“Yes; quite a crowd of them have succeeded in barricading themselves in the kitchen, and it is so arranged as to prove an exceedingly awkward place to attack. We have had three men hit already, in spite of every precaution, and I am seeking now to discover some means of forcing their position from the hall. Their leader appears to be a bullet-headed Dutchman about as easy to manage as a mule.” The words aroused me to a possibility. “A Dutchman, you say? and in the kitchen? Have you had sight of the fellow?” “Merely a glimpse, and that over a rifle-barrel. He has a round, dull face, with a big flat nose.” “That idiot is my sergeant, Lieutenant, and supposes he is still fighting guerillas.” The Lieutenant looked at me in surprise, then burst into a peal of laughter. “Well, if that is true,” he cried, “I most sincerely hope you will call him off before he succeeds in cleaning out our entire troop.” I started down the hallway toward the point of firing. There was a sharp jog in the wall leading to the kitchen door, and as I approached it some soldiers stationed there warned me to be careful. “They're perfect devils to shoot, sir,” said one respectfully, “an' the Dutchman fetches his man every time.” “Oh, it will be all right, boys,” I replied confidently. “He'll know me.” Before me as I stepped forth was a double door of oak, the upper half partially open. “Sergeant,” I cried, “come out; the fight is all over.” For answer a bullet whizzed past me, chugging into the wall at my back, and I skipped around the corner with a celerity of movement which caused the fellows watching me to grin with delight. “Find me a white cloth of some kind,” I demanded as soon as I reached cover, and now thoroughly angered. “We shall see if that wooden-headed old fool knows the meaning of a flag of truce.” They succeeded in securing me a torn pillow-slip from somewhere, and sheltering my body as best I might behind the wall angle I waved it violently in full view of the kitchen door. For a few moments it remained apparently unnoted, and then Ebers's round, placid countenance looked suspiciously through the slight aperture. “Did you give op?” he questioned anxiously. “Give up nothing,” I retorted, my temper thoroughly exhausted. “Come out of that! You are firing on your own friends.” He put his fat fingers to his nose and wiggled them derisively. “Dot is too thin,” he said meaningly. “You dink me von ol' fool, but I show you. By Chiminy, I want no friends--you shoot me der ear off, and I fights mit you good and blenty. Der is dings to eat in der bantry, and you be damned.” He drew back, leaving merely the black muzzle of his gun projecting across the top of the lower door. “Ebers,” I called out at the top of my voice, “unless you obey my orders I'LL have you strung up by your own men. Open that door!” The fat, puzzled face peered once more cautiously over the menacing gun-barrel. “Is dot you, Captain?” “Yes, come out; the fight is all over.”