he had won for bravery.

A photograph of his divorced wife occupied the place of honor near
the looking-glass. In reminiscent moods Skim used to tell how Chita,
of old Mexico, had left him after stabbing him three times with the
jeweled knife that he had given her. "I didn't interfere with her,"
he said, "but told her, when she pricked me with the little knife,
it was my heart that she was jabbing at." Skim also told me of
his expedition into "Dead Man's Gulch," "Death Valley," and the
suddenly-abandoned mining-camps among the hills of California. And
he had met the daughter of a millionaire in Frisco, and had seen her
home. "And when I saw the big shack looming up there in the woods,"
he said, "I thought sure that I'd struck the wrong farmhouse."

Skim rented a small place surrounded by a hedge of bonga palms, and
here he entertained the village royally. He was a favorite among the
girls, and lavished gifts upon them, mostly the latest illustrated
magazines that belonged to me. He ruled his awkward soldiers with
an iron hand, and they were more afraid of him that of the Evil
One. Of course, they could not understand his Spanish, and would
often answer, "_Si, senor_" when they had not the least idea of what
the orders were. Then they would come to grief for disobedience,
or receive Skim's favorite reprimand of "Blooming idiot! _No sabe_
your own language?" When his cook displeased him, he (the cook) would
generally come bumping down the stairs. The voice of Skim was as the
roaring lion in a storm. Desertions were many in those strenuous days;
for the constabulary guards were not the heroes of the hour.

Always insisting on strict discipline, Skim, on the day we made our
trial hike, marshaled his forces in a rigid line, and, after roll-call,
marched them off in order to the hills. The soldiers took about three
steps to his one, and, trying to keep up with him through the dense
hemp-fields, they broke ranks and ran. We followed a mountain stream
to its headwaters, scrambling over bowlders, wading waist-deep in the
ice-cold stream, and by the time we broke the underbrush and pushed up
hill, big Skim had literally hiked the soldiers off their feet. They
were unspeakably relieved when we sat down at noon in the cool shade,
upon the brink of a deep, crystal pool, and ate our luncheon. Skim,
insisting that the canned quail--which retained its gamy flavor--was
beyond redemption, turned it over to the soldiers to their great