John needed no second invitation, and in a moment he and the guard were following the pig, which was running as if he knew his life was in danger. The soldiers rushed from their tents, and stood laughing and cheering the pursuers. To them it was a comedy to see the sentry and the prisoner striving to catch one poor, little half-starved pig; but to John the pursuit had all the elements of a tragedy. Life or death lay in the outcome for him. He flung aside his hat and coat, and put forth all his strength. Dripping with perspiration, streaked with dust, almost breathless he sped on and on. Once he came close upon the frightened pig, but he took good care to fall upon him in such a manner that the little “porker” only emitted a terrified squeal and redoubled his speed. “Hold! hold!” shouted the guard, who was behind now. “Let him go. We can’t catch him!” John glanced quickly back, and saw that he was out of the range of the soldiers’ muskets. His speed increased as he realized that the supreme moment had come at last. Only the gun of the guard was to be feared now. “Halt!” shouted the guard again. “Stop, or I shoot!” John only drew his head down between his shoulders. His heart almost ceased to beat. The report of the gun rang out, and he almost fell to the ground as he heard the bullet whistle over his head. * * * * * A few days afterward, when he was with his father in Sumter’s army near Camden, just before the terrible battle, and for the second time had been relating the story of his escape, he added, “That little porker did a double duty. He saved his bacon, and he saved mine, too.” POLLY CALLENDAR: TORY[W] By MARGARET FENDERSON The tale of a Tory maid, a Patriot youth, and a kettle of scarlet dye. In 1774-5, previous to the outbreak of the Revolution, the Callendars were Royalists, and General Gage’s young British officers, one of whom was related to the Callendars, frequently rode out from Boston to call at the hospitable country-house. It was Polly Callendar whom they went to see; her beauty and vivacious wit were the theme of many toasts. And up to the evening of this story Polly was as disdainful of the “minute-men” as was her mother. At about noon of that day Madam Callendar was summoned to the bedside of Elizabeth Ballard, a kinswoman living near Natick. She had left her brick oven full of the week’s baking, and had set a large brass kettle, filled with redwood dye, on the crane in the great fireplace. Madam Callendar’s parting directions to Polly had been not only to watch the oven, but to stir the boiling redwood. Numerous skeins and hanks of woolen yarn, spun during the previous winter, were immersed in it, and the last warning from Polly’s mother was: “Redwood must never be hurried, Polly. Stir often, lass. Press the hanks down hard with your clothes-stick, and then drop in a little of this powdered alum to set the scarlet.”