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I made no reply. He looked momentous, leaned to me sidewise with a hand horizontally across his mouth, and whispered a name. It was new to me. "Charlie Toliver?" I murmured, for we were at the tent door.

"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

"Well, that might depend on who 'her' is." We had reached the cross-roads and he was turning south.

"Unloose the west port and let us go free,"

"Easier to get away, you think?" I asked, with a worse frown than ever, as he stepped into the carry-all and took the lines.

"Smith," said the Colonel, and then smoked and smiled again till my brow beaded,--"tired?"

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