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

"Borrowed!" echoed the sergeant. "If he doesn't own that mare no man does."

She replied that she did not mean that. Nevertheless, I insisted, would she? She only bent lower still. I asked the third time; and with nothing but the parting of her hair for me to look at, she nodded, and one of her braids fell over in front, and I took the pink-ribboned live end of it timorously between thumb and finger and felt as if I had hold of an electric battery.

"Nonsense!" muttered both men, and I liked them the better.

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