cousin of mine," explained Burley, "Ned Winters, of El Paso, went down
on the steamer _John B. Doty_, with eleven hundred mules and six niggers.
The Boches torpedoed the ship and then raked the boats. I'd like to get a
crack at one Boche before I go back to God's country."

The gendarmes politely but regretfully agreed that it was impracticable
for Burley to get a crack at a Hun; and the American presently took
himself off to the corral, after distributing cigarettes and establishing
cordial relations with the Sainte Lesse Gendarmerie.

He waked up a negro and inspected the mules; that took a long time. Then
he sought out the negro blacksmith, awoke him, and wrote out some
directions.

"The idea is," he explained, "that whenever the French in this sector need
mules they draw on our corral. We are supposed to keep ten or eleven
hundred mules here all the time and look after them. Shipments come every
two weeks, I believe. So after you've had another good nap, George, you
wake up your boys and get busy. And there'll be trouble if things are not
in running order by tomorrow night."

"Yas, suh, Mistuh Burley," nodded the sleepy blacksmith, still blinking in
the afternoon sunshine.

"And if you need an interpreter," added Burley, "always call on me until
you learn French enough to get on. Understand, George?"

"Yas, suh."

"Because," said Burley, walking away, "a thorough knowledge of French
idioms is necessary to prevent mistakes. When in doubt always apply to me,
George, for only a master of the language is competent to deal with these
French people."

It was his one vanity, his one weakness. Perhaps, because he so ardently
desired proficiency, he had already deluded himself with the belief that
he was a master of French.

So, belt and loaded holster sagging, and large silver spurs clicking and
clinking at every step, John Burley sauntered back along the almost
deserted street of Sainte Lesse, thinking sometimes of his mules,
sometimes of the French language, and every now and then of a dark-eyed,
dark-haired girl whose delicately flushed and pensive gaze he had
encountered as he had ridden into Sainte Lesse under the old belfry.

"Stick Smith's a fool," he thought to himself impatiently. "Tray chick
doesn't mean 'some chicken.' It means a pretty girl, in French."

He looked up at the belfry as he passed under it, and at the same moment,
from beneath the high, gilded dragon which crowned its topmost spire, a
s