hey were
tobacco-chewing giants, famous for expectoration. Except Meagre Shanks,
who tilted his inevitable black cigar now toward one eye, now toward the
other. Except the Storm Centre, who fondly closed his palm over his cob
meerschaum and felt its warmth and seemed far away, a dangerous poet.
Except Old Brothers and Sisters, most austere of Wesleyans, who had
neither pipe nor quid. He was cleaning his pistols. They were men hewn
for mighty deeds, but--cringe must we all before the irony that neither
life nor romance may dodge--it was not a mighty deed which that night
was to exact of them, which yet they were brave enough to do, though
sorry the figures they thought they made.

Politics was their theme, since men, though busy with war and death,
must yet relieve their statesmen, especially after supper, and neatly
arrange the Tariff, Resumption, or whatever else. Like oracles the
ex-Confederates held forth that the Yankees had only driven out the
French to march in themselves, and so tutor the Mexicans in
self-government. To which the Kansan ventured a minority opinion, though
being thus a judge of the bench, as it were, he had no need of the oaths
he took.

"Why God help me and to thunder with you, the United States ain't aiming
at any protectorate. You unreconstructed Rebs simply cain't and won't
see good faith in the Federal government!"

"Carpet bags?" Driscoll murmured sweetly. It was the majority opinion.

"Yes sir'ee," and Daniel took the cue as a bit in the mouth, "there's
blood on the face of the moon up there, _acerrima proximorum odia_,
by God sir! Look at the troops at our elections! Look at the Drake Test
Oath! Look at----" Mr. Boone was fast getting vitriolic, in heavy
editorial fashion, when a famished face, a wolfish face, appeared
between the flaps of the tent. "Look at--_that!_"

Politics vanished, war and death resumed their own.

The whole mess stared.

"Sth-hunderation, it's an Imperialist!" lisped Crittenden of Nodaway. He
pointed at the newcomer's uniform, which was of the Batallon del
Emperador.

"Well, bring him on in," said Driscoll to the pickets gripping the man
by either arm.

"He was trying to pass through our lines," one explained. "And when we
stopped him, he begged hard to be brought to the Coronel Gringo, that
is, to you, senor."

The mess turned curiously on Driscoll. Why a half dead soldier of the
Batallon del Emperador should have a preference as to his jailer was
bey