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

"Why, hardly, if I'm behindhand now. Is it so fine as that?"

The smoker twinkled. "You're different from Ned Ferry," he said.

The aide-de-camp laughed like a rustic and vanished. "Smith," said the Major, "your eyes are--"

"Hold your tongue!" I barked my wrath like a frightened puppy, drawing back a stride and laying my eye closer along the pistol. "If you call me your son again I'll send you to your fathers."

I dared not retort, but I looked so hard at his paunch that the General smiled. Then he asked me if I knew where we were then camped, and I said we were on the Meadville and Fayette road, near Franklin, twenty miles southeast of Fayette and--

"Good-bye." I could barely hear it.

"Oh!--good-bye, just anybody?" I asked; and thereupon she gathered up all her misplaced trust in me, all her maiden ignorance of what is in man, and all her sweet daring, to murmur--

"Ferry's scouts," I repeated. "F-e-r-r-y-apostrophe s, Ferry's--s-k-o-w-t-s--scouts."

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