"Oh no," he said. "I will not take your money for this; it's not necessary. Where shall your answer be delivered?" This was something I had not thought about, and for the moment I was embarrassed. I remembered that I had referred to my regiment in my letter, and was about to say that the letter could be sent there; then the thought suddenly came over me, "What if I should be questioned on this regiment?" I did not want any talk of this sort, because it would be getting me into rather too close quarters. The Colonel, noticing my hesitancy as these thoughts passed through my brain and no doubt mistaking its true import, relieved me by saying:
"You had better go along over to Colonel Jones and be registered, if you have not already done so."
I had not attended to this matter of registering my name and address among the refugees from Baltimore, and, without knowing exactly what would come of it, I consented to have it done at once, as he had suggested. Pointing to a building on the opposite side of the square a little below where St. Paul's Church is located, he said:
"That's Colonel J. B. Jones' office, and if you can go with me I will introduce you to him, and you can have all your Maryland mail come to his care."
I walked across the square on his arm, and was formally introduced to Colonel Jones as a worthy Maryland refugee, sick and in distress. I am giving the correct name here, because he became a well-known character in Richmond during the war. He impressed me as an agreeable, rather jolly, gray-haired gentleman of the old school, at the time. On the rather tedious and slow walk for me over the square, my companion had explained to me that Colonel Jones was himself a refugee, having been fired out of Philadelphia, where, if I remember aright, he had been printing a weekly paper which had been rather too outspoken in its sympathy for the South, and, as a consequence, it was, perhaps, violently suppressed. The Colonel informed me, as we walked along, that President Davis had organized the temporary bureau for the registration and general information of refugees and others who might, by the necessities of war, be driven from their homes. It was also understood that any persons desiring information in regard to Maryland refugees should apply at this bureau. This was not exactly the sort of a place that I had been hankering to register myself in, but I was in for it now and had to go through with it. Colonel Jones gave me his courteous attention for awhile, and apparently became interested in the little bit of my "history" that I dealt out to him. It is likely that my sickly, innocent-looking appearance had operated somewhat upon the generous sympathies of Colonel Jones. He assured me in his most agreeable manner that any time at all that I had a letter for my home to just drop it into his postoffice, and he would see that it went out on the "First Mail." This was quite satisfactory to myself and my companion, who had placed the letter in the Colonel's hands. I happened to recall that I had read a book over and over again, written by a J. B. Jones, that had made a great impression upon my youthful mind, and I had worshiped the name in consequence--the title of the book was "Wild Western Scenes." The Colonel laughed heartily, and taking my hand gave me a second jolly shake as he said: "He had met another of his boys--they were turning up every place--wherever he had been some one who had read his book had asked him that question."