Tom could not exactly understand how he happened to be made a prisoner. He had certainly moved with extreme caution, and he wondered that he had not received some intimation of the presence of the enemy before it was too late to retreat. But, as we have before hinted, Tom was a philosopher; and he did not despair even under the present reverse of circumstances, though he was greatly disconcerted.  
“Who are you?” demanded one of the rebel soldiers, when they had duly possessed his body, which, however, was not a very chivalrous adventure, for the prisoner was unarmed, his gun having been thrown away by the friendly Zouave, after he had so terribly avenged his murdered companion.
 
“I’m a soldier,” replied Tom, greatly perplexed by the trials of his difficult situation.
 
As yet he did not know whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe, for the night was cloudy and dark, and he could not see what uniform the pickets wore.
 
“What do you belong to?” demanded the spokesman of the picket trio.
 
“I belong to the army,” answered Tom, with admirable simplicity.
 
Our soldier boy, as the reader already knows, had been well “brought up.” He had been taught to tell the truth at all times; and he did so on the present occasion, very much to the confusion, no doubt, of the rebel soldiers, who had not been brought up under the droppings of the sanctuary in a New England village.
 
“B’long to the army—do you?” repeated Secesh, who must have thought Tom a very candid person.
 
“Yes, sir, I belong to the army,” added the prisoner.
 
“I s’pose you won’t mind telling us what army you belong to, ’cause it mought make a difference in our calculations,” added the spokesman.
 
Tom did not know but that it might make some difference in his calculations, and for this reason he was exceedingly unwilling to commit himself before he ascertained upon which side his questioners belonged.
 
“Can you tell me where I am?” asked Tom, resolved to use a little strategy in obtaining the desired information.
 
“May be I can,” replied the picket.
 
“Will you do so?”
 
“Sartin, stranger—you are in the woods,” added Secesh; whereat his companions indulged in a wholesome chuckle, which assured Tom that they were human, and his hopes rose accordingly.
 
“Thank you,” replied Tom, with infinite good nature.
 
“You say you belong to the army, and I say you are in the woods,” said the soldier, repeating the double postulate, so that the essence of the joke should by no possibility fail to penetrate the cerebellum of his auditor.
 
Tom was perfectly willing to acknowledge that he was in the woods, both actually and metaphorically, and he was very much disturbed to know how he should get out of the woods—a problem which has puzzled wiser heads than his, even in less perplexing emergencies. He was fearful that, if he declared himself to be a union soldier, he should share the fate of others whom he had seen coolly bayoneted on that eventful day.
 
“Now, stranger, s’pose you tell me what army you b’long to; then I can tell you where you are,” continued the soldier.
 
“What do you belong to?” asked Tom, though he did not put the question very confidently.
 
“I belong to the army;” and the two other pickets honored the reply with another chuckle. “You can’t fool old Alabammy.”
 
There was no further need of fooling “Old Alabammy,” for the worthy old gentleman, symbolically represented by the rebel soldier, had kindly done it himself; and Tom then realized that he was in the hands of the enemy. It is true, the balance of the picket trio laughed heartily at the unfortunate slip of the tongue made by their companion, but Tom was in no condition to relish the joke, or he might perhaps have insinuated himself into the good graces of the jolly Secesh by repeating Pat’s mysterious problem—“Tell me how many cheeses there are in the bag, and I’ll give ye the whole five;” for, though this is an old joke in the civilized parts of the world, it is not at all probable that it had been perpetrated in the benighted regions of Secessia.
 
The announcement of the fact that he was in the hands of the foe, as we have before intimated, left Tom in no condition to give or take a joke. His heart was suddenly deprived of some portion of its ordinary gravity, and rose up to the vicinity of his throat. He drew sundry deep and long breaths, indicative of his alarm; for though Tom was a brave boy,—as these pages have already demonstrated,—he had a terrible idea of the tender mercies of the rebels. His first impulse was to break away from his captors, and run the risk of being overtaken by a trio of musket balls; for death from the quick action of a bullet seemed preferable to the fate which his fears conjured up if he should be taken by the bloodthirsty rebels. But the chances were too decidedly against him, and he reluctantly brought his mind to the condition of philosophical submission.
 
“Well, stranger, which army do you b’long to?” said the spokesman of the picket trio, when he had fully recovered his self-possession.
 
“I belong to the United States army,” replied Tom, desperately.
 
“That means the Yankee army, I s’pose.”
 
“Yes, sir; you call it by that name.”
 
“Then you are my prisoner.”
 
“I surrender because I can’t help myself.”
 
“Hev you nary toothpick or bone-cracker in your pockets?”
 
“Any what?” replied Tom, whose dictionary seemed to be at fault.
 
“Nary pistol, knife, or any thing of that sort?”
 
“Nothing but my jackknife.”
 
“Any plunder?”
 
“We piled up our knapsacks and haversacks before we went into the fight. Here is my canteen half full of water; I gave the other half to one of your soldiers, when he was dying of his wounds.”
 
“Did ye?”
 
“Now will ............