residential dugout, waving a five-foot sabre in his hand. He wore his
cocked and plumed hat and his dress-parade coat covered with gold braid
and buttons. Sky-blue pajamas, one rubber boot, and one red-plush
slipper completed his make-up.

"The general had heard the cannon, and he puffed down the sidewalk
toward the soldiers' barracks as fast as his rudely awakened two hundred
pounds could travel.

"O'Connor sees him and lets out a battle-cry and draws his father's
sword and rushes across the street and tackles the enemy.

"Right there in the street he and the general gave an exhibition of
blacksmithing and butchery. Sparks flew from their blades, the general
roared, and O'Connor gave the slogan of his race and proclivities.

"Then the general's sabre broke in two; and he took to his
ginger-colored heels crying out, 'Policios,' at every jump. O'Connor
chased him a block, imbued with the sentiment of manslaughter, and
slicing buttons off the general's coat tails with the paternal weapon.
At the corner five barefooted policemen in cotton undershirts and
straw fiats climbed over O'Connor and subjugated him according to the
municipal statutes.

"They brought him past the late revolutionary headquarters on the way to
jail. I stood in the door. A policeman had him by each hand and foot,
and they dragged him on his back through the grass like a turtle. Twice
they stopped, and the odd policeman took another's place while he rolled
a cigarette. The great soldier of fortune turned his head and looked
at me as they passed. I blushed, and lit another cigar. The procession