The Winslow mail., 1899-09-07

We laughed in our sleeves at this
question, and Informed Good-by that
American women were thousand
spect,
''Ah,' she cried, II would like to see
one of those American senoras."
Here you are" said Boutelle, twink
lingeyed, producing a small photo
graph from his inside pocket. There's
an American young lady. What do
you think of her?"
Good-by gazed long and earnestly at
the photograph.
''She is very beautiful indeed" she
sighed. "Your-your friend, Senior
Boutelle?"
Boutelle changed color bit, and re-
sponded;
"Yes, Good-by, we're pretty good
! friends"
When we had finished the meal. the
little beggars from outside came in and
collected in their tin cans what was left
on our plates; then we had to distrib-
ute loon cent" apiece to them. We
parted from Good-by after giving her a
dollar for her aunt, and promising to
call on the family.
Things went on rather monotonous-
ly in camp-the usual round of drill
and guard duty; sometimes a sllirmish
and mock engagement through the
neighboring hills. Once we had a real
skirmish with band of guerillas, and
Ill
amusement we explored the adjacent
country by twos and threes, or made
excursions to the sea coast at Mariel
eight miles away; some took kodak
pictures, others collected Spanish rel
les; some made pets of chameleons, dogs,
fighting-cocks and parrots; others
passed away the time by writing end
less letters. Finally word came that
Uncle Sam considered we had done our
stint, and that the regiment was to be
ordered home and mustered out. Pay
day arrived about the same time. The
double eXhilaration of money and
superlatively good news for awhile
rather destroyed discipline. 1 regret
| to say that among the many incarcer-
ated in the guardhouse was my tent
mate Boutelle.
Good-by trudged up to camp the next
afternoon. She stood in the blazing sun
by the side of the road for half an hour
before she found courage to ask the
| fierce-whiskered sentry No. l to let her
pass the line. She carried, well wrapped
up in paper, Cuban machete, her late
uncle's, which she intended to pre-
sent to Senior Boutelle.
No." sid the sentry, ''you can't pass.
Vamoose!"
The officer of the guard emerged
from one of the guardhouse tents at
this moment, and saw the little girl.
He knew some Spanish, and asked her
what she wanted.
Il want to see the soldier Senor Bou-
telle," she faltered.
The young lieutenant was a roguish
fellow, and amused himself by drawing
out the child.
49," he said, ANITA Good-by, Pri-
vate Boutelle is your friend. L am ex-
tremely sorry to inform you that Pri-
vate Boutelle is a prisoner. He was
found asleep on his post last night. He
will be shot in the morning. He's dig
ging a sink now, so you can't see him.
Come again at sunset"
The officer chuckled as he was called
away to attend to some business.
Good-By crept back to the road with
face blanched and her little heart
frozen with horror. She wandered
slowly up and down the long white
highway in front of camp, shading her
eyes from the suns reflected glare with
a small brown hand. The full enor-
nifty of the intelligence seemed to be
more than she could grasp, yet she
could appreciate enough to fill her with
dreadful stunning grief. Death she had
seen; an Old, emaciated woman gasp
convulsively Il few times, and then turn
white and rigid. That was not much;
the old woman was scarcely different
dead than alive. Death she had heard
closely described as it happened in
the ambush when Spaniard and Cuban
met. That had not sunk deeply in her
mind. Here was a full-blooded, hand
some young man of the superior race,
whose vivacious kind spirit was to be
shot out of him, his fine, strong body
| turned to montionless earth in the
twinkling of an eye by lead bullets dis
charged by his own comrades. And
| he was her friend! Her friend! .
| Tears could not express her grief and
horror. She knew just how the Span
iards conducted military executions.
Imagination flashed back and forth in
fiery colors on the canvas of the mind
the whole dreadful scene as it would be
enacted next day, the unspeakable cold
murder of man by his comrades-her
friend public assassination. To be shot
in the morning! Blacklist of human
deeds! Tears could not express her
agony.
Good-by's frenzy of woe lasted for
some couple of hours. Then she began
to think practically little, and finally
translated her meditation into action as
follows:
The colonel sat in front of his tent
smoking pipe. He consulted his watch
to see how far it was from time for the
bugle-call for dress parade, and when
he looked up again there stood before
him ragged little bare-headed beg
gar girl very pale, one hand tightly
clutching something done up in paper,
and the other hand on her heart.
Ill -