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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

I clenched my teeth. "I am nineteen, madam."

"Yess, sir, you are!" I retorted. "Move to that wagon! And if you take one step out of common time you'll never take another."

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.

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