He had been in Mobile a great deal while the family were visiting at Glenfield, and he had been careful to notice the location when he was conducted to it with the others.
At the end of the loft next to the main street were thirty or forty other prisoners, with whom Christy and Flint had been on good terms, though they belonged to the army, and seemed to be inclined to keep by themselves.

They had been exhausted by hard service, and they had nothing to do but eat and sleep, though the former occupation did not occupy any great amount of their spare time.

But as soon as it was fairly dark, they stretched themselves on their beds of vines and weeds, and most of them were soon asleep.
The evening that followed the day on which Colonel Passford visited his nephew was dark, foggy, rainy, and as gloomy as even a blockade runner might ask.

Christy seated himself under one of the rear windows of the loft, which appeared to have been intended only for storage, and was only from seven to eight feet between studs.

Flint placed himself at the side of his companion, as he was requested to do.
"This is just the kind of a night we want," said Christy, in a whisper, for he could hear the tramp of a sentinel outside the door of the loft.
"I should as soon think of getting out if we were buried a hundred feet under ground as to think of getting out of this place," replied Flint, who was hardly as enterprising as his officer, though he was always ready to follow when he was well led.