The marines did not worry about the daring part; but he was too strongly intrenched for a direct attack. Your professional soldier, above all men, prefers not to throw away good men's lives. They considered matters; and one day they set out, three marine officers and thirty men, for Juan's country. One of those tropical hurricanes came along the same day they started, blew down trees, filled rivers to over their banks, and made them wade waist-deep in the mud of the roads. It was tough going, but it had its good side--there were not many people abroad. They arrived near the village where Juan was known to be. An American marine would not have stood much chance to get back if Juan had known one was around; but one of the officers rigged up as a mule trader and went looking for Juan. He found him, taking it easy until the roads after the storm should become passable, and allow himself and his men to sashay into the valley again. All kinds of people--white, and black, and brown--came Juan's way to do business--to buy mules and horses, for instance. In the course of his travels in the valley Juan had helped himself to some very fine mules and horses. Along comes this man this day--American, English, French, Spanish, who knows? Or cares? He talked money--cash--for a good pair of mules. No old spavined creatures, but young, strong, sound ones. Yes, Juan had just such a pair of mules. Oh, a superb young pair! He would see. Truly yes. Would the stranger senor come into his house so that Juan might speak more confidentially of them? The stranger would. And did. But before Juan could unload all he had to say about his mules the mule buyer drew a large service automatic and slipped Juan out to where thirty-two marines, officers and men, were in hiding. And they put Juan in jail, and all it cost was one mule--not Juan's--drowned while crossing a stream during the hurricane. The marines have a great fighting record; but the marines do more than fight. After all, men cannot be handling rifle and bayonet every waking minute--they would become abnormal creatures if they did, of use only in war time; and it would be a terrible world if war were our end and aim. The marines get aviation, search-light, wireless, telegraphic, heliograph, and other signal drill. They plant mines, put up telegraph and telephone lines in the field, tear down or build up bridges, sling from a ship and set up or land guns as big as 5-inch for their advance base work. It is a belief with marines that the corps can do anything. Right in New York City is a marine printing plant with a battery of linotypes and a row of presses. They set their own type, write their own stuff (even to the poetry), draw their own sketches, do their own photography, their own color work--everything. Every man in that plant is a marine, enlisted or commissioned. Every one has seen service somewhere outside his country.