Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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McCORMICK MESSENGER. McCORMICK. SOUTH CAROLINA Thursday, July 1937 A String of Pearl Beads * By AUCE NORRIS LEWIS © McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Service. M ISS MATILDA GREENOW, for the past 25 years treasurer of the Dorcas society, had resigned her position. The news came like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. When the president inquired in her most parliamentary manner, “Is there any discussion?" for a moment there was a stunned silence. Then Mrs. Almira Tash recovered speech. “My lands!" she exclaimed, “my lands! I never expected Ma tildy’d give up that job until she died!" “Me neither," echoed Mrs. Ellen iLaw, “although she'd oughter re signed years ago. She’s always {thought she owned the job and she’s ; squeezed the eagle on every dollar we’ve earned ’fore she spent it, like she does her own. Remember ithe time she wouldn’t let us buy a fonygraph for the parsonage? Said 'that needed a new hard-wood floor (in the kitchen, most?" The president rapped sharply on | the table. “Order," she command ed. “Will somebody please make la motion?" i The motion was made and unani- jmously seconded that the resigna- ition be accepted at once. { “Should we not add, ‘with re gret?* " a quiet voice asked. It was Mrs. Richmond suggesting. Mrs. Richmond was a new mem ber, and had never entered into dis cussion before. “I think," she went on, still quietly, “that after 25 years of service it would be ohfy cour teous to add *with regret'." “We don’t regret—we’re glad, so why lie about it?" demanded. Mrs. Tash, with disconcerting bluntness. ! “Why," Mrs. Richmond hesitated, i “would you call it lying? Courte- jousness does come mighty near faslehood sometimes, but the fact that it makes people happier sep- I arates it from deceit, I think., I I; believe we should add ‘with regret,’ f : and I also believe we should pre- f:sent x Miss Matilda a little gift. So Istrongly do I feel that I am right that I make it a motion, Madame President, that we all contribute 50 cents towards a gift for her." “My lands!" ejaculated Mrs. j 'Tash. -v I • There was considerable discussion I {before the matter really came to i ja vote. At first, it was mostly against the plan but gradually Mrs. Richmond talked it ‘over. When the vote was cast there was but one I dissenting voice. Mrs. Taph stuck valiantly to her guns and refused to surrender. “Now, what’ll we give her?" de manded somebody. “I suggest that Mrs. Richmond select the gift. She seems to know just how to do it," spoke up Mrs. j Law, sarcastically, “I’d be glad to do so," Mrs. Rich mond laughed to herself. It was just what she had counted on doing ;from the first. “And I’ll tell you iwhat it will be—a string of pearl beads!" ( “A string of pearl beads! On Ma- tildy Greenow! My lands!" ' “Once," continued Mrs. Rich mond, gently, “Miss Matilda came 1 to my house on an errand and my ! beads lay on the table. She picked them up and said, ‘Aren’t they sweet? I love pearl beads. All my ilife I’ve wanted a string and couldn’t have them. So I just keep on loving and admiring other peo- , pie’s.* If you could have seen how she looked at them—so—so—hun grily! Now it happens my beads are handsome, but inexpensive. I can easily duplicate them with the money we will have to spend." The society voted for the beads and adjourned. On the way home {it suddenly occured to the president i that they had neglected to nominate la new treasurer. If it hadn’t been that Miss Matil- Ida was called out of town to nurse shiftless Ira through the grippe, it i is doubtful if the presentation of !the, gift would have been the sur- ! prise it was. It was Mrs. Richmond who drew the necklace out of the box and slipped it around Miss Matilda’s wrinkled neck. “We hope you’ll like them," she said simply, and kissed the faded old cheek, tenderly. “Pearl beads!" Miss Matilda be gan to sob. “Pearl beads! How lovely! All my life I’ve wanted some—all my life!" She sat quite still for a minute, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. “It’s worth all the trouble of 25 years, and what’s worth more is to know that you appreciate me. Sometimes I’ve sorter wondered if you didn’t want to get rid of me. But you’re sorry I’m going—awful sorry! Who," she looked up quickly, with a little bird-like motion, “who is goin’ to take my place?” “We haven't selected anybody yet," said the president. “Then you won’t have to. After what you’ve said and done for me. I’d be the most ungrateful critter alive if I resigned now. I’ll be treas urer of the Dorcas society until the Lord Himself sees fit to remove me, to prove how I appreciate your kindness.” For a moment there was silence. Then Mrs. Richmond began to clap. She was laughing a little and crying a little, but she clapped insistently and one by one the other members joined her—even Mrs. Tash her self, although her approbation was feeble. So Miss Matilda stayed! Marcia’s Boys By FLORENCE MELLISH © McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Service. «tJT’S from Marcia," said Mrs. * Lawton, scanning the letter. “She says Jerry droops a little. The doctor says he needs country air. She wants to send him here for a month, and, as the two boys are in separable, Waldo will have to come with him." Her husband laid down his pipe. “Inseparable from mischief! I used to be allowed to read a little green book Sunday afternoons. It was about some children, and v/herever those children went In- bred Sin went with them." His wife laughed. “Marcia’s boys are older than they were two years ago, and they’ll know more." “More, mischief," he assented. “How soon are they coming?” he asked with gloomy resignation. “Tomorrow, Henry. Marcia’s brother - in - law will be driving through Chilton, and he can leave them here.” “Oh, yes. Let ’em come." Henry had risen from his chair. “Well, I’ll go out and begin to lock up things.” “Do* Henry—all the paint, and everything they can cut themselves, or each other, with. I only hope they won’t upset our new boarder. He seems kind o’ nervous and sensi tive-like." The boys arrived just before din ner. Jerry did look large-eyed and thin, Waldo smug and fat, as usual. During the meal they were silently ravenous. Chops and vegetables,, doughnuts and berry pie, vanished before them. Dr. Frye, hurrying in a moment late, presumably from a round of scaring up patients, was hungry too. “My middle name is Doughnut," he smiled apologetically as he ac cepted one of the crisp, .plump brown rings for the third time. “I mustn’t let these little fellows get homesick," thought Aunt Ra chel. “I’ll make some fudge for them after dinner." ' Just as she was pouring the boil ing syrup into the pans Katy rushed in from the back yard. “Those boys have broken up the setting hen and broken down the wire clothes-line." “Mercy! You see to this and I’ll see to the boys." Speckle was persuaded to resume her duties, the wire line was righted and Mrs„~Lawton gave each of the boys thrtee*. cakes of fudge, taking the precaution to put the rest on a high shelf in the pantry. “Now you play with your things on this nice table your uncle has fixed for you. Stay right here in the shade. There’s a new boy in the next house coming over to play with you and by and by we’ll all go for a nice ride." She dropped on the couch in the living room for half an hour’s sleep. She seemed scarcely to have closed her eyes when Waldo appeared at the window. “Aunt Rachel." “What is it, Waldo?" “I guess you’ll have to make some more fudge. .Jerry has eaten it all up." Aunt Rachel sat up. “But it was on the top shelf." “He climbed up. Jerry can get anywhere. He’s got a stummick ache and he’s crying." She rose and ministered to Jerry with peppermint and hot ginger tea. “Now you stay here and keep out of mischief. You can cut the pic tures out of these magazines. There comes the new boy. I hope he’s a good boy." ' t “What’s his name?” from Waldo. “Percy Lamb." She left the three boys happy in the destruction of the magazines, thinking she might venture a little more sleep. Katy had gone to the dentist. Waldo’s head appeared at the window. “Aunt Rachel, may we have some doughnuts out under the tree?” “Yes," she answered drowsily. “But Jerry mustn’t eat more than one." She heard the new boy asking the others: “What’s the worst thing you can have?" “Chilblains," said Waldo. “Croup," said Jerry. * “Grandpa has lumbago," Waldo suggested Then Aunt Rachel dropped asleep. Percy Lamb was printing large letters on a sheet of brown paper. “What’s the doctor’s first name?" “T ' won’t tell," from Waldo. “His middle name is Doughnut,” from Jerry. “That’* all right," said Percy, printing vigorously. “I’ve got a pocketful of tacks," said Waldo. “I brought ’em from home." “Good. Got a hammer?" “No, but a stone’s almost as good." Mrs. Lawton had slept a little longer than she had intended. She sat up and looked out. “I wonder why everybody who goes by looks at the elm tree and laughs. And what a procession of children, all eating doughnuts. Those boys must have emptied the jar. She sprang up and hastened out by the '-eranda donr. The new bo - had !e!t the others and was hah way to the sidewalk. “Must you go. Percy?” she called He turned. “I guess my n other’ll be wanting mo.” “Gcod-by, then.” Thres Silver Poplars By LILLIAN P. LEONARD © McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Service. CHE had always loved that strip ^ of blue sky from the high win dow. Tired eyes sought it for a brief rest during work hours. But now she saw something else—the tops of three silver poplars. She knew they were not there, but still she saw them. Longer pauses came in her work as she gazed at them—yet there were no three poplars swaying in the wind against the blue. “I can’t help it, Molly, they haunt me! I’ve simply got to go down to the old place." “For goodness sake, Julie, what is there to go to? Everyone gone, and the old house burned flat years ago, and no one knows who owns the land. “The three poplars are there." “They won’t feed or shelter you!" “I wonder!” A week later Julie came in after work, dumped an armful of bundles on the table, threw her hat on a chair, slumped down on the couch and glowered from under straight black brows. “Molly, you’ll have to get Mrs. Bent to come in with you. I’ve handed in my resignation at the office. They wouldn’t accept it, but told me to take a vacation, so I’m packing up and leaving at once." “Julie, for goodness sake! Oh, but you’ll come back soon. We’ve been so happy together—as happy as two relics can be. You’ve joked about not coming back, haven’t you?" “No. I’m deeply in earnest, dear pal. I have told you I’m haunted and dragged, and I’m giving in." “But why don’t you take a trip there? Most likely that’s all that is needed to break the ‘haunt’s’ neck, and you will be satisfied to come back with your mind at rest." “I’ve been thinking it over for weeks, and have firmly made up my mind. I am tired and restless, and must have a change. You have your brother’s little ones to love and do for, bless them! I have no kin—no one!" No, Julie mused, they had never been her friends; they never gave her sympathy or help, yet she loved them, always had loved them —those three tall poplars. And later, when her father brought the new young wife home, how they writhed and twisted and moaned! All that had happened 15 years ago. And seven years ago, while in South America in the capacity of private secretary to the head of the firm, the news had come to her of her father’s death and the burning of the house. She had been de tained a year longer and then duties and the sad uselessness of revisit ing the old rlr.ee had kept her from ever returning. It was a bright day in early June. The air had a crystalline clarity blowing in fresh and sweet across the deep blue of the outer bay. Ju lie put up at the one small hos telry the town boasted and set out on foot for the site of the old home, which lay about a mile away near the water’s edge. Topping a sand dune she saw the three poplars burst into view. They were taller than she had thought they would have grown, quite over shadowing the tiny shack partly buried in sand. „ To the door came a woman with unkempt hair and soiled dress, shading her eyes and gazing at the unusual sight of a woman coming that way. A little girl with pale corn colored hair peeked from be hind the woman. Julie quickened her steps;' as she recognized her father’s wife—but the child? “Julie Manton!” Tears flowed down the woman’s face as she hur ried forward to meet her visitor; and, “Sarah!” Surprise and hurt blended in Julie’s voice. “And the little girl?" she gasped, indicating the child who was trying to locate the root of her tongue with one dirty but dimpled finger, through a rose bud mouth which smiled a shy but eager welcome. “Your father’s and mine." “No one ever told me!” seeing an expression flit over Sarah’s face: “But what else could I have done? My little darling sister! You will let her be my sister, my own sis ter, won’t you, Sarah?" “Yes, Julie. You have no one, and neither have I. I’ve wanted her to have a chance, .but what could I do? Buried in this sand hole with but the pittance of your fath er’s pension and then a long illness gripped me and took everything. Julie, you will take care of her, won’t you? I—I won’t bother you long." “Oh, pshaw, Sarah! All you need is a lot of love and our jolly crowd. A few movies and concerts tucked into your cranium and you’ll not know yourself. Can you stick it out for another week? I am taking a vacation. Come here, sister’s lamb, and hug your relation. Tight, now!" “Yes, long distance calling—Mol- lie? Yes, it’s Julie. Of course I am down here. Sounds ripping to hear ‘for goodness sake!’ Listen! Let me do the talking. Don’t get Mrs. Bent, hut do go after tlia* vacant flat across the way. We’ve got to have more room. IT! tell you later. Coming back next 'lues- day with my family—yes—throe ol us—just like the three poplars Bye!” What Shall It Profit? By ADELAIDE R. KEMP © McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Service. ((- change YOU’VE still time to 1 3’our mind, Ruthie." (Ruth wished Martin wouldn’t call her that. It was childish. It gave her a queer, achy felling, too.) “We’re sure to come along all right now that Bird has accepted my plans." “But, Martin” — Ruth glanced down the dreary platform—“can’t you see what a blessing this is to us—my old position and salary for all summer? It’U help get the things I want. I*m in rags." She saw a look of pain flicker in his eyes, and added: “When fall comes we’ll make another start.” "You’ll never come back, Ruth. You wouldn’t give up as much as you did two years ago, for love.” Ruth was sorry the train was late. “I wish you wouldn’t make it any harder. Any one else would think we were lucky. You would, too, if you didn’t have such old- fashioned ideas about married wom en working, Martin.” “Maybe you have the right idea, Ruth. Probably we do get into a rut out here in the country. Guess I’ll see Brown rbout the bungalow to night.” Ruth lifted puzzled eyes. How quickly Martin had given up at the last. “What do you moan? Why must you see Brown about the bunga low?" “Oh, I didn’t tell you.” Martin still kept his eyes trackward. “Brown’s been at me lately about buying it. Tried to make me think we wanted something different, nearer town. He’s offered a good price and he might as well have it. Places always run down when they are closed." “But, Martin, you—you wouldn’t think of actually selling our home. Why didn’t you tell me before?" “I’d been waiting in hopes you’d give up this idea of yours, Ruth. The more I think of it, though, the better it sounds. I guess I have been old- fashioned. Probably I can get office work up in the city through Bird, and we can board somewhere. Here’s the train, Ruth. Good-by, old girl. I’ll write you after I’ve seen Brown." , The onrush of the train carrying her toward gay times and pretty clothes gave Ruth no anticipation of joy. Something seemed to smoth er her, press her down. She could not rise above it. Her eyes sought the rain-driven dusk only to see the shingled roofs that sheltered fam ilies grown close together in hap piness and helpfulness and love. Back there she had left Martin alone in the little bungalow they had planned and furnished together, where life had come so near per fection; probably now sitting in his big chair, the firelight showing the shadows on his face, the trace of haggardness on his mouth and eyes. Hurrying through the crowd clus tered at the gate of the great sta tion, Ruth found herself in front of the ticket office. “One ticket for Waterford Junc tion, please." The ticket agent looked up. “No train down there tonight. They’ve just telegraphed that a flood is threatening Upper Bridge." Then, seeing Ruth’s white face, he added, “There’s a train leaving for Lock- port in five minutes. That’s only two miles from the Junction." Two minutes later Ruth had scrambled up the steps of the rear car — and then went back again through the night. She stepped off the train at Lockport in a blinding swirl of wind and rain. The station was deserted, but she knew the old path that followed the railroad track. The wind lashed the trees overhead. Her breath came in pain ful gasps as she ran through the storm. At last she could hear the rumble of the river. For the first time she re membered that Martin and home were on the opposite side. Her eyes glanced up to the railroad bridge. It was terribly high and would be a fearsome trip. But nothing now could stop her. The cross ties were too short for a single step and too long for her to compass two. So Ruth crossed in a sort of trot. As she hurried up the little path beside the bungalow, half an hour later, the rain dripping from the trees was music to Ruth’s ears. She knew the back door would be. un locked. Dear, careless old Martin never, could remember. He was in the living room by the table, his head buried in his arms. In a moment Ruth was on her knees beside him. “Martin, I’ve come home." He looked at her in amazement. ’ s if doubting her reality, he placed s bands on her shoulders. Then sprang to his feet. “Where’d you come from? You’re M wet, Ruthie." But Ruth was clinging to him as she would never let him go. “Oh, Martin, I don’t care. I must have cen out of my mind." Then, as he 'ade no answer save to hold her ’oser, she whispered, “You—you iidn’t see Brown, Martin?” Martin pressed a tender kiss on Tuth’s lips before he answered. “Dear, do you think I would give up »ur home? I knew you would come back to me." The light of a falling embe: wrapped them both in a wonderfu glow of rose and gold, filling th< room with a subtle message o home. i Miss Eppa By PHYLLIS M. GALLAGHER © McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Service. One Man War By SCOTT RYALL © McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Service. \/f ISS EPPA held fourteen pins between her teeth. This did not interfere with her conversation with Mrs. Humboy;, on whose ex pansive hips she was fitting a skirt, for Miss Eppa could talk, no mat ter what she was doing. “Elsie Murphy brought me fifteen yards of white lace yesterday." Miss Eppa’s colorless lips pressed on the pins and her pale eyes lifted to Mrs. Humbolt’s passive face. “Guess she’ll marry Tyree after all!” “You mean Warren Phelps, don’t you?” Miss Eppa bristled. “I mean Don ald Tyree! I saw ’em at the hedge last night!" She nodded toward the window to designate which hedge. “She kissed him! Then she ran down the road a-kickin’ up dust!... all happy and hussy-like! But he didn’t follow her, you can bet! No sir! Not that one! But if it’s Warren Phelps she’s marrying. Of course, Mrs. Humbolt, when you go to Mrs. Phelp’s canning bee this afternoon, don’t mention nothing... Warren being her son...” “Of course.. .not!” But Miss Eppa knew by the posi tive not that Mrs. Humbolt would W HEN Ireland started emigrat ing to America one of the vanguard was a Murphy and his son was Patrick. In 1777 Pat was twenty-eight, six feet tall, red-head ed and a fighter. The army was in camp in Valley Forge, trying to get through the winter with insufficient supplies. It became a relieving pastime to bait Pat with his bragging and eventual ly the number of brawls on Com pany B, New York Volunteers, forced the regimental commander to attempt cooling Pat’s ardor. “Sir," Pat replied indignantly to the other’s soothing remarks, “IT! challenge any soldier in yer regi ment! Show me the enemy, sir—just show me ’em—an’ I’ll be takin’ two- in each hand—" The colonel lost patience. “Talk, man!" he snapped. “Talk has nev er won a war yet! And you’re stir ring up nothing but trouble with- your boasting." “Well, show me a war, then!’*' shouted Pat. * A friendly captain guided him out. “Pat," he advised kindly, “you keep your mouth shut. The general’ knows what he’s doing and so does tell Mrs. Gavy and when Mrs. Gavy ^e colonel. They’re not going to risk knew a thing, well...just about all Germington would know! Mrs. Humbolt’s skirt was finished and on the ironing board when Miss Eppa heard two short'rings and one long. That was Mrs. Waverley’s call, i the country so one sergeant can- demonstrate his. fighting ability. When we draw the British out or Philadelphia you’ll' have fighting a- plenty. Until then, don’t shout un less you have something to boast' She glanced swiftly at the clock over the pince-nez, for Miss Eppa was near-sighted, and clucked her j tongue against her teeth. It was a | satisfying sound for her teeth were false and a little loose. That ring, i at four-thirty, meant that Mrs_Gavy j d was home from the cannmg bee. “p-er,™»”• he *hi I The sergeant shook off the other’s hand angrily and’ strode off into the darkness. His ire was as High as his pride was low and before he cooled he found himself outside the picket lines. He turned and waved Miss Eppa skipped across the room to the telephone, for she was brisk now in her new excitement, and softly lifted the receiver from the hook. Mrs. Gavy was telling Mrs. Waverly that Elsie Murphy had stood kissing Donald Tyree for an hour or more, right smack in front of Miss Eppa’s door! ! Miss Eppa voiced a mental “Tsk! Tsk!" She v/anted to shout into the mouthpiece “Not door, Mrs. Gavy! The hedge!”* • At this point a bell pierced the alive silence of the bungalow and Miss Eppa nodded an exasperated head, replaced the receiver care fully and tiptoed to the door. | Elsie Murphy was no different. She trembled visibly on the fuzzy- brown welcome mat, her bide eyes dancing, her hair the burnt gold of the sunflowers that lined the pebble walk. “I . . . esme . . . about my dress."Elsie Murphy always hesi tated in her speech, even when she wasn’t startled. “Not today!" Miss Eppa’s lips were tight enough to bend a pin. Elsie fingered the belt of the blue checkered gingham that Miss Eppa had made. “I’ll . . come ... in the morning Miss Eppa,” El sie offered meekly, closing the white-washed gate behind her. Mrs. Warman had hung up when Miss Eppa sneaked the receiver off the hook. But in a few minutes! she listened to Mrs. Gavy and Mrs. I . V Krunch and then to Mrs. Humbolt ^ msel !' ™ e thoug , h , t . and Mrs. Waverly. By seven o'clock thr ° ugh v . the . wa , rl * e ^geanfs her arms were so stiff that she ' when a horse s hooves sounded Begorra!”' he shouted to the night, “if the war won’t come to* him, Patrick O’Mera Murphy will go to it! He'll! not set like a Ken on eggs!" Through the black night he turned toward Philkdeiphia where General’ Howe was toasting his heels com fortably and burning his morals to* a crisp. Pat Had tramped but' an hour and a distance of perhaps four miles when over^ a- lOw ridge’ He caught the' faint glow of a camp fire. He made no sound as he crept toward it thinking it an outpost of* his own camp but t&king.no chance* on random sentry shots. Then he- caught the flash of the familiar-red uniform of Britain. Pat grinned in the darkness and barely smothered a cheer at the- welcome sight. He moved inch by inch until close enough to hear murmured conversation. One of the two men squatting by a tiny fire turned his head; stared and' lis tened. Pat stayed unmoving, hi®-- heart beating heavily. The man turned back again and' Pat crept on, gripping his musket firmly, estimating just how hard* to hit with the butt in order that he might bring the two men in-x alive but not'too much so. “Davis is late," said one of the- men looking at an immense watch* he drew from his pocket. “The general’s orders are to wait for him,” laid the other curtly, “so* wait we Will.” And so will I," thought Pat to* scarce went gave up the idea of a cooked supper but made, instead, a sandwich, a pineapple salad and nibbled at a square of mouse-trap cheese, as she called it; all out of the ice-box without troubling herself to set the table. When the telephone shrilled a long and a short, which was her own number, she scuttled, like a frightened doe, from the kitchen to the hall and answered. Elsie’s mother# who didn’t recog nize Miss Eppa’s garbled voice, started to hang up but Miss Eppa, who had completely masticated the cheese, said quickly, “It’s me, Mrs. Murphy!" A talk with Mrs. Murphy at this time could be mighty in teresting! It was, too, for Mrs. Mur phy began, “It’s about Elsie, Miss Eppa. She won’t be needin’ that lace dress. She and Warren Phelps . . . they’ve... quarreled. You know how children are.” That night Miss Eppa, a strange worried expression on her gaunt features, seated herself in the rod plush chair by the table lamp and sat quite rigid for a moment. She was deciding a problem because her thin forefinger, tapping on the chair-arm, was the only thing about her that moved. Then she got up briskly and went to the hqll telephone and rang two shorts and four longs. When Mrs. Phelps answered in a troubled voice, Miss Eppa began, “Mrs. Phelps, I hear Elsie Murphy and Warren have broke off. We—11 . . . if it’s about that Donald Tyree gos sip . out in front of my hedge . . . it wasn’t Elsie kissin’ him but one of those common girls from over to the hollow.” Miss Eppa stood close by the sewiv g room window after that watciiing Mrs. Phelp’s house and when the slim dark shadow of War ren darted out of the back door in a direct line for Murphy’s bunga low, Miss Eppa puckered her lips :n a relieved, “Thank heavens for that!" | in the darkness. “Friend!" came out of the night and a horse and rider came into* the circle of light. The rider was cursing softly and it gave Pat the needed cover. He came in quickly as all three stood by the horse. His whooping shout was as blood-curd ling as the announcement of an In dian massacre. The quick sweep of' his musket was almost as deadly. The three redcoats had scarce time to turn before the blows had’ stretched them unconscious. “Sarjint Patrick O’Mera Mur phy,” said Pat aloud, “ye’re a great man; a vur-ry great man!” He tied the three, loaded them* on the horse and started his trium phant trip back to the camp at Valley Forge. The fates arranged the stage for Sergeant Murphy’s return. Generali Washington, himself, was in con ference with Cblonel Lansdowne when the message was brought. “Sergeant Murphy has reported; with three Britishers captured out side the lines,” said an aide-de- camp. General Washington’s eyes light ed. “Lansdowne/’ he said quickly, “just what we need. Bring him in;"' he ordered, and exclaimed, “remind: me, Lansdowne, to- give this ser geant recognition." The door swung back and the grinning, red - headed sergeant pushed his captives into the light. Their eyes blazed angrily above the gags in their mouths and faint sounds came from beneath the bind ing cloths. 1 The general stared at the cap- t \es. He then turned quickly to- wrrd the sergeant. “You — you—, \ , IU —” he spluttered, “r e 1 e a s e-, t use men! They’re three of my su.ff officers! I sent them out a few I <;urs ago to mingle with Howe’s i.rmy!" But Pat’s infallible luck stayed with him. He was out of the guard house the day before the next Ditched balllet.