commanded the other Red. He was the older man, heavily built,
with a strong, hard mouth and chin, on which latter sprouted a three
days' iron-gray beard. "Don't you see he's an officer? Officers don't
like being took by two-spot privates."

Lathrop gave a sudden start. "Why," he laughed, incredulously, "don't
you know--" He stopped, and his eyes glanced quickly up and down the
road.

"Don't we know what?" demanded the older Red, suspiciously.

"I forgot," said Lathrop. "I--I must not give information to the
enemy--"

For an instant there was a pause, while the two Reds stood irresolute.
Then the older nodded the other to the side of the road, and in whispers
they consulted eagerly.

Miss Farrar laughed, and Lathrop moved toward her.

"I deserve worse than being laughed at," he said. "I made a strategic
mistake. I should not have tried to capture you and an army corps at the
same time."

"You," she taunted, "who were always so keen on soldiering, to be taken
prisoner," she lowered her voice, "and by men like that! Aren't they
funny?" she whispered, "and East Side and Tenderloin! It made me
homesick to hear them! I think when not in uniform the little one drives
a taxicab, and the big one is a guard on the elevated."

"They certainly are very 'New York,'" assented Lathrop, "and very
tough."

"I thought," whispered Miss Farrar, "those from New York with the Red
Army were picked men."

"What does it matter?" exclaimed Lathrop. "It's just as humiliating to
be captured by a ballroom boy as by a mere millionaire! I can't insist
on the invading army being entirely recruited from Harvard graduates."

The two Reds either had reached a decision, or agreed that they could
not agree, for they ceased whispering, and crossed to where Lathrop
stood.

"We been talking over your case," explained the sergeant, "and we see
we are in wrong. We see we made a mistake in taking you prisoner. We had
ought to shot you dead. So now we're going to shoot you dead."

"You can't!" objected Lathrop. "It's too late. You should have thought
of that sooner."

"I know," admitted the sergeant, "but a prisoner is a hell of a
nuisance. If you got a prisoner to look after you can't do your own
work; you got to keep tabs on him. And there ain't nothing in it for the
prisoner, neither. If we take you, you'll have to tramp all the way to
our army, and all the way back. But, if you're dead, how different! You
ain't no bother to anybody. You go