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"Good-bye, Smith." I have never liked my last name, but at that moment the boys contrived to put a kindness of tone into it which made it

"Well, go get some sleep.--No, go at once; you'll be called when needed."

"Borrowed!" echoed the sergeant. "If he doesn't own that mare no man does."

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

Old Dismukes rose. "Good-night. Shall I send this boy that Yankee's horse?"

"One too modest," I murmured, "to know her own portrait." I clutched the braid emotionally and let it go intending to retake it; but she dropped it behind her and said I was too imaginative to be safe.

The discussion warmed and I began to catch words and meanings. Oftenest they were old Lucius Oliver's, whose bad temper made him incautious. While his son and the other two jayhawkers obstinately pressed their scheme he kept saying, sourly, "That's--not--our--wa-ay!"

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