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Midway of this space I met Scott Gholson, clerk to the Adjutant-general. It was Gholson who had first spoken of me for this detail. He was an East Louisianian, of Tangipahoa; aged maybe twenty-six, but in effect older, having from birth eaten only ill-cooked food, and looking it; profoundly unconscious of any shortcoming in his education, which he had got from a small church-pecked college of the pelican sort that feed it raw from their own bosoms. One of his smallest deficiencies was that he had never seen as much art as there is in one handsome dinner-plate. Now, here he was, riding forth to learn for himself, privately, he said, why I did not appear. Yet he halted without turning, and seemed to wish he had not found me.

"Nonsense!" muttered both men, and I liked them the better.

I mumbled something about never wishing to tempt any one.

"Only to take care of you whenever I had the chance. Go, now, you must!"

While I told of the scrimmage, the guard relieved me of Oliver, and as I finished, three men galloped up and reined in. "All right," said one, saluting.

"Can't we make them think our men are here?" I suggested. "Couldn't I go back to where this fence crosses the gully and let them see me opening a gap in it?"

"Yes," I dishonestly responded, "his polished irreligion--"

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