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The aide-de-camp laughed like a rustic and vanished. "Smith," said the Major, "your eyes are--"

My thanks were few and awkward, for there still hung to the missive a basting thread, and it was as warm as a nestling bird. I bent low--everybody was emotional in those days--kissed the fragrant thing, thrust it into my bosom, and blushed worse than Camille.

"Mine is Smith," I said, and we galloped.

"How long have you belonged to Ferry's scouts?" sceptically demanded their spokesman.

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