the wall, and measured him. While they were taking his measure, the man next to him whispered:
"Now's the time to save your hide—tell all about Ben Cameron trying to hire you to kill Ashburn."
"Give him a few minutes," said the Captain, "and maybe we can hear what Mr. Cameron said about Ashburn."
"I doan' know nuttin', General," pleaded the old darkey. "I ain't heard nuttin'—I ain't seed Marse Ben fer two monts."
"You needn't lie to us. The rebels have been posting you. But it's no use. We'll get it out of you."
"'Fo' Gawd, Marster, I'se er telling de truf!"
"Put him in the dark cell and keep him there the balance of his life unless he tells," was the order.
At the end of four days, Phil was summoned again to witness the show.
John was carried to another part of the fort and shown the sweat-box.
"Now tell all you know or in you go!" said his tormentor.
The negro looked at the engine of torture in abject terror—a closet in the walls of the fort just big enough to admit the body, with an adjustable top to press down too low for the head to be held erect. The door closed tight against the breast of the victim. The only air admitted was through an auger-hole in the door.
The old man's lips moved in prayer.
"Will you tell?" growled the Captain.
"I cain't tell ye nuttin' 'cept'n' a lie!" he moaned.
