“They could have died,” said Elfie, ruthlessly. “Yes, but, Miss Fielding, the guerrillas didn’t want to kill them; they only wanted to take their victuals and clothes and dance with their partners.” “They could have resisted, and got their heads broken, as _you_ did, my brave Mim! They could have proved their manhood in that way, if they had had any manhood to prove. But I suppose they really had not. You were the only man among them, Mim, dear,” said Elfie. Again little Mim was overwhelmed and dumbfounded. “_Oh lor!_” sighed Miss Suzy to herself—“_Oh dear!_ Now they’re getting on dangerous ground again. I know, if I wasn’t in the room, she’d offer to marry him out’n gratitude, and he’d accept, and then there! But I’ll take care not to leave the room while she is in it. If he makes an excuse to get rid of me by asking me to go and fetch anything, I’ll just knock on the floor for some one to come up and bring it. For stir from this room I will not!” she grimly resolved. Apparently little Mim also thought that the conversation was getting upon dangerous ground, for again he diverted it from himself. “I don’t know, after all, but what it would have been better if they _had_ resisted the exchange of clothing and got broken heads rather than what they did get. Though indeed they might have got both, for that matter.” “What was it, Mr. Mim?” inquired Elfie, very indiscreetly. People ought to be very cautious how they ask questions. “Well, Miss Fielding, a sort of irritating—a—a—sort of irritating—a—a—a—sort of irritating—RASH!” at last triumphantly exclaimed little Mim, elated at having found an inoffensive word to describe the calamity that had overtaken his companions. “Glad to hear it,” said remorseless Elfie—“hope whatever it is, it will ‘irritate’ them for the rest of their mortal career.” “But of all the victims,” laughed little Mim, “the greatest sufferer was that dandy fellow—what was his name? Nincomfool?—Sickapoop?—Billydoo? Whatever was the fellow’s name? The one with the tea-rose in his button-hole, who played the guitar and cried and begged so when the big guerrilla made him give up his fine raiment and clothe himself in rags—Sickafool?—Billypoop?” “Billingcoo?” suggested Elfie. “Yes—thanks. I knew his name was something that put one in mind of turtle doves and love-letters! Oh! Miss Fielding—!” And little Mim laughed. “What is it, then? What about Billingcoo?” “I don’t think he got the rash; but I do think he suffered under the impression that he had absorbed through the pores of his skin the greater half of the weight of rags he wore. He spends his whole income in vapor baths and cologne water!” “Poor dandy! I hope and trust he may be drafted after the next enrollment! Three years of military duty would take the nonsense out of him,” said Elfie, as, much to the relief of Miss Suzy, she arose to take leave. “You will stay a little longer with me?” politely pleaded little Mim.