so-called.

Mr. Boone hailed from Boonville, but in Missouri, with Kentucky for
ancestral State, such was not a strained coincidence by any means. An
individual there of the name of Boone, and a bit of geography likewise
distinguished, are bound to fall together occasionally. For instance, a
flea's hop over the map, and Mr. Boone and Boonville both might have
claimed the county of Boone. Under the circumstances, Daniel's Christian
name was the most obviously Christian thing his parents could do, and
followed (to precede thereafter) as a matter of course.

Now, Missouri, in the beginning of the Civil War, was a very Flanders
for battles, and this sort of thing had ended by disturbing Mr. Boone
considerably in the manipulation of an old hand-press, dubbed his
Gutenberg, which worked with a lever and required some dozen processes
for each impression of the _Boonville Semi-Weekly Javelin_.
Finally, when Joe Shelby and his pack of fire-eaters were raiding
Missouri for the second time, Daniel plaintively laid down his stick in
the middle of an editorial on Black Republicans, and what should be done
to them. The shooting outside had gotten on his nerves at last. That
blazing away of Missourians back home made him homesick. He was like the
repressed boy called out by the gang to go coasting. And he went. An
editorial by example, he went to do unto the Black Republicans somewhat
personally. The Javelinier was a young man yet.

"There's been rumors hitherto about the pen and the sword," he mused,
"but type, now--that's _hot_!" Wherewith he emptied his cases into
a sack, took down a squirrel rifle, chased off his devil, locked in the
Gutenberg, and joined the raiders. Flinging his burden of metal at
General Shelby's feet, he said, "There sir, is _The Javelin_ in
embryo for months to come. Now it's pi, which we'll sho'ly feed out by
the bullet weight, sir."

From then on the newspaper man followed his proclivities and turned
scout, and it was a vigilant foe that could scoop him on the least of
their movements, whether in the field or in their very stronghold, St.
Louis itself.

At the present moment Mr. Boone was retrieving a lost familiarity with
good cigars. There was a black one of the Valle Nacional in his mouth,
and also in his mouth there was a wisp of straw. The steel-blue smoke
floated out lazily, which his steel-blue eyes regarded with
appreciation. It was an Elysium of indolence. The cigar, the not having
to kill