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

"Neither was Lieutenant Ferry," she dryly responded, "yet I have it from him."

"Sa-ay! I'll wrastle you fo' them-ah clo'es."

The discussion warmed and I began to catch words and meanings. Oftenest they were old Lucius Oliver's, whose bad temper made him incautious. While his son and the other two jayhawkers obstinately pressed their scheme he kept saying, sourly, "That's--not--our--wa-ay!"

"You have no carbine," said my commander. "And you have but one revolver; here is another."

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