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 but little ones in unheard-of places—Herzegovina, Macedonia, Georgia, Morocco. No revolution was complete without Mr. Marsden and his gun, and he always saved the thing from being cold-blooded by siding ferociously with the party he was with. The detested enemy was always in front of Mr. Marsden's wonderful gun, and the people behind it were invariably the downtrodden patriots who were throwing off the despot's yoke. My Mr. Marsden told it all with a delicious humor, and an underlying tenderness for his crack-brained father that was most sweet and charming. Indeed, he had a real gift of description, and made my heart beat with the stories of battles and routs, and narrow squeaks, and corpses rotting in the sun—leading up to the time when his father died of fever, and he himself managed to get back to America with nothing more than the clothes he stood in. The ship-telegraph had been superseded by a better invention, and he found himself without a penny in the world, and no