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

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

He spurted a pint to reply, "Fishe's batt'ry."

I waved a pleasant refusal and rode toward the house.

He waited on the threshold with his dropsical back to me for my last word, and then, still in the same attitude, droned, "O-oh, he's dead. And anyhow," he finished out of sight in the hall, "that's not our way."

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