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"Billy," she spoke again, "are you sick?" "Not a bit. I'll run in to his dock tonight, an' tell him." "Ain't it jest?" agreed Maurice. "Say, Bill, there ain't no law ag'in shootin' robbers is there—store-robbers, I mean?".

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Billy's frown vanished. "Fine, Harry, fine," he commended, "an' I'll go down to the store with you. Come up to the house, now, and I'll manage to sneak you out some supper." Next day was Sunday and Billy did not like Sundays. They meant the scrubbing of his face, ears and neck with "Old Brown Windsor" soap until it fairly cracked if he so much as smiled, and being lugged off with his parents and Anse to early forenoon Sunday School in the little frame church in the Valley. There was nothing interesting about Sunday School; it was the same old hum-drum over and over again—same lessons, same teachers, same hymns, same tunes; with Deacon Ringold's assertive voice cutting in above all the other voices both in lessons and singing and with Mrs. Scraff's shrill treble reciting, for her class's edification, her pet verse: "Am I nothing to thee, all ye who pass by?"—only Mrs. Scraff always improvised more or less on the scriptures, and usually threw the verse defiantly from her in this form: "You ain't nuthin to me, all you who pass me by." "There should be plenty to be done," said she. "There is the Army." "'Tis a very old-fashioned term, madam," said General Groves, "current in my time, but I question if much understood in this.".