“‘Oh, say!’ says Jones, ’Generalissimo, you’re the real silk elastic.  We’ll make it a joint international celebration.  Please, General, get a white horse and a blue sash and be grand marshal.’

“‘With my sword,’ says the General, rolling his eyes.  ’I shall ride at the head of the brave men who gather in the name of Liberty.’

“‘And you might,’ we suggest ’see the commandante and advise him that we are going to prize things up a bit.  We Americans, you know, are accustomed to using municipal regulations for gun wadding when we line up to help the eagle scream.  He might suspend the rules for one day.  We don’t want to get in the calaboose for spanking his soldiers if they get in our way, do you see?’

“‘Hist!’ says General Mary.  ’The commandant is with us, heart and soul.  He will aid us.  He is one of us.’

“We made all the arrangements that afternoon.  There was a buck coon from Georgia in Salvador who had drifted down there from a busted-up coloured colony that had been started on some possumless land in Mexico.  As soon as he heard us say ‘barbecue’ he wept for joy and groveled on the ground.  He dug his trench on the plaza, and got half a beef on the coals for an all-night roast.  Me and Maxy went to see the rest of the Americans in the town and they all sizzled like a seidlitz with joy at the idea of solemnizing an old-time Fourth.

“There were six of us all together—­Martin Dillard, a coffee planter; Henry Barnes, a railroad man; old man Billfinger, an educated tintype taker; me and Jonesy, and Jerry, the boss of the barbecue.  There was also an Englishman in town named Sterrett, who was there to write a book on Domestic Architecture of the Insect World.  We felt some bashfulness about inviting a Britisher to help crow over his own country, but we decided to risk it, out of our personal regard for him.

“We found Sterrett in pajamas working at his manuscript with a bottle of brandy for a paper weight.

“‘Englishman,’ says Jones, ’let us interrupt your disquisition on bug houses for a moment.  To-morrow is the Fourth of July.  We don’t want to hurt your feelings, but we’re going to commemorate the day when we licked you by a little refined debauchery and nonsense—­something that can be heard above five miles off.  If you are broad-gauged enough to taste whisky at your own wake, we’d be pleased to have you join us.’

“‘Do you know,’ says Sterrett, setting his glasses on his nose, ’I like your cheek in asking me if I’ll join you; blast me if I don’t.  You might have known I would, without asking.  Not as a traitor to my own country, but for the intrinsic joy of a blooming row.’