“‘Don’t reopen the chasm, Doc,’ I begs him.  ’Any Yankeeness I may have is geographical; and, as far as I am concerned, a Southerner is as good as a Filipino any day.  I’m feeling to bad too argue.  Let’s have secession without misrepresentation, if you say so; but what I need is more laudanum and less Lundy’s Lane.  If you’re mixing that compound gefloxide of gefloxicum for me, please fill my ears with it before you get around to the battle of Gettysburg, for there is a subject full of talk.’

“By this time Doc Millikin had thrown up a line of fortifications on square pieces of paper; and he says to me:  ’Yank, take one of these powders every two hours.  They won’t kill you.  I’ll be around again about sundown to see if you’re alive.’

“Old Doc’s powders knocked the chagres.  I stayed in San Juan, and got to knowing him better.  He was from Mississippi, and the red-hottest Southerner that ever smelled mint.  He made Stonewall Jackson and R. E. Lee look like Abolitionists.  He had a family somewhere down near Yazoo City; but he stayed away from the States on account of an uncontrollable liking he had for the absence of a Yankee government.  Him and me got as thick personally as the Emperor of Russia and the dove of peace, but sectionally we didn’t amalgamate.

“’Twas a beautiful system of medical practice introduced by old Doc into that isthmus of land.  He’d take that bracket-saw and the mild chloride and his hypodermic, and treat anything from yellow fever to a personal friend.

“Besides his other liabilities Doc could play a flute for a minute or two.  He was guilty of two tunes—­’Dixie’ and another one that was mighty close to the ’Suwanee River’—­you might say one of its tributaries.  He used to come down and sit with me while I was getting well, and aggrieve his flute and say unreconstructed things about the North.  You’d have thought that the smoke from the first gun at Fort Sumter was still floating around in the air.

“You know that was about the time they staged them property revolutions down there, that wound up in the fifth act with the thrilling canal scene where Uncle Sam has nine curtain-calls holding Miss Panama by the hand, while the bloodhounds keep Senator Morgan treed up in a cocoanut-palm.

“That’s the way it wound up; but at first it seemed as if Colombia was going to make Panama look like one of the $3.98 kind, with dents made in it in the factory, like they wear at North Beach fish fries.  For mine, I played the straw-hat crowd to win; and they gave me a colonel’s commission over a brigade of twenty-seven men in the left wing and second joint of the insurgent army.

“The Colombian troops were awfully rude to us.  One day when I had my brigade in a sandy spot, with its shoes off doing a battalion drill by squads, the Government army rushed from behind a bush at us, acting as noisy and disagreeable as they could.

“My troops enfiladed, left-faced, and left the spot.  After enticing the enemy for three miles or so we struck a brier-patch and had to sit down.  When we were ordered to throw up our toes and surrender we obeyed.  Five of my best staff-officers fell, suffering extremely with stone-bruised heels.