ant character of San Pablo, and, anyway, it would only be in payment for our lodgings." The Colombian never needs much urging to accept a favor, and his formal protests soon died away. I sat down to write out the check: The Fake Bank, 920 110th Street, New York, U. S. A. Pay to the order of the Chirological College of Los Angeles, Cal., the sum of six dollars ($6). BARON MÜNCHHAUSEN. The barber carefully folded the valuable document, and hid it away in his garments, promising to send it at the very first opportunity, in a plain envelop, unregistered. "For," he explained, confiding to us a nation-wide secret, "the post-office officials always steal any letter they think has anything valuable in it, and to register it makes them sure it has." The treatment was cruel, perhaps, but we could think of no better. No doubt Santiago waited many anxious months for the arrival of the system, but certainly no longer than he would have waited had he managed to send real money. Meanwhile, as the enthusiasm of a Latin-American shrinks rapidly, it may be that he grew resigned to his failure to become the secret ruler of San Pablo, and took up again the shaving of its faces and the cutting of its coarse, black hair. I dropped in a heap and none too soon; He carried a queer, old muzzle-loading gun; His top-boots were muddy, and his red uniform He waited for a moment, then waved his hand, Pikemen, archers with huge crossbows, Men in rusty armor, with battle-dented shields, Great blond giants with long, flowing hair And limbs of enormous girth; Yellow men with bludgeons, black men with knives, The one with the queer, old muzzle-loading gun He was head and shoulders higher than the parapet, The sentries stood like men in a dream, With their faces to the German line. He felt of their arms, their bodies, and their legs, But they made no sound or sign. He beckoned to the others, and three jumped in. I was shaking like a man with a chill; But I could n't help smiling when the sergeant said Through his chattering teeth, "K-k-k-keep s-s-s-still!" A hairy-armed giant, with rings in his ears, Stood looking down the dugout stair, Hands on his knees. Slowly he turned, With a huge forefinger and a huge, thick thumb The two of us together would not have made I could see his scorn, and my face burned hot, Suddenly the chatter of the sergeant's teeth Stopped. He was angry, too; And he whispered: "Are you game? Get the Maxim gun!" I hugged him. "It will scare them blue." Slowly, very slowly, we rose to our feet; I was conscious of my knocking knees. I saw them staring from the tail of my eye We lifted the gun and clamped it on, With the muzzle at the parapet. "Ready!" he nodded. I turned my head. And nearly collapsed with fright. Four of them were standing at my shoulder, The others to the left and right. Then, "Fire!" I shouted, and the gun leaped up With a roar and a spurt of flame. The sergeant gripped the handles while the belt ran through, Never stopping to correct his aim. Fearfully I turned, then jumped to my feet, Forgetting all about the feed. They were running like the wind up a long, steep hill, With the thumb-and-finger man in the lead! And high above the rattle and roar of the gun I heard a despairing yell, As Englishmen, Dutchmen, pikemen, bowmen, The men who were sleeping in the moonlit trench Sat up and rubbed their eyes; And one of them muttered in a drowsy voice, "Wot to blazes is the row, you guys?" The sergeant said: "That 'll do! That 'll do!" But he whispered to me, "Keep mum!" They would n't have believed that the row was all about |