uttered an exclamation of surprise, and not without good reason.
"Man—on the road—flat on his face!"
"Is he a spy?"
"Is he dead?"
"I don't know," answered Tom. "Go slow—we may be running into a trap."
They advanced with caution. Not another soul seemed to be in sight, and presently they stood over the man. He was breathing heavily.
"Looks like a planter," observed Fred, noticing the apparel the stranger wore. "What's the matter with him?"
"Perhaps he was shot. Let us turn him over."
This they proceeded to do, and then, without warning, the man sat up and rubbed his eyes. His wig and beard fell off, and to Tom's astonishment there was revealed James Monday, the government detective.
"Mr. Monday!" cried the boy. "How in the world did you get here?"
"Wha—who are you?" stammered the man. "Wha—what hit me?"
"I don't know what hit you. I am Tom Rover. Don't you remember me?"
The government official looked perplexed for a moment, and then his face brightened.
"To be sure I remember you, Rover," he stam-
