He was a young man, some years older than myself, with a smooth face
and fair, yellow hair and blue eyes. I found that the blue eyes were
fixed upon me steadily and kindly. When he saw that I had caught him
watching me he raised his hand smartly to the visor.

I do not know why, but it made the tears come to my eyes. It was so
different from the salute of our own men; it was like being back again
under the flag at the Point. It was the recognition of the "regular"
that touched me, of a bona-fide, commissioned officer.

But I returned his salute just as stiffly as though I were a
commissioned officer myself. And then a strange thing happened. The
sailor-boy jerked his head toward the retreating form of my late
adversary, and slowly stuck his tongue into his cheek, and winked.
Before I could recover myself, he had caught up my hand and given it a
sharp shake, and galloped after his friends.

Miller and I fell in at the rear of the column.

"Who were those men?" I asked.

"The Isthmian Line people, of course," he answered, shortly. "The man
in the helmet is Graham, the manager of the Copan Silver Mines.
They've just unloaded them on Fiske. That's why they're so thick with
him."

"And who was the chap who insulted Laguerre?" I asked. "The one whose
face I slapped?"