rovokingly refused to hear him, and Tom thought his skull
was amazingly thick, and his perceptions amazingly blunt.

"Now you come down from thar," said he, as he picked up a couple of
stones. "You act like a monkey, and I s'pose yer be one. Now make tracks
down that chimley."

But instead of doing this, Tom retreated into his shell, as a snail does
when the moment of peril arrives. The soldier in the house was not deaf;
and if he had been, he could hardly have helped hearing the stentorian
tones of his victim. Instead of going out the back door, like a sensible
man, he passed out at the front door, and in a moment more Tom heard his
voice just beneath him.

"Halt!" shouted the soldier, as he brought his musket to his shoulder.
"Your name is Joe Burnap."

"That's my name, but I don't want nothin' o' you," replied the embarrassed
militiaman, as he dropped the stones with which he had intended to assault
Tom's citadel.

"I want something of you," replied the soldier. "You must go with me.
Advance, and give yourself up."

"What fur?" asked poor Joe.

"We want you for the army. You are an enrolled militiaman. You must go
with me."

"Ill be dog derned if I do," answered Joe Burnap, desperately.

"If you attempt to run away, I'll shoot you. You shall go with me, dead or
alive, and hang me if I care much which."

Joe evidently did care. He did not want to go with the soldier; his
southern blood had not been fired by the wrongs of his country; and he was
equally averse to being shot in cold blood by this minion of the
Confederacy. His position was exceedingly embarrassing, for he could
neither run, fight, nor compromise. While matters were in this interesting
and critical condition, Tom ventured to raise his head over the top of the
chimney to obtain a better view of the belligerents. Joe stood where he
had last seen him, and the soldier was standing within three feet of the
foot of the chimney.

"What ye going to do, Joe Burnap?" demanded the latter, after waiting a
reasonable time for the other to make up his mind.

"What am I gwine to do?" repeated Joe, vacantly, as he glanced to the
right and the left, apparently in the hope of obtaining some suggestion
that would enable him to decide the momentous question.

"You needn't look round, Joe; you've got to come or be shot. Just take
your choice between the two, and don't waste my time."

"I s'pose I can't help myself," replied Joe. "I'll tell ye what I'll do. I