“Never mind their being _insecty_, Billingcoo. There are worse misfortunes at sea,” repeated Allison. While the miserable youth was investing his dainty person in these revolting garments, there was a shout among the guerrillas near, and one of them exclaimed: “There is another fellow who hasn’t peeled himself, Captain!” Mutchison turned and saw little Mim standing at the foot of the great pine tree where Elfie had ordered him to remain, for this champion would no more have disobeyed his queen than would the renowned Knight of La Mancha the fair lady of Toboso. “Oh, my plucky pigmy! Let him alone, I say! I won’t have him touched! He deserves to keep his clean clothes for showing so much spirit. And dash me if I don’t hang the first man that lays a finger on him!” roared the giant. Then turning about, he shouted, until his voice reached the other end of the wood: “HOI! Carter! Gates! march the ladies back again! We’re dressed to receive them!” And as the young ladies, driven before the fixed bayonets of the two guerrillas, approached the scene, they gazed upon their late companions with ludicrous consternation. Scarcely a gentleman of the party was recognizable. All were in rags that hung about them in shreds like strings, fringes, tags—anything but clothes. Some had hats with a rim, but no crown, others crowns, but no rim; no one had a whole tile, and even those who were favored with half a one had no shoes, and those who had shoes had no hats. Some had trousers whose ragged legs dangled just below their knees, but no coats; others had apologies for coats, but nether garments of which the less said the better. And all pervaded with an atmosphere that would have driven away any set of ladies not marched in at the point of the bayonet. Some of these victims shrunk out of sight in the crowd, as their fair friends drew near; others turned the mischance into a joke. Poor Billingcoo, who was in the worst plight of all, because he had had the last pickings of the rags, tried to hide himself from Elfie’s laughing eyes, but could not succeed. “Oh, Mith Fielding,” he cried, with the tears running down his face, “don’t look at me! Turn away your eyeth, for they break my heart!” At this Elfie burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter, in which she was joined by all her companions, whose sense of the ludicrous, for the time being, overcame their terrors. “Oh, grandma! thee how they laugh at me! And who can blame them? for only thee what a guy fox the wretcheth have made of me!” wept Billingcoo. “Don’t be a simpleton, Lew. And don’t call bad names. Thank Providence that you’ve saved your life with the loss of your clothes,” said the old lady. Here the voice of Mutchison roared above all other noises: