he business end of a tuba horn,
sixty-seven mounted men, and two toy cannon loaded with carpet-tacks.
With no education, and, what was still harder to bear, the inner
consciousness that his parents were plain, common, every-day people
whose position in life would not advance him in the estimation of the
Peruvians, he battled on. His efforts were crowned with success,
insomuch that at the close of the year 1532 peace was declared and he
could breathe the free air once more without fear of getting a bronze
arrow-head mixed up with his kidneys when his back was turned. "For the
first time in two years," says the historian, "Pizarro was able to take
off his tin helmet and his sheet-iron corset at night when he lay down
to rest, or undismayed to go forth bareheaded and wearing only his
crinkled seersucker coat and a pair of sandals at the twilight hour and
till midnight wander alone amid the famous guano groves of Peru."

Such is the history of a man who never even knew how to write his own
name. He won fame for himself and great wealth without an education or a
long, dark-blue lineage. Pizarro was like Job. You know, we sometimes
sing:

Oh, Job, he was a fine young lad,
Sing glory hallelujah.
His heart was good but his blood was bad,
Sing glory hallelujah.

So Pizarro could not brag on his blood and his education was not
classical. He could not write his name, though he tried faithfully for
many years. Day after day during the campaign, and late into the night,
when the yaller dogs of Lima came forth with their Peruvian bark, he
would get his orderly sergeant to set him the copy:

"Paul may plant and Apollinaris water, but it is God that giveth the
increase."

Then Pizarro would bring out his writing material and his tongue and try
to write, but he never could do it. His was not a studious mind. It was
more on the knock-down-and-drag-out order.

Pizarro was made a marquis in after years. He was also made a corpse. He
acquired the latter position toward the close of his life. He, at one
time, married the inca's daughter and founded a long line of grandees,
marquises, and macaroni sculptors, whose names may be found on the
covers of imported cigar boxes and in the topmost tier of the
wrought-iron resorts in our best penitentiaries.

Pizarro lived a very busy life during the conquest, some days killing as
many as seventy and eighty Peruvians between sun and sun. But death at
last crooked h