; but the door was
closed, and they found it had been closed a week or more. They also
discovered that Compton had disappeared.

This had a very peculiar effect upon Captain Jack Walthall. He took off
his uniform, put on his citizen's clothes, and proceeded to investigate
Compton's disappearance. He sought in vain for a clue. He interested
others to such an extent that a great many people in Hillsborough forgot
all about the military situation. But there was no trace of Little
Compton. His store was entered from a rear window, and everything found
to be intact. Nothing had been removed. The jars of striped candy that
had proved so attractive to the youngsters of Hillsborough stood in long
rows on the shelves, flanked by the thousand and one notions that make
up the stock of a country grocery store. Little Compton's disappearance
was a mysterious one, and under ordinary circumstances would have
created intense excitement in the community; but at that particular time
the most sensational event would have seemed tame and commonplace
alongside the preparations for war.

Owing probably to a lack of the faculty of organization at Richmond--a
lack which, if we are to believe the various historians who have tried
to describe and account for some of the results of that period, was the
cause of many bitter controversies, and of many disastrous failures in
the field--a month or more passed away before the Hillsborough company
received orders to go to the front. Fort Sumter had been fired on,
troops from all parts of the South had gathered in Virginia, and the war
was beginning in earnest. Captain Jack Walthall of the Hillsborough
Guards chafed at the delay that kept his men resting on their arms, so
to speak; but he had ample opportunity, meanwhile, to wonder what had
become of Little Compton. In his leisure moments he often found himself
sitting on the dry-goods boxes in the neighborhood of Little Compton's
store. Sitting thus one day, he was approached by his body-servant. Jake
had his hat in his hand, and showed by his manner that he had something
to say. He shuffled around, looked first one way and then another, and
scratched his head.

"Marse Jack," he began.

"Well, what is it?" said the other, somewhat sharply.

"Marse Jack, I hope ter de Lord you ain't gwine ter git mad wid me; yit
I mos' knows you is, kaze I oughter done tole you a long time ago."

"You ought to have told me what?"

"'Bout my drivin' yo' hoss en b