DE BANYAN knocked at the door; but as no one answered his summons, he went in without further ceremony, Somers remaining on his horse to await the result of the interview. It was now quite dark; the wind howled savagely through the trees, and the rain began to fall in torrents.

“Bad night, massa,” said Alick, as he drew his overcoat closer around him.

“Yes; but we expect to stop at this house to-night,” replied the captain.

“De storm make you sick again, massa.”

“No, I think not.”

“Must be careful, massa cap’n. I reckon dey has de fever ’n’ agur right smart in dis yere country.”

“I don’t know,” replied Somers, carelessly; for he was thinking that his friend was absent a long time upon his mission.

He waited a quarter of an hour longer, and began to be impatient at De Banyan’s long absence. He thought the major must be having a very pleasant interview with his old acquaintance, and had forgotten that his friend was out in the storm waiting for him. At last his patience was completely exhausted, and he had it in his heart to rebuke the thoughtlessness of his companion.

“Here, Alick, hold my horse,” said Somers, as he dismounted. “The major has gone to sleep, and forgotten that we are waiting for him.”

“Yes, massa; but dat ain’t much like de major, to forget you,” replied Alick, taking the rein.

“No, it is not; but I’ll venture to say he is having a good time in the house.”

Somers walked up to the front door, and knocked with his fist. As in the former instance, it brought no response; and he repeated the summons with the butt of his pistol, but with no better success than before. It was evident that the family were very deaf, or that they occupied the rear of the house, where the sound could not reach them. Following the example of De Banyan, he opened the door and entered. At the end of a long entry he saw a light through a crack, which he followed till it brought him to another door, at which he knocked.

“What do you want?” demanded a large, rough, uncouth-looking man, who presented himself at the door.

“Where is the gentleman that came in here half an hour ago?” asked Somers, rather impatiently.

“Haven’t any room,” replied the man, in a loud tone.

“I asked where the gentleman was who came into the house half an hour ago,” repeated the captain.

“I’m deef.”

“I should think you were,” said the inquirer, in a low tone; after which he uttered his question again at the top of his lungs.

“I don’t know him,” yelled the deaf man.

“He came into this house.”

“Four o’clock in the morning,” screamed the man.

“Have you seen any one come into this house?” shouted Somers.

“Blind in one ear, and deef in one eye,” returned the man, with a grin.

“Who lives here?”

“I do.”

“What’s your name?”

“Skinley.”

“What are you?”

“None o’ yer business.”

“Do you live alone?”

“What’s that ter you?”

“I want to see the man that came in here a while ago.”

“Come in.”

Somers did not like the looks of things at all; and if he had not been interested in De Banyan, he would have retired in disgust from the house: as it was, he entered the room. As he did so he heard the sounds of coarse revelry, which suddenly burst upon his ear from an apartment farther in the rear of the mansion.

“Mr. Skinley, I wish to see the gentleman who came in before me,” said Somers, putting his hand on his pistol.

“Do yer?”

“I do.”

“Well, yer needn’t yell no more; there ain’t none so deef as them that won’t hear. You kin see him,” replied the man, with a grin, which seemed to indicate that Somers had been made the victim of a practical joke.

“Where is he?”

“In yender,” replied Skinley, pointing to the door of the room from which the sounds of revelry had come.

Somers had a great many doubts in regard to the situation. There was evidently a considerable body of men in the house.

“Mr. Skinley—”

“I ain’t Mister Skinley. I told you what my name was. My name’s Skinley.”

“Well, Skinley.”

“That sounds more like it, stranger. Now, what’s your name?”

“Somers.”

“What are you?”

“None of your business.”

“Whar yer gwine?”

“What’s that to you?”

“All right, stranger.”

“Now, Skinley, who are those men in yonder?” asked Somers, good-natured in spite of the circumstances of doubt, and possibly peril, which surrounded him, as he pointed to the rear room.

“Friends of mine.”

“How many are there?”

“Go in and count ’em. What yer want to know fur?”

“A man in these times don’t generally have so many friends as you seem to have.”

“I’m a good feller, Somers, and they all like me,” replied Skinley, laughing heartily.

“You have one of my friends in there.”

“How do yer know?”

“You said so.”

“Well, Somers, a feller don’t allus know who his friends is, in these times.”

“But I know him; and, Skinley, would you be so kind as to call him out?”

“It can’t be did,” said the uncouth abomination of a man, very positively.

“Why not?”

“Whar d’yer larn yer manners? He’s havin’ a bout o’ whiskey with the boys; and I’d as soon think o’ techin’ a pant’er at his grub as a sodger at his whiskey.”

“If you tell him Somers is here, he will not take offence.”

“Yes, he will. Them’s good fellers. Go in and jine ’em,” said Skinley, throwing the door wide open.

Seated around a long table, on which there was still a plentiful supply of bacon and corn dodgers, and a great many bottles, were about twenty of the roughest looking fellows the staff officer had ever laid eyes upon. At the end of the board was De Banyan, apparently as happy and contented as the rest of the party. Somers had no difficulty in promptly arriving at the conclusion that the men were guerillas. They had evidently drank all the whiskey that was good for them.

“Come in, Somers,” shouted the major, uproariously. “Come in, and we will make room for you. My friend Somers,” he added, turning to his wild companions.

“Come in, Somers,” said half a dozen of the guerillas.

“Hand him the whiskey,” put in one, who sat at the farther end of the table.

“You’ll have to excuse him, boys,” interposed De Banyan. “He never drinks whiskey; it don’t agree with him. Have you any French brandy?”

“Not a drop.”

The major knew they had not; he was aware that Somers would fight the whole crowd rather than take a glass of liquor of any kind.

Somers was bewildered by the scene before him; but he readily understood that his friend was compromising with unfavorable circumstances, and he did what he could to help the illusion, though he did not know what De Banyan had said or done to create such remarkably good fellowship between himself and such wretched outlaws. He sat down at the table and ate heartily of the bacon and bread, which were very acceptable, for our travellers had eaten nothing since breakfast.

“Here’s to the health of Jeff Davis!” said the man at the opposite end of the table, who appeared to be the commander of the squad. “All up.”

The guerillas rose to their feet, De Banyan with them, with a glass in his hand.

“All up!” exclaimed the major, heartily.

Somers rose then, with a glass of water in his hand, which a black woman in attendance had brought him; but he had no more intention of drinking the health of Jeff Davis, even in a glass of water, than he had of supporting the arch rebel with his sword.

“President Davis,” said the leader.

“President—Lincoln,” added the major, dropping his voice as he uttered the last word.

“President—Lincoln,” repeated Somers, in the same manner.

“One more!” shouted the commander of the squad, as he filled his glass again; and his example was followed by all present. “Here’s confusion to the Yankees!”

“Confusion to the Yankees!” repeated the other guerillas.

“Confusion to the—rebels!” said De Banyan and Somers, using the same tactics as before.

The guerillas, as if satisfied that they had firmly established Jeff Davis on his throne, and hurled confusion among the Yankees, rose from the table. Their leader came over and took De Banyan by the hand.

“What did you say your name was?” asked he.

“De Banyan,” replied the other.

“And you are going to join Wheeler’s cavalry?”

“That’s what’s the matter,” answered the major, who readily adapted himself to the manners of his new friends.

“Can’t we make it worth your while to stay with us?” continued the chief. “You are a good fellow, and look as though you could fight.”

“Wheeler expects me, and I don’t wish to disappoint him. I’m going on his staff.”

“There is something up to-night,” said the chief, confidentially; “and you may make your fortune in a few days.”

“I don’t object to that.”

“I’ll tell you about it, if you like.”

“I don’t object.”

“I don’t know as I will, either; it would hardly be prudent for me to do so. You may be one of those shrewd Yankees, after all. You know you wear Yankee colors,” added the chief, doubtfully.

“I tell you I was born in Winchester, not twenty miles from here; and I am no more a Yankee than you are,” protested the major.

“I’ll trust you,” said the leader. “You can’t spoil the job, if you don’t help us. You are a tonguy fellow, and I want you more than I want the girl that promised to marry me when the war is over. I’ve got the smartest set of men that ever sat in a saddle. They are all Texans.”

“I see they are,” added De Banyan, glancing at the cutthroats who formed the squad.

“I’ve got the keenest scout on the lookout for me that you can find this side of the Rocky Mountains. He’s a young fellow of eighteen, and goes inside the Yankee lines like a native. We go in for making money out of this thing, while we do a good job for the South.”

“Of course,” said De Banyan, carelessly.

“There’s a pay-master coming down from Nashville, on one of these trains, with a heap of greenbacks to pay off the Yankee army. We want those greenbacks, and we shall have them too.”

“If you can get them,” suggested De Banyan.

“We can get them; and if you want your share of them, you have only to join my company. If you will, I’ll tell you the rest.”

“I’m yours,” replied the major.

“And you?” asked the leader, turning to Somers, who had been listening eagerly to the conversation.

“I go with De Banyan.”

“Good! Tippy—that’s my scout—will come down in the train with the pay-master. The cars will stop at the broken bridge, and Tippy will come over here with his information; and all I have to do then will be to pounce on the escort, and pocket the greenbacks. What do you think of it?”

“It’s a tip-top idea, and I’m with you.”

“I expect Tippy will be here to-morrow.”

“All right; I can help you about this business.”

“You can; now, if you could step in and tell the pay-master you are a Yankee, and with that smooth tongue of yours prevent him from taking too much cavalry with him, you would earn your share of the money.”

“I will do it.”

“You can make a man believe anything.”

“Very well; I will go at once.”

“O, no; there is no need of going till Tippy comes with the news.”

“I think I had better meet the train on the way.”

“Not at all,” said the guerilla, shaking his head. “We never let our recruits go out till we know them better than I know you.”

“You won’t trust me?”

“Not yet.”

“Very well,” said De Banyan, easily. “My horse and servant are out in the storm now. I will take care of them.”

“We will go with you;” and half a dozen of the villains followed De Banyan and Somers to the place where they had left the servants and the horses.