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Her eyes danced, her brows arched. "Haven't you got"--she hid her smile with an embroidered handkerchief--"haven't you got your second figure upside down?" I glared, but with one look of hurt sisterliness she melted me. Then, pensive just long enough to say, "I was nineteen once," she shot me a sidelong glance so roguish that I was dumb with indignation and tried to find my mustache, forgetting I had shaved it off to stimulate it. She smiled in sweet propitiation and then came gravely to business. "Have you come from beyond the pickets?"

"Hi! there goes one of them!--Halt!--Halt, you blue--" pop!--pop!--pop!

"No, sir."

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.

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