Into the group presently came Major Inuki, the Japanese officer assigned to watch over the correspondents, to see that none escaped, to see that none learned anything but generalities, to furnish unlimited courtesy and apologetic ramifications that stretched from Kirin to Port Arthur. Inuki also supplied universes of unverifiable information, having to do with vague Japanese miracles and vast Russian casualties. He took off his hat now and bowed all around, inhaled a long breath with a hiss through his sparkling teeth, and snuffled violently. “It iss more dan quite possible we will remain here for to-morr’, my dear fren’s. In such case would it not be of good to instruk your servan’s to ereck the tents--more stolidity?” Feeney reached over and gravely clutched the flapping trouser-leg of his Chinese coolie. “Jean Valjean,” he said, “you are instruk to ereck tents--more stolidity.” “Me plentee slabee,” said Jean. The odor of supper was abroad in the camp of the noncombatants, and the twilight was deep in the valley of young corn. Feeney and Finacune ate in silence. These two were closer together--close as only two male adults can be who have lived long alone in broad areas, sharing toil and irritation and peril; apart from women, but akin in memories and ambition. Feeney had ridden with the greatest of the nineteenth-century generals. He was being herded now close to war, but out of range of any good to his calling. He was thinking of Nanshan--what a battle to have added to his string! Finacune was thinking of the world’s greatest woman--how she had come down like a spirit to the billiard-room that last night in Tokyo--and with what exacting zeal she had caused him and the others to cable away the last vestige of glory from the name she bore. “Blot up another piece of tea, Feeney,” he muttered, “and cheer up.” “I was just about to suggest, my vivid young friend, that if you spilled any more gloom on this outfit, I should burst into tears,” Feeney replied. There was a long silence. “What?” said Feeney. “I’m a hare-lipped cock-roach, if it isn’t wonderful!” Finacune observed in an awed tone. “What?” “Suppose now--just now--suppose a white woman--all in a soft summer gown and blowing golden hair--should walk through this camp? Think of it!” “I did--twenty years ago,” said Feeney.