blue."

"And what is your name?"

"Frederick Williams."

Pretty near the truth. Only a final "s" and a rearrangement of his given
names.

"Very well," said the general, ending the audience; "you may remain in
camp. If I need you, I'll send for you."

He summoned an orderly, and bade him make the volunteer scout
comfortable at the couriers' camp. Will breathed a sigh of relief as he
followed at the orderly's heels. The ordeal was successfully passed. The
rest was action.

Two days went by. In them Will picked up valuable information here and
there, drew maps, and was prepared to depart at the first favorable
opportunity. It was about time, he figured, that General Forrest found
some scouting work for him. That was a passport beyond the lines, and he
promised himself the outposts should see the cleanest pair of heels that
ever left unwelcome society in the rear. But evidently scouting was a
drug in the general's market, for the close of another day found Will
impatiently awaiting orders in the couriers' quarters. This sort of
inactivity was harder on the nerves than more tangible perils, and
he about made up his mind that when he left camp it would be without
orders, but with a hatful of bullets singing after him. And he was quite
sure that his exit lay that way when, strolling past headquarters,
he clapped eyes on the very last person that he expected or wished to
see--Nat Golden.

And Nat was talking to an adjutant-general!

There were just two things to do, knock Golden on the head, or cut and
run. Nat would not betray him knowingly, but unwittingly was certain
to do so the moment General Forrest questioned him. There could be
no choice between the two courses open; it was cut and run, and as
a preliminary Will cut for his tent. First concealing his papers,
he saddled his horse and rode toward the outposts with a serene
countenance.

{illust. caption = "NOW RIDE FOR YOUR LIVES!"}

The same sergeant that greeted him when he entered the lines chanced to
be on duty, and of him Will asked an unimportant question concerning the
outer-flung lines. Yet as he rode along he could not forbear throwing
an apprehensive glance behind. No pursuit was making, and the farthest
picket-line was passed by a good fifty yards. Ahead was a stretch of
timber. Suddenly a dull tattoo of horses' hoofs caught his ear, and he
turned to see a small cavalcade bearing down upon him at a gallop. He
sank the spurs into his horse's side a