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

The flap fell again and my panic was turned into a joy qualified only by a reduced esteem for my general as a judge of character.

"Too warm?"

"Ferry's scouts," I repeated. "F-e-r-r-y-apostrophe s, Ferry's--s-k-o-w-t-s--scouts."

"Oh! And where is the battery?"

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!"

"Well, good Lord! don't hang back for my sake!"

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