their soldierly attitude, gestures, carriage, in a day, nor a month, nor yet in a year.  So I thought, but said nothing.  And one of them had said, ’the captain’s voice, by G—!’—­the one whose life I would have.  Two miles away, several regiments were in camp, and two companies of U.S. cavalry.  When I learned that Captain Blakely, of Company C had passed our way, that night, with an escort, I said nothing, but in that company I resolved to seek my man.  In conversation I studiously and persistently described the robbers as tramps, camp followers; and among this class the people made useless search, none suspecting the soldiers but me.

Working patiently, by night, in my desolated home, I made a disguise for myself out of various odds and ends of clothing; in the nearest village I bought a pair of blue goggles.  By-and-bye, when the military camp broke up, and Company C was ordered a hundred miles north, to Napoleon, I secreted my small hoard of money in my belt, and took my departure in the night.  When Company C arrived in Napoleon, I was already there.  Yes, I was there, with a new trade—­fortune-teller.  Not to seem partial, I made friends and told fortunes among all the companies garrisoned there; but I gave Company C the great bulk of my attentions.  I made myself limitlessly obliging to these particular men; they could ask me no favor, put upon me no risk, which I would decline.  I became the willing butt of their jokes; this perfected my popularity; I became a favorite.

I early found a private who lacked a thumb—­what joy it was to me!  And when I found that he alone, of all the company, had lost a thumb, my last misgiving vanished; I was sure I was on the right track.  This man’s name was Kruger, a German.  There were nine Germans in the company.  I watched, to see who might be his intimates; but he seemed to have no especial intimates.  But I was his intimate; and I took care to make the intimacy grow.  Sometimes I so hungered for my revenge that I could hardly restrain myself from going on my knees and begging him to point out the man who had murdered my wife and child; but I managed to bridle my tongue.  I bided my time, and went on telling fortunes, as opportunity offered.

My apparatus was simple:  a little red paint and a bit of white paper.  I painted the ball of the client’s thumb, took a print of it on the paper, studied it that night, and revealed his fortune to him next day.  What was my idea in this nonsense?  It was this:  When I was a youth, I knew an old Frenchman who had been a prison-keeper for thirty years, and he told me that there was one thing about a person which never changed, from the cradle to the grave—­the lines in the ball of the thumb; and he said that these lines were never exactly alike in the thumbs of any two human beings.  In these days, we photograph the new criminal, and hang his picture in the Rogues’ Gallery for future reference; but that Frenchman, in his day, used to take a print of the ball of a new prisoner’s thumb and put that away for future reference.  He always said that pictures were no good—­future disguises could make them useless; ‘The thumb’s the only sure thing,’ said he; ‘you can’t disguise that.’  And he used to prove his theory, too, on my friends and acquaintances; it always succeeded.