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

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!

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

The ladies smiled; I glowered. "Take those horses by their heads and turn them to me!"

I almost leaped from the ground in consternation. My whole frame throbbed, my mouth fell open, my tongue was tied.

I halted; not making a point of valor or discretion, but because he was Charlotte Oliver's husband. I read his purpose and listened behind me as we parleyed. "Don't halt me, sir, I'm a courier and in a hurry."

"Lieutenant, she guessed! She must have just put two and two together and guessed! Or else, Lieutenant,--"

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