We had many curious expressions. He could never understand firearms. The discharge of muskets he called little thunder, and that of cannon big thunder. He thought that men really hurled thunderbolts. When I tried to explain to him about guns and cannon he would respond: “All right! All right! But the fact is that these machines which work with that thing you call powder are nothing but factories of thunderbolts of various sizes, and we can prove it, because we see and hear both the lightning and the thunder.” [Illustration: “WHO IS WINNING?”] Another of his ideas was that the telegraph was nothing but a Haji. For him it was a live Haji in a copper wire that carried the messages. He spoke of it as “my brother of the wire.” I tried to tell him about it: “But no, dear Fiam. This time it is really a thunderbolt that carries the message.” “Truly!” he exclaimed sceptically. “And where is the lightning, where is the thunder? I should think that you would admit that I, a Haji, understand such things a little better than you.” The telegrams that he dictated to me and that I had to alter in private, usually began this way: “Brother of the wire, go and say to our friends in Europe and America that to-day after four hours of big and little thunder, etc.” Seeing him so infatuated with fighting, I said to him once: “It appears to me, Fiam——” “Miferino!” “That you love war!” “Not at all. Do you think any one could love slaughter?” “But you think of nothing else!” “That is true. This is a question of my country, so I would like to be a soldier and fight with all my strength. I swear to you I wouldn’t mind dying. Just think that the future of the country for centuries and centuries, its prosperity and greatness, depend upon our victory. Hurrah for the war!” “Brave Fiam, you are a good citizen.” [Illustration: Fiam Wears a Fur Coat] CHAPTER XV FIAM WEARS A FUR COAT One day when we were far away from our post there was a great storm. It rained cats and dogs, and the brim of my hat dripped all around like an overflowing gutter. I walked through the wood with my head bent forward, completely forgetting Fiam, who was fastened to the band of the crown and was soaked through and through. After many hours I reached my tent. I took off my hat and pulled out Fiam, whom I placed on a blanket, knowing how he loved to climb around the folds. But to my dismay I saw that he didn’t move. He stayed just as I had put him; flat on his back, with his arms stretched out and one leg in the air. He looked as if he were dead. “Fiam!” I called frightened. “Fiam, my friend, speak to me.” But he was quite still. “He is dead, he is dead!” I exclaimed, almost with tears in my eyes. “The rain has killed him, and it is all my fault. I was so cruel to forget him.” I continued to call, “Fiam, come back. Forgive me! Fiam!”