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"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

"We can see him yet if you--"

"Who--o?" It was not one who asked; the whos came like shrapnel; and when, not knowing what else to do, I smiled as one dying, there went up a wail of mirth that froze my blood and then heated it to a fever. The company howled. They rolled over one another, crying, "Charlie Toliver!--Charlie Toliver!--Oh, Lord, where's Scott Gholson!--Charlie Toliver!"--and leaped up and huddled down and moaned and rolled and rose and looked for me.

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

"Who don't belong to Ferry's scouts at all," I still more sweetly added.

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