harge of the guns, you see. I guess I was thinking
about you. I generally am. Anyhow, the first thing I knew, March hurried
back. He seemed queer and excited, and stood still a minute as if he was
struck all of a heap. Then to my amazement he rapped out an order to
load and fire number one and number two guns, aiming at a spot just
beyond the bridge. But before we'd had time to do more than gasp--I and
the gunners--he changed his order, and commanded us to fire blank. Lord,
that was a relief--though even blank would be bad enough for the lot of
us if it turned out that March had gone suddenly mad. You fire blank for
a salute, you know: but Mexico wasn't likely to take it as a compliment!
Luckily we'd some rounds of blank, served out to us in case we might
need to send a scare and not a peppering across the river. There was
nothing for it but to obey orders, though I couldn't help thinking about
'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' when every one knew that some one had
blundered. March shouted out, 'Go slow!' And you bet we did go slow! It
seemed as if he must be off his head--or somebody else was--for so far
as we could tell--and it was a fairly clear night--there wasn't a sign
of trouble on the other side of the river.

"We'd only fired the three shots, when Major Vandyke pounced on us,
ordered us to stop, and wanted to know what the devil and all his angels
March was up to. 'Carrying out _your_ orders,' said March. 'That's a
da----' but what's the use of repeating to you, Peggy, what they said to
each other? The principal thing is, Vandyke denied having given any
order to fire, and cursed March for all he was worth. Said he might be
the cause of bringing us and Mexico to grips over the incident. Then he
dashed off in his automobile, which was waiting for him under the hill
(he'd been in it, you know, or he couldn't have got to the spot so
soon); you must have read that in the papers; and so much of their story
was true. Whatever you may think of Vandyke, Peggy, that was _man's_
size work! He took his life in his hands, the way the Mexicans must have
been buzzing in their wasp's nest over there, after the hot water we'd
thrown on it."

"It was the sort of thing he'd love to do," I said implacably. "The
theatrical thing. He must have known, too, that the man driving the car
was the one in greater danger. But _he_ didn't drive!"

"He never does drive. He didn't just funk it at that one time; it's his
habit. I've always h