"He didn't tell me nothin' about bein' a sharpshooter," said Peter, sulkily. "He said he learned in Africa." "Africa?" Mr. Harry echoed. "Did you go through the campaign in Abyssinia, Vittorio?" The man nodded. "Surely not at Adowa?" A quick shadow crossed his face. "Si, signore," he said, simply; "I fight at Adowa." "Good heavens!" Mr. Harry cried. "The fellow's fought against Menelik and the dervishes." He faced the other three, his hand on Vittorio's shoulder. "You don't know what that means? You never heard of Adowa? It means that this chap here has been through the fiercest battle ever fought on African soil. He was beaten--the odds against him were too heavy--but it was one of the bravest defeats in history. The Italians for three days had been marching across burning deserts in a hostile country, on half rations, and with almost no water. At the end of that time they accomplished a forced march of twenty miles by night, across hills and ravines so rough that the cannon had frequently to be carried by hand. Then, as they were, worn out and hungry, hopeless as to the outcome, they were asked to face an enemy six times larger than themselves--not a civilized enemy, mind you, but howling dervishes--and they did it without flinching. There's not a man who went through Adowa but came out a hero." Vittorio had watched his face; here and there he had caught a word. He suddenly threw out his arms in a spasm of excitement, his eyes blazing at the memory of the fight. "Dat's right! Menelik bad king--bad war. No like-a dose peoples--me. I shoot-a fast like dis." He snatched up the rifle and crouched behind a rock; in pantomime he killed a dozen of the foe in as many seconds. He threw the rifle away and sprang to his feet. "Not enough cartridges! No can shoot-a more. Den I get-a wound; lie like-a dis." He dropped his arms and drooped his head. "How you say? Tired? Yes, ver' tired like-a baby. _Santissima Virgine!_ No can move, I bleed so moch. Sun ver' hot--no water--ver' t'irsty. Den come-a dose peoples. Dey cut-a me up." He tore open his shirt. A broad scar extended from his shoulder across his breast. He lifted his hair and showed a scar behind his ear, another on his forehead. "Si, signore, all over my body dey cut-a me up!" Mr. Harry frowned. "Yes, yes, I know. It was terrible! You put up a great fight, Vittorio--sorry you didn't do for 'em. You are brave chaps, you Italians. It's a great thing to have gone through Adowa, something to be proud of all your life. I am glad to know you were there." He glanced at Peter sharply, then nodded and turned away. Peter studied Vittorio, a new look in his eyes. The man's momentary excitement had vanished; he was his old, placid, sunny self again. "I guess we made a mistake," said Peter, and he held out his hand.