the arm around one another except in
combat. He has been a soldier. You are a soldier. So you can understand
that a fighting man may be a little abrupt when he does not understand."

The smile, the apology, and most of all the subtle flattery of being
treated as an equal by a man whose manner betokened the North American
army officer, mollified the aggrieved official at once. The hot gleam
died out of his eyes. Punctiliously he saluted. The salute was as
punctiliously returned.

"It is forgotten, Capitao. As the capitao says, we soldiers are
sometimes overquick. I come to give you welcome to Remate de Males. My
services are at your disposal."

"We thank you. Why do you call me capitao?"

"My eyes know a capitao when they see him."

"But this is not a military expedition, my friend. Nor are any of us
soldiers now--though we all have been."

"Once a capitao, always a capitao," the Brazilian insisted. Then he
hinted: "If the capitao and his friends wish to call upon the
superintendente they will find him in the intendencia, the blue building
beyond the hotel. It will soon be closed for the day."

The tall American's keen gray eyes roved down the street to the
weather-beaten house whose peeling walls once might have been blue. He
nodded shortly.

"Better go down there," he said. "Come on, Merry. Tim, stick here and
keep an eye on the stuff. And don't start another war while we're gone."

"Right, Cap." Tim deftly swung his rifle to his right shoulder. "I'll
walk me post in a military manner, keepin' always on the alert and
observin' everything that takes place within sight or hearin', accordin'
to Gin'ral Order Number Two. There won't be no war unless somebody
starts somethin'. Hey, there, buddy, would ye smoke a God's-country
cigarette if I give ye one?"

"_Si_," grinned the soldier-policeman, all animosity gone. And as the
other two men tramped away through the mud they also grinned, looking
back at the North and the South American pacing side by side in
sentry-go, blowing smoke and conversing like brothers in arms.

"Tim likes to remember his 'general orders,' but he's forgotten Number
Five," laughed the blond man.

"Five? 'To talk to no one except in line of duty.' Don't need it here,
Merry."

"Nope. The _entente cordiale_ is the thing. Here's hoping nobody makes
Tim remember his 'Gin'ral Order Number Thirteen' while we're gone, Rod."

He of the black hair smiled again as his mate, mimicking Tim's gruff