Tom Somers was not very well satisfied with his situation, for the soldier who had been left in possession of the house was armed with a musket, and the prospect of escaping before night was not very flattering. The patriarch of the family, who had such a horror of recruiting officers, was approaching, and in a few moments there would be an exciting scene in the vicinity.  
Independent of his promise made to the woman to help her husband, if she would not betray him, Tom deemed it his duty to prevent the so-called Confederate States of America from obtaining even a single additional recruit for the armies of rebellion and treason. Without having any personal feeling in the matter, therefore, he was disposed to do all he could to assist his host in “avoiding the draft.” What would have been treason in New England was loyalty in Virginia.
 
The unfortunate subject of the Virginia militia law was unconsciously approaching the trap which had been set for him. He had, no doubt, come to the conclusion, by this time, that the hungry soldier boy was not a recruiting officer, or even the corporal of a guard sent to apprehend him, and he was returning with confidence to partake of his noonday meal. Tom, from his perch at the top of the chimney, watched him as he ambled along over the rough path with his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was something rather exciting in the situation of affairs, and he soon found himself deeply interested in the issue.
 
The unhappy citizen owing service to the Confederate States climbed over the zigzag fence that enclosed his garden, and continued to approach the rude dwelling which the law had defined to be his castle. Tom did not dare to speak in tones loud enough to be heard by the innocent victim of the officer’s conspiracy, for they would have betrayed his presence to the enemy. Sitting upon the top stones of the chimney, he gesticulated violently, hoping to attract his attention; but the man did not look up, and consequently could not see the signals.
 
He had approached within ten rods of the back door of the house, when Tom, fearing his footsteps might attract the attention of the soldier, ventured to give a low whistle. As this was not heeded, he repeated the signal when the man was within two or three rods of the house; but even this was not noticed, and throwing his head forward, so that the sound of his voice should not descend the chimney, he spoke.
 
“Halloo!” said he.
 
The man suddenly stopped, and looked up. Tom made signals with his hands for him to leave; but this mute language appeared not to be intelligible to him.
 
“Consarn yer picter, what are yer doin’ up thar?” said the proprietor of the castle, in tones which seemed to Tom as loud as the roar of the cannon at Bull Run.
 
“Hush! Hush!” replied Tom, gesticulating with all his might, and using all his ingenuity to invent signs that would convey to the militiaman the idea that he was in imminent danger.
 
“You be scotched!” snarled the man. “What are yer doin’? What ails yer?”
 
“They are after you!” added Tom, in a hoarse whisper.
 
The fellow most provokingly 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 want to fix up things about hum a little, and I’ll jine ye down to the Gap to-morrow.”
 
“No you don’t, Joe Burnap!” said the soldier, shaking his head.
 
“Then I’ll jine ye to-night,” suggested the strategist.
 
“My orders are not to return without you, and I shall obey them.”
 
Mrs. Burnap, who had followed the soldier out of the house, stood behind him wringing her hands in an agony of grief. She protested with all a woman’s eloquence against the proceedings of the soldier; but her tears and her homely rhetoric were equally unavailing. While the par............