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"Yet what?" I snapped out, with horse eyes.

"Um-hm!" I thought; "Charlotte Oliver, eh?" I responded tartly that I had that very morning met four ladies the poetry of whose actual, visible loveliness had abundantly illustrated to me the needlessness and impertinence of fiction! By the way, did he not think feminine beauty was always in its ripest perfection at eighteen?

The flap fell again and my panic was turned into a joy qualified only by a reduced esteem for my general as a judge of character.

The night was still and sultry. At one of the many camp-fires on the edge of the road I saw the Arkansas colonel sitting cross-legged on the ground, in trousers, socks and undershirt, playing poker.

"Oh! And where is the battery?"

"She ain't awa-ay."

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