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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Joslyn, you're after Jones, 3d. M M Mackall, you come after Lawrence." "But you've put me after Joslyn," protested Gid. "He's never ahead of me." "Shut up," answered the Orderly. "I do the talking for this company. Russell, Scruggs, Skidmore; there, I've got 'em all down. Si, go down toward Co. A and find Bill Stiles and walk him up to the guard-tent and leave him there to cool off.
When Marx was no more than ten years old we find O.A. Brownson, editor of the Boston Quarterly Review, vigorously preaching here in America the theory of the class war, the abolition of the wage system, and the necessity for a triumph of the proletariat. We find such men as Thomas Skidmore, R.L. Jennings, and L. Byllesby preaching thoroughgoing Socialism.
Shorty, put yourself on the left and bring up the rear." "You bet," answered Shorty, "and I'll take durned good care I don't lose little Pete Skidmore." "Now," commanded Si, getting a good lay of the ground toward the gap, "Attention. All ready? Forward, march."
"Did any of you boys see either Alf or Monty?" he asked nervously. "And has anybody seen Pete Skidmore?" chimed in Shorty, his voice suddenly changing from a tone of exultation to one of deepest concern. "Why don't some o' you speak? Are you all dumb?" Somehow everybody instinctively stopped cheering, and an awed hush followed. "All of Co. Q step this way," called out the Orderly-Sergeant.
George Skidmore, of the Imperial Bank, had his share of ordinary courage, but he had an imagination, too, and he particularly disliked these periodical trips to branch banks, in convoy, so to speak. He took no risks. "Awful night, sir," the guard observed. "Rather lucky to get a carriage to yourself, sir.
"And sha'n't we do nothin' neither to that man that we shot when he was tryin' to set fire to the train?" asked little Pete Skidmore, who with Sandy Baker had come up and listened to Shorty's lecture. "He's still layin' out there where he dropped, awful still. Me and Sandy took a piece o' fat pine and went down and looked at him. We didn't go very close. We didn't like to.
The guard supposed not. He was slightly, yet discreetly, amused to see Mr. Skidmore glance under the seats of the first-class carriage. Certainly there was nobody either there or on the racks. The carriage at the far side was locked, and so, now, was the door next the platform. The great glass dome was brilliantly lighted so that anything suspicious would have been detected instantly.
He screws the lid down and presently makes his way along the footboard to the next compartment. An athlete in good condition could do that; in fact, a sailor has done it in a drunken freak more than once. Mind you, I don't say that murder was intended in the first instance; but will presume that there was a struggle. The thief probably lost his temper, and perhaps Mr. Skidmore irritated him.
The boys pattered industriously after, doing their best to keep up, but stumbling over roots and stones, and slipping on steep places, and dropping to the rear in spite of themselves. When Si made the customary halt at the end of the first hour, his little command was strung back for a quarter of a mile, and little Pete Skidmore was out of sight.
He saw Pete Skidmore pick up what had been once a militia officer's gaudy coat, and examine it curiously. He shouted at him: "Here, drop that, drop that, you little brat. What 'd I tell you? That you mustn't fetch a rag of anything you see in here, except with the point o' your bayonet and with your bayonet on your gun. Drop it, I tell you."
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