Once on the wall he gripped the window sill and the edges of the boards. In a moment he had reached the third floor and was inching over to Marlowe's window. Now came the risky part. Wedging his fingers under the window he began to slowly push upwards. Jim froze and his heart leaped to his throat. He had heard something - like the click of a latch - but maybe it was only from the window. "You!" Marlowe ejaculated, his astonished eyes meeting Jim's, then quickly taking in the green bag, so near his outstretched hand. Jim's nerves were already on edge and he started violently. His stocking feet slid, and the next thing he knew he was shooting down past the second floor. His fall was broken by the hedge of roses running along the side of the inn. Yanking himself free he staggered into the yard, the back of his coat torn to shreds. "Stop right there! I said halt!" The pistol went off. Jim leapt several feet as the shot split through the air, barely three inches past his head. He ran for the shed and dived behind a wood pile next to Mark. Peering cautiously over they saw Marlowe leaning farther through the window, taking careful aim. In the lighted room above men were gathering behind the sergeant. "It's one of those spies who fooled us in September," Marlowe was saying. "He's back, and he tried swiping the General's letter!" ...Yes, Jim Winfield is back - along with Mark, Philip, Marlowe, and the man named Eben, and a host of others, all wondering the same thing - where does Jim stand now? "Indifferently neutral," Jim declares. "Indifferently neutral indeed!" scoffs a rebel girl. "You're all wrapped up in this war, you can't help it. And you do care very much, both what happens to England and America." Yes, he cares - but which side matters the most to him? That is the question asked by everyone involved - including Jim himself... It was all up hill and the trees were sparse. The first shot was close and the second was closer. He darted behind a thicket and peered cautiously through. His pursuer was running hard up the slope - he had lost sight of Jim temporarily, and was glancing all around as he came. At least Jim had a lengthy start and had gotten nicely ahead - far enough for a moment's respite to get his bearings - but not far enough to outrun those bullets. There was the flurry of skirts, Jim whirled about sharply - then Phoebe was by his side. Where had she come from? And why?" "What is wrong?" she whispered urgently. "Marlowe and his men? They have come?" Jim shook his head. "Not Marlowe," he said gravely. "British soldiers." The girl stared at him and the color drained from her face. "British - soldiers?" she whispered numbly. Crack! The bullet split through the air, over their shoulders and past their heads. Jim grabbed the girl and pulled her in front of him, glancing back quickly over his shoulder in the direction of the shot. The private was running up the hillside, a hundred yards below, a smoking pistol in his hand. "Fool!" Jim muttered fiercely. To their left was a group of rock and bush, and behind this Jim dived, pulling Phoebe with him. They threw themselves down, kneeling in the snow, and Jim warily raised his head. "This is getting ridiculous," he muttered. British, colonial, it didn't make much difference, they all wanted him for one thing or other...
About the Author: Sarah was born on the same date as Audrey Hepburn, in the month of Our Lady, and in the year Pope St. John Paul II declared "year of the family." (Now figure out how old she is!) And not surprisingly, she likes old movies, is devoted to Mother Mary, and loves her family and wants to encourage all families. While geared towards young people, her books have been enjoyed by all ages. They are for all those who want to laugh, smile, stretch their minds, and have their faith cheered up in themselves, in this country, and most of all in God.