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Updated: June 13, 2025
As the Indians were immediately ahead, the array of battle was at once formed. The troops spread out into a single line. The right was led by Trigg, the centre by Colonel-Commandant Todd in person, with McGarry under him, and an advance guard of twenty-five men under Harlan in front; while the left was under Boon.
Boone, fust in command, took the left wing; Todd, the centah; Trigg, the right; an' the Lincoln County men undeh Harlan, McBride an' McGary a sort o' advance guard. But 'twuz no use then. We only fired one round. Befoh we could reload, them devils wuz on us with tommyhocks an' scalpin'-knives. Then, a hand-to-hand fight fur a minit.
Trigg, as I have said before, was a long time with us, and the happy deliverance I have related did not occur until I was near the end of my eighth year. At the present stage of my story I am not yet six, and the incident related in the following chapter, in which Mr. Trigg figures, occurred when I was within a couple of months of completing my sixth year.
He never denied the part which is generally attributed to him, but justified himself by saying that while at Bryant's Station, he had advised waiting for Logan, but was met with the charge of cowardice. He believed that Todd and Trigg were jealous of Logan, who was the senior Colonel, and would have taken the command had he come up.
"But you don't sabe," said Clinton Grey; "that's all very well as to the hag, but now we must give HER up," with an adoring glance towards the closet. "Does the letter say so?" "No," said Trigg hesitatingly, "no! But I reckon we can't keep BOTH." "Why not?" said the president imperturbably, "if we paid for 'em?" As the men only stared in reply he condescended to explain. "Look here!
And on that very afternoon the feared man arrived, Mr. Trigg by name, an Englishman, a short, stoutish, almost fat little man, with grey hair, clean-shaved sunburnt face, a crooked nose which had been broken or was born so, clever mobile mouth, and blue-grey eyes with a humorous twinkle in them and crow's-feet at the corners.
Pickwick that would look on us in the schoolroom on the following morning, only wished that Mr. Trigg was far, far away. Perhaps they made too much of him: at all events he fell into the habit of going away every Saturday morning and not returning until the following Monday.
Trigg was not far distant, and hearing the cries of distress, hastened to her room, crying, "What's the matter, Miss Carry? Oh, have you hurt yourself?" "No, no," said Caroline; "it's my bird. Tom has killed the poor thing. Oh, what am I to do?" The bird fluttered at this moment, and Mrs. Trigg took it out of the cage, and holding it before the fire, declared it was still alive, and might recover.
"That's only two-fifty more," said the president thoughtfully, "if we call it quits." "But," said Trigg in alarm, "we must send it back." "Not much, sonny," said the president promptly. "We'll hang on to this until we hear where that thorny old chump of yours has fetched up and is actin' her conundrums, and mebbe we can swap even." "But how will we explain it to the boys?" queried Trigg.
Up to that moment a delighted but unsmiling consciousness of their own absurdities, a keen sense of the humorous possibilities of the original blunder, and a mischievous recognition of the mortification of Trigg whose only safety now lay in accepting the mistake in the same spirit had determined these grown-up schoolboys to artfully protract a joke that seemed to be providentially delivered into their hands.
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