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Updated: May 17, 2025
It was a scrap of newspaper, crumpled and spattered with blood, and, as Houston smoothed it out, he read on the margin, in characters wavering and almost illegible, written with a trembling hand, but still Morgan's writing, "Send to the camp for Houston, he's the only friend I've got."
The treaders big, perspiring men, in shirts and tucked-up trousers spattered to the eyes with splatches of purple juice, lean upon their wooden spades, and wipe their foreheads. But their respite is short. The creak of another cart-load of tubs is heard, and immediately the wagon is backed up to the broad open window, or rather hole in the wall, above the trough.
The rain still fell drearily and spattered the page as he read. His heart beat fast with pride as he read the flattering words his girl had made good, you bet! Suddenly he started, almost crushing the paper in his hands, and every bit of color went from his face. "What's this? 'Unhappily married 'borne with heroic cheerfulness." He read it through to the end.
He was still fifty paces from the bridge-head when their pistols spattered out; the men behind dared not fire for fear of hitting him, so that Brian had all the fight for himself.
It is an arboreal lazaret, a venereal clinic. "And there, at a detour of the forest aisle, stands a mottled red beech. "Amid the sanguinary falling leaves he feels that he has been spattered by a shower of blood. He goes into a rage.
Doors had been smashed in with rifle-butts and boot-heels; windows had been broken; furniture had been wantonly destroyed; pictures had been torn from the walls; mattresses had been ripped open with bayonets in search of valuables; drawers had been emptied upon the floors; the outer walls of the houses were spattered with blood and pock-marked with bullets; the sidewalks were slippery with broken wine-bottles; the streets were strewn with women's clothing.
He turned toward the spattered wall and stopped all at once. For Tim was coming back through the doorway. "I'm as good a scout as you," Tim said passionately. "If you say I'm not, I'll bang you in the eye." Don said nothing. While Tim selected a pail and a floor cloth, Don rubbed away at the wall. Slowly a little smile spread across his face. He was quite content the way things had gone.
In the closet, which exhaled a damp and woody smell, were one or two of the boyish-looking hats he had so often seen her crush carelessly over her dark hair, and the big belted coat that was as plain as his own, and the big boots she wore when she tramped about the poultry yard, still spattered with pale, dry mud.
If he should have to endure some chaffing from Jim Bartlett and Si Spooner, his cronies at the bank, he "guessed he could stand it." On the whole, he was moderately happy. The sun was low in the west, and the trees were casting long shadows across his yard, brightly spattered with the red and yellow of autumnal leaves.
But his rejoicing was premature, for just at this moment a cannon shot from the German lines tore its way through the kettle and the scalding broth was spattered all over the group that were lying about. Luckily it did no other damage, but the chagrin of the boys was comical to see.
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