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

"No-o!" he said, as if nobody but a gaping idiot would expect anybody not a gaping idiot to notice a leather-curtained spring-wagon. "No-o! did you notice the brown horse that man was riding who just now passed you as you turned off the road?"

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The man who had got me into this thing--this barrel--lifted the tent-flap. "Mr. Gholson," said the General, "write an order assigning Smith to Ferry's scouts."

"I'm most afraid," he said, abstractedly, as he read my detail, which Gholson brought in. "Here,"--he handed it to me--"and here, here's the despatch too."

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

"And so here you are in this awful fix."

I dilated. "Who told--did Ned Ferry tell you that story?"

"Is it so dangerous?"

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