k by a lantern-light.

"Got any quail staked out for us, Feb?" asked the Quartermaster.

"Oodles," said Febiger; "get into my trap," and we were rattled through
the unlighted street out to the camp, and brought up by the Captain's
quarters.

In the morning we unpacked our trunks, and had everything on the floor
where we could see it, after the fashion with men. Captain Febiger's
baby boy came in to help us rummage in the heaps of canvas clothes,
ammunition, and what not besides, finally selecting for his amusement a
loaded Colt's revolver and a freshly honed razor. We were terrorized by
the possibilities of the combination. Our trying to take them away from
the youngster only made him yell like a cavern of demons. We howled for
his mother to come to our aid, which she finally did, and she separated
the kid from his toys.

I put on my bloomers, when the Captain came in and viewed me, saying:
"Texas bikes; but it doesn't bloom yet. I don't know just what Texas
will do if you parade in those togs--but you can try."

As we sauntered down the dusty main street, Texas lounged in the
doorways or stood up in its buggy and stared at me. Texas grinned
cheerfully, too, but I did not care, so long as Texas kept its hand out
of its hip pocket. I was content to help educate Texas as to personal
comfort, at no matter what cost to myself. We passed into Mexico over
the Long Bridge to call on Senor Munos, who is the local czar, in hopes
of getting permits to be let alone by his chaparral-rangers while we
shot quail on their soil. In Mexico when the people observe an Americano
they simply shrug their shoulders; so our bloomers attracted no more
contempt than would an X-ray or a trolley-car. Senor Munos gave the
permits, after much stately compliment and many subtle ways, which made
us feel under a cloud of obligation.

[Illustration: 07 LUNCHEON IN THE DESERT]

The next morning an ambulance and escort-wagon drove up to the Captain's
quarters, and we loaded ourselves in--shot-guns, ammunition, blankets,
and the precious paper of Senor Munos; for, only the week before, the
custom-house rangers had carefully escorted an American hunting-party a
long distance back to the line for lack of the little paper and red
seals. We rattled over the bridge, past the Mexican barrack, while its
dark-skinned soldiery--who do not shoot quails--lounged in the sunshine
against the whitewashed wall.

At the first outpost of the customs a little man,