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"What, a leather-curtained spring-wagon?"

"Out here somewhere. No, not in the army exactly; no, nor in the navy, but--I expect him in camp to-night. If he comes you'll have to work when you ought to be asleep. No, he is not in the secret service, only in a secret service; running hospital supplies through the enemy's lines into ours."

"Doesn't a good story revive the poetry of our actual lives?" He wiped the rim of his cap with a handkerchief of yellow silk enriched at one corner with needlework.

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

"Why, I suppose I'm to find there a road down Cole's Creek to Clifton."

"My dear Smith," said Miss Rothvelt, "keep your trust. But if I part here with these two kind gentlemen--"

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

"I am afraid not."

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