own our way about a Jew and an Indian
who were known to be smugglers and came and went in a mysterious way.
They sailed a small sloop called the Sea Fox, and, according to the
stories, this Jew was one of the most adroit villains ever born with a
hooked nose. Where he hailed from the devil only knew, and he never
told, and when after he had mystified everybody for two years, smuggled
liquor by the boatload all the time without getting caught once, he
mysteriously disappeared, and left the entire coast guessing. According
to the stories, and there are hundreds told about him, he was the
smoothest Sheeney that ever swore by Moses. Dozens of constables were on
the watch for him; his sloop was searched many times; every one believed
he was smuggling liquor all the time and yet no one ever caught him. All
this happened when I was a boy, and yet to-day no one sees a small
tops'l sloop gliding into some uninhabited cove that they don't say
'There goes the Sea Fox.'"

"And did no story ever crop out regarding what became of him, or where
he went to?" inquired Manson.

"Not a word or whisper; that is where the mystery lies, and, as I said,
it is one more added to the large stock we already have."

"I would love to spend a month down your way, Frank," said Manson, after
a pause.

"And why not?" replied Pullen. "I've a good boat, plenty of time, and
when we get out of this scrape I would be more than glad to have you
visit me. I will take you all around among the islands and show you all
the mysteries, even Pocket Island, and who knows but we may run across
the Sea Fox? Promise me to come, will you?"

"Yes, if ever I get back alive I will," answered Manson.

It was not long after this pleasant chat that there occurred another
episode in Manson's war experience that had a peculiar effect upon his
imagination, and one that perhaps will illustrate the pathos of war as
well as any.

"We do not pause to think what we are about to do when we are marched
into battle," he said to his friend Frank the day after it happened; "we
are under orders to kill if we can, and the smell of smoke, the roar of
guns, and the awful horror of it all deadens every sense except the
brutal one to shed blood. But to deliberately shoot an enemy, even
though you know he is only waiting to shoot you, is another matter. I
had to do it yesterday morning, however, and how miserable I have been
ever since, no one can imagine. As you know, the Rebs have been