THREE DAYS' RATIONS

In the vocabulary of a prig, but in the wrath of a fishwoman, I
execrated Scott Gholson; his jealousies, his disclosures, his religion,
his mispronunciations; and Ned Ferry--that cockerel! Here was I in the
barrel, and able only to squeal in irate terror at whoever looked down
upon me. I could have crawled under a log and died. At the door of the
Major's tent I paused to learn and joy of one to whom comes reprieve
when the rope is on his neck, I overheard Harry Helm, the General's
nephew and aide de-camp, who had been with us, telling what a howling
good joke Smith had just got off on Gholson!

"We shall have to get Ned Ferry back here," the Major was saying as I
entered, "to make you boys let Scott Gholson alone."

The young man laughed and turned to go. "Why doesn't Ned Ferry make
_her_ let Gholson alone? He can do it; he's got her round his finger as
tight as she's got Gholson round hers."

"Harry," replied the Major, from his table full of documents, "don't you
know that any man who's got a woman wrapped round his finger has also
got her wrapped round his throat?"

The aide-de-camp laughed like a rustic and vanished. "Smith," said the
Major, "your eyes are--"

"I've been awake for forty-eight hours, Major. But--oh, I'm not
sleepy."

"Well, go get some sleep.--No, go at once; you'll be called when