"Just wrap the suit up," he told the
clerk, "I'll be in for it tomorrow, or the next day. I'll wear the shoes."
He tramped back to Murfreesboro, displayed his pass to the Sentry, and went
to Bert's tent.
"The doctor has been in again," Bert told him. "He says that my ankle will
be well in a week or so."
"Good!" exclaimed Tom. "Look at my pretty little shoes." He displayed the
heavy, rough boots he had bought at Shelbyville.
"You ought not to start in those things," advised Bert. "New shoes will
cripple you. Here, we'll trade." He produced a pair which had been worn
soft in miles of marching. "And here's a waterproof cape for you."
"No, I don't want to take your things."
But Bert insisted. "I know this sort of life. You take 'em and don't
argue."
Bert had told him all that he knew of the raid, but, as he remarked,
"that's little enough." None of the men who had volunteered knew the
details of the expedition: they knew only that they were to accept orders
from an unknown man, follow him blindly and willingly into whatever he
might lead them. It was to be a raid of great importance, a raid that might
change the course of the war if it proved successful. So great was the
secrecy that no man knew who his companions were to be.
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