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 more. I don’t know how you propose to work this thing, Doc,’ I says to him; ‘but it seems to me I’d sleep better if you had got a government that was alive and on the map—like Afghanistan or Great Britain, or old man Kruger’s kingdom, to take this matter up. I don’t mean any disrespect to your Confederate States, but I can’t help feeling that my chances of being pulled out of this scrape was decidedly weakened when General Lee surrendered.’

“‘It’s your only chance,’ said Doc; ‘don’t quarrel with it. What did your own country do for you?’

“It was only two days before the morning I was to be shot, when Doc Millikin came around again.

“‘All right, Yank,’ says he. ‘Help’s come. The Confederate States of America is going to apply for your release. The representatives of the government arrived on a fruit-steamer last night.’

“‘Bully!’ says I—‘bully for you, Doc! I suppose it’s marines with a Gatling. I’m going to love your country all I can for this.’

“‘Negotiations,’ says old Doc, ‘will be opened between the two governments at once. You will know later on to-day if they are successful.’

“About four in the afternoon a soldier in red trousers brings a paper round to the jail, and they unlocks the door and I walks out. The guard at the door bows and I bows, and I steps into the grass and wades around to Doc Millikin’s shack.

“Doc was sitting in his hammock playing ‘Dixie,’ soft and low and out of tune, on his flute, I interrupted