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He felt a contemptuous pity for his little, untraveled, provincial self of three months ago, if, indeed, it could have been himself who wrote verses about Anna McCord's "coming-out tea" and referred to poor, good old Mrs. McCord as "Milady"!
I shook his elbow sharply. "When she starts, now " "You don't seem to understand," he mumbled. "It wouldn't be any use." She had turned now and was making for the ladder with the soundless agility of her race. I grasped McCord's wrist and dragged him after me, the lantern banging against his knees.
There seemed to be a thousand pans there, throwing my match back at me from every wall of the box-like compartment. Even McCord's eyes, in the doorway, were large and round and shining. He probably thought me crazy. Perhaps I was, a little. I ran the match along close to the ceiling and came upon a rusty hook a little aport of the center. "There," I said.
Bowling, and Alexander Bowling, rode into Moulton on that day for the purpose of chastising the bar-keeper at McCord's tavern, whose name is Cowan, for an alleged insult offered by him to the father of young Walton. They made a furious attack on Cowan, and drove him into the bar room of the tavern.
From this post, Stewart moved to McCord's ferry, on the Congaree, on the south side of which he took post, amidst the hills near the confluence of the Wateree and Congaree. Greene's camp lay directly opposite, and the fires of the mutual armies were distinctly seen by each other. The heat of the weather suspended all regular military operations.
He stopped short, interrupting himself with a half-cough of laughter as he remembered the inspiration of these verses. He had written them three months ago, at home in Cranston, Ohio, the evening after Anna McCord's "coming-out tea." "Milady" meant Mrs.
The cat went over and began to tear at it, her muscles playing with convulsive shadow-lines under the sagging yellow hide. And now it was she who listened, to something beyond the reach of even McCord's faculties, her neck stiff and her ears flattened. I looked at McCord and found him brooding at the animal with a sort of listless malevolence. "Quick! She has kittens somewhere about."
He was hot, trembling, hurried, but this new feeling was apart from these. His feet were on solid ground, and his arm felt as it had always in those throwing contests where he had so easily won. He seemed to decide from McCord's position at the plate what to throw him. Ken took his swing. It was slow, easy, natural.
Personally, I had had enough of it. McCord's fingers came groping across the table for the bottle. I picked it up hastily and let it go through the open companionway, where it died with a faint gurgle, out somewhere on the river. "Now," I said to him, shaking the vagrant wrist, "either you come ashore with me or you go in there and get under the blankets. You're drunk, McCord drunk.
We'll be cutting from the airplane in a moment now. Listen, were you able to find out who either of General McCord's glider pilots are?" "Yeah," Freddy told him. "Both are captains. One named Bob Flaubert and the other Jimmy Hideka." "Bob Flaubert?" Jeb growled. "He's an artilleryman. We've been in the dill together half a dozen times."
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