"Why," says Ike, with a thundering oath, "can't you thank a body for a thing?"

"Yes; but is that all you said?"

"As God is my judge!" replied Ike, with increased emphasis, "all except kissing her."

This last explanation of Ike's filled us all to overflowing with laughter, but still we kept it in, not knowing the extent of his wound.

The office of the guard was still not satisfied, and Ike continued in his most passionate tone, half Spanish, half English, and swearing that he [322] would take satisfaction himself of the corporal unless he was duly punished.

Lieutenant Gomez still wanted ocular demonstration of the injury, when Ike, loosening his belt, let fall his pantaloons to the ground, and stooping down, first the lieutenant, and then we, inspected his wound. Instead of finding a knife or sword cut, we saw the blood oozing from an orifice the size of a brister-shot, which for the first time explained to us that he was stabbed with a cobbler's awl; and, turning to the affrighted corporal, still in the clutches of Ike's left hand, saw that the awl had only gone in up to the handle, and not more than two inches deep at that.

This discovery, and the farce which preceded it and was still going on, proved a matter of rare mirth with the Texians; and Gomez, to appease Ike's wrath, had to march the disconsolate corporal off to the calaboose, leaving the wounded caballero behind to explain with Señora Cabo how innocent a thing it was "to return thanks for the washing of a camisa."* [323]

John Toowig was a son of Old Ireland, a small, energetic man, and a true-hearted Republican. His size and energy both befitting the operation in the hole, he had done more than his share of the work. He was the same who, in the spring of 1842, at San Antonio, put a match to a keg of powder and blew up his store, with several thousand dollars worth of goods, rather than they should fall into the hands of the Mexican General Vascus. It was less difficult for him than some others to get through the perforation in the wall. I found much difficulty in passing through, though I was now reduced from one hundred and sixty pounds, my usual weight, to one hundred and twenty. The gradual

* Since writing the above, poor Ike has paid his last debt. After being liberated by Santa Anna with the other San Antonio prisoners, he landed in Galveston with the yellow fever in June, 1844, from on board the United States war-steamer Poinsett, which terminated his eventful life at about thirty-five years of age. Quite a volume might be written of the most stirring incidents about this fearless man. He had some good qualities in a high degree. His love of country was no less remarkable than his love of friends. On one occasion, when he had a friend killed in Bastrop county, Texas, he determined to avenge his death; and while the person charged with the killing was upon trial in open court, Ike went in and fired a pistol-shot at his head, which, though not proving fatal, wounded more than one. On another occasion, at San Antonio, in 1837, Dr. G. picked a quarrel with Ike, which resulted in the death of the former. Though public opinion did not justify the manner of the killing, yet little sympathy was felt for G., who had just previously wrongfully charged young Lawrence, of New-York, with stealing his money; and when L. demanded satisfaction for the injury, killed him in a duel by forcing upon the party challenging the use of the rifle, of which he knew nothing. The death of the highly-injured and amiable young Lawrence, who fell in so manly a defence of his honour, was much regretted when it was afterward known that the real thief was his second in the duel.11