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"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

"Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?"

In the vocabulary of a prig, but in the wrath of a fishwoman, I execrated Scott Gholson; his jealousies, his disclosures, his religion, his mispronunciations; and Ned Ferry--that cockerel! Here was I in the barrel, and able only to squeal in irate terror at whoever looked down upon me. I could have crawled under a log and died. At the door of the Major's tent I paused to learn and joy of one to whom comes reprieve when the rope is on his neck, I overheard Harry Helm, the General's nephew and aide de-camp, who had been with us, telling what a howling good joke Smith had just got off on Gholson!

"Oh--I--just don't feel as if I could, that's all."

"Yes," I said, and handed her, as I dismounted, the General's gift, the pass.

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