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Updated: May 18, 2025
A few minutes later a boat picked him up and he was rowed to the destroyer. Climbing aboard he was met by the commander. Stan saluted the officer. "Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, reporting, sir," he said. The commander looked at Stan's clothes, then smiled. "Where were you going with that Mustang, Lieutenant?" he asked. "I was headed for home, sir.
We hae ta'en a great interest in her for some weeks past; but noo we're 'maist at oor wits' en' what to do wi' her neist. She's sair oot o' hert, and oot o' health, and out o' houp; and in fac' she stan's in sair, ay, desperate need o' a cheenge." "Weel, that ouchtna to mak muckle o' a diffeeclety atween auld friens like oorsels, Maister Robertson!
"I see you wasn't much taken aback." "No. We was expectin' something like that and had discounted it. I'm just as well pleased Stan's in jail just now, and I'm goin' to leave him there a spell. Safer there. You remember old Hank Bergman?" Carr nodded. "Well, Hank's the sheriff here and he'll give us a square deal. Now I'm goin' back to interview that boy of yours some more.
He got down and began talking to them excitedly. "They're looking for escaped prisoners," O'Malley whispered in Stan's ear. Three burly soldiers walked over to the cart and began thrusting their bayonets into the hay. Stan stiffened. If he was stabbed he meant to make no outcry. He felt the cold steel move across his body a few inches from his chest. It slipped back, then stabbed again.
The gun flamed again, its fire searing Stan's neck, then he had closed with the German and had forced his gun arm down. Splinters had dived in and hit the Nazi around the knees. They went down in a twisting, writhing mass with Stan's blood spattering over all three. Splinters got the gun and brought its butt down on Minter's head. He slumped down and rolled free of Stan. Splinters stood up.
Take me back to the Intelligence Office," Stan said. "My commander will call for me there." "You are acting very strangely, my man. Why didn't you make this call from the office? It could have been checked there." The officer laid a big hand on Stan's arm. "I'll make one from there," Stan said.
He did what he thought was all right, and didn't want to be bothered. I never think about prayin' till I git into a tight place. It stan's to reason that the Lord don't want people comin' to him to do things that they can do theirselves. I shouldn't pray for breath; I sh'd jest h'ist the winder. If I wanted a bucket o' water, I sh'd go for it.
Make haste, for the Squire's hoss never stan's still a minute cept when he's goin'!" Abijah Flagg alighted and approached the side door with a grin. "Guess what I've got for ye, Rebecky?" No throb of prophetic soul warned Rebecca of her approaching doom. "Nodhead apples?" she sparkled, looking as bright and rosy and satin-skinned as an apple herself. "No; guess again." "A flowering geranium?"
"Lat me luik at it," said Alec, eagerly. "Na, ye wadna mak' either rhyme or rizzon o' 't as it stan's. I'll read it to ye." "Come and sit doon, than, on the ither side o' the dyke." A dyke in Scotland is an earthen fence�-to my prejudiced mind, the ideal of fences; because, for one thing, it never keeps anybody out.
John C. swept on in the strain of her hopeful heralding. "So, soon as Sam told that 'twa'n't more 'n half an hour ago I says to him, 'You go an' stir up some o' the boys, an' 'long towards ten o'clock you jest surround the old Pelton house an' git him, tea-set an' all. Stan's to reason, says I, 'it's an old deserted house, an' he's goin' to git part of a night's rest there.
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