such as phrenologists would give to men of wonderful mathematical ability.
This man has two wounds, one an old one, or rather of some days’ standing,
and supposed to be the result of Wheeler’s carbine practice at Northfield,
which caused the disarticulation of the right elbow joint. His other wound
is from a ball entering the right side, just below the point of the
scapula, tracing the sixth rib and coming out near the nipple. This is a
mere flesh wound, and not at all dangerous.
At first he seemed rather reluctant to talk much, and when asked his name,
he said it was George Huddleston, to which the writer replied, “Oh, I know
who you are,” when he said, with a cheering smile, “Yes, most people know
me in St. Paul. I stayed at the Merchants, and was there when the Red Caps
went to Winona to play the Clippers. I afterwards went over to Minneapolis
and stopped at the Nicollet, but on my return to St. Paul, I registered at
the European.”
“But are you not a brother to the two men in the other room?” was asked.
“Yes, we are brothers; we are all brothers, sir,” was the reply.
“And they say you are the Youngers. Of course, I know Cole, but I would
like to know if you are Jim or Bob?”
“I will tell you in the morning,” he said. “I would rather not say
anything now. The others will tell you anything you wish to know.”
But by chatting familiarly with him, many facts of interest were elicited.
He spoke of the Northfield escapade, and said it was the first of the kind
he ever was in. When asked about his wound in the right arm, if it was not
from the carbine of Wheeler, he stated that he thought it was from the
pistol of Bates—he did not see Wheeler. His arm dropped on his leg as
described, he said, which led to the belief that he was wounded in the
leg.
In speaking of the dead men at Northfield, the writer said that there was
some uncertainty whether the big man was Miller or Pitts. The prisoner
promptly said, with a smile, “It was not Miller.”