little too warm here," Andrews whispered to George.
As the words left his lips he heard the screeching of a locomotive. "It's
the freight!" he cried.

It was, indeed, the longed-for freight train; puffing laboriously, it came
up to the station and was quickly switched off to a siding.

"Now we can get rid of these inquisitive hayseeds," said Andrews.

"Look," cried George; "I see a red flag!" He pointed to the rear platform
of the end freight car, from which was suspended a piece of red bunting.
Andrews stamped his foot and indulged in some forcible language. He knew
that the flag indicated the presence of another train back of the
freight.

Andrews was out of the cab like a flash. "What does this red flag mean?"
he demanded of the conductor of the freight train, who was about to cross
the tracks to enter the station.

"What does _what_ mean?" asked the conductor, in a tone of mild surprise.

"Why is the road blocked up behind you?" asked the leader. Had he been the
President of the Southern Confederacy he could not have spoken more
imperiously. "I have a special train with orders to take a load of powder
to General Beauregard without delay! And here I find my way stopped by
miserable freight trains which are not a quarter as important as my three
cars of ammunition."

"I'm sorry, sir," explained the conductor, "but it ain't my fault. Fact
is, Mitchell, the Yankee General, has captured Huntsville, and we're
moving everything we can out of Chattanooga, because it's said h