" She picked up the lamp and led the way into
the back room. It was the combined living-room, bedroom, and dining-room of
the family. One door led to the yard behind the house, the other into a
lean-to shanty which served as a kitchen. Tom, by way of precaution, took
it in rapidly.
"Tell us about the bridge," urged the boy.
Tom continued on a rambling story of how he had helped to fight the fire,
how sparks had fallen on him, and how he had to tear his shirt off because
it was in flames. He gave a lurid description of the scene. The woman
clucked her tongue at intervals, the man exclaimed, "Don't say so!"
repeatedly, and the boy grunted his appreciation. Tom talked on and on,
reserving the end of his story. At last the woman held a shirt out to
him--it seemed to Tom to represent everything which stood between him and
his ultimate triumphal return to the Union lines. Without a shirt he could
no nothing; with it there was some chance of having his story believed. He
took it from her.
"And finally the bridge went down," he continued. "The flames shot hundreds
of feet in the air, and the sparks fell down for five minutes afterwards.
The passenger train went back to Dalton, and I decided that I'd go to
Chattanooga on foot.
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