Burlington weekly free press. [volume] (Burlington, Vt.) 1866-1928, 1894-05-17

the little battalion surging steadilysup
the narrow street.
You may have to fire, Drummond,
says the colonel coolly. Get in rear
of your company" Obedient, the tall
lieutenant turns and follows his chief
along the front of his advancing line so
as to pass around the flank. He is not
so PAGES from the pile on which tho
mob leader, with half a dozen half
drunken satellites, is shouting his ex-
hortations. just as the lieutenant's
arm is grazing grim old Feepy's elbow
as he passes the first sergeant's station,
a brick comes hurting through the air,
strikes full upon the back of the Off
GERS unprotected head and sends him,
face forward, into the muddy street.
In the yell of triumph that follows,
Wing voice for an instant is unheard
Obedient to its principle, Never load
until about to fire, )" the battalion 8 car
bines are still empty, but all on sud-
den G troop halts. with ball car
tridges, load" is Wings hoarse, stern
order. Now aim low when give the
word. Fire by company. Company,
readyr' and like one the hammers
click. But no command Aim" fol-
lows. Look out Look out For
Gods sake don't fire! Out of the way"
are the frantic yells from the Threats
of the mob. Away they go, scattering
down side streets, alley ways, behind
lumber piles everywhere anywhere.
Many even throw themselves fat on
their faces to escape the expected tenn
pest of lead. Don't fire, j." says the
colonel mercifully. Forward, double
time, and give them the butt. Well
support you." Down from the lumber
piles come the erstwhile truculent lead
ers. Draw cartridge, men" orders
Wing in wrath and disappointment.
Now, butts to the front, and give
them HI. Forward" And out he
leaps to tako the lead dashing straight
into the thick of the scattering mob, his
men after him. There is minute of
wild yelling, cursing, Of resounding
blows and trampling feet, and in the
midst of it all single shot, and when
Wing, breathless, is finally halted two
squares farther On only dozen broken
to represent the furious mob that con-
ironted them few minutes before.
Only these few and one writing, bleed
ing form, around which half a dozen
policemen are curiously gathered, and
at whose side the battalion surgeon has
just knelt.
He's shot through and through, "
30 bi- ict rraSantly ''Nn poXUar
can save him. Who il he ?"
About the worst and most danger
GUS ringleader of riot this town has
known, sir, ;" is the answer of one of
the police officials. No one knew
where he came from either-or his real
name"
And then in his dying agony the fall
en- demagogue turns, and the other side
of his twitching face comes uppermost.
Even through the thin, grizzly beard
there is plainly seen an ugly, Jagged
scar stretching from ear to chin.
This isn't his first row by any man
ner of means, if it is his last, " says a
sergeant of police. Look at that
Who shot him anyhow"
Il did. " is the cool. prompt answer,
and Sergeant Feeny raises his hand to
his carried carbine and stands atten-
ton as he sees the surgeon kneeling
there. Il did, and just in the nick Of
time. He had drawn bead on our
lieutenant, but even if he hadn t l d
/ have downed him. and so would any
man in that company yonder." And
Feeny points to where 9 troop stands
resting after its charge.
You knew him them"
Knew him instantly, as a deserter,
thafe, highwayman and murderer
knew him as Private Bland in Arizona
and would know him anywhere by that
scar.
A policeman bends and wronches a
loaded revolver from the clutching
| quivering fingers just az Wing comes
Striding back and shoulders his way
into the group.
is he badly hurt, doctor? That
was an awful whack.
1T is the lieutenant, sir, says Feeny
respectfully, but with strange signifi-
canoe in his tone as he draws police
man aside. Look"
And Wing, bending over, gives one
glance into the dying face, then covers
his eyes with hands and turns blindly,
dizzily, away.
That evening host of citizens are
gathered about the bivouac of the bat
talon at the waterworks while the
trumpets are sounding tattoo. A few
squares away the familiar notes come
floating in through the open windows
of room where Jim Drummond is ly-
Eng on most comfortable sofa, which
has been rolled close to the easement
where every Whit of the cool lake
breeze can fan his face, and where,
glancing languidly around, he contrasts
tho luxury of these surroundings with
the rude simplicity of the life he has
lived and loved so many years Gray
haired George Harvey, kindly Mrs.
Stone. his sister; blissful, beautiful Fan
ny Wing with burly baby Harvey in
her arms and her proud, soldierly hus-
band by her side, and tall, lovely, al