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"We smuggled it through!" chanted the trio, ready to weep for virtuous joy. And then they clasped arms like the graces, about their aunt, and let her speak.

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Turn again thine eyes, maiden passing fair. O maiden passing fair, turn again thine eyes!"

The night was still and sultry. At one of the many camp-fires on the edge of the road I saw the Arkansas colonel sitting cross-legged on the ground, in trousers, socks and undershirt, playing poker.

"Who don't belong to Ferry's scouts at all," I still more sweetly added.

He spurted a pint to reply, "Fishe's batt'ry."

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