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The smoker twinkled. "You're different from Ned Ferry," he said.

"Yes, madam, between Melpomene and Terpsichore."

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

"Oh, General, if you send an officer they'll see the ruse! I can do it! I'll do it all right!"

Yet great is precept. Precept is a well. Up from its far depths by slow, humble, constant process you may draw, in a slender silver thread, and store for sudden use, the pure waters of character.

"You have no carbine," said my commander. "And you have but one revolver; here is another."

He let me ponder the fact a long time. "Lieutenant," I asked at length, "did you know your plot against the two Olivers would cross her wishes?"

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