interested, forgot his errand.

"I'd like to see you fire it once," he said eagerly. Borrowe,
delighted at the chance to exhibit his toy to a professional soldier,
beamed with equal eagerness.

"In just a moment, sir," he said; "this shell seems to have jammed a
bit." The officer, for the first time seeing the shell stuck in the
breech, hurriedly gathered up his reins. He seemed to be losing
interest. With elaborate carelessness I began to edge off down the
road.

"Wait," Borrowe begged; "we'll have it out in a minute."

Suddenly I heard the officer's voice raised wildly.

"What--what," he gasped, "is that man doing with that axe?"

"He's helping me to get out this shell," said Borrowe.

"Good God!" said the officer. Then he remembered his errand.

Until last year, when I again met young Borrowe gayly disporting
himself at a lawn-tennis tournament at Mattapoisett, I did not know
whether his brother's method of removing dynamite with an axe had
been entirely successful. He said it worked all right.

At the turn of the road I found Colonel Leonard Wood and a group of
Rough Riders, who were busily intrenching. At the same moment
Stephen Crane came up with "Jimmy" Hare, the man who has made the