isiah thomas detroit jersey

"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

But I was not needed; while I slept, who should come back and do my work in my stead but Ned Ferry. When I awoke it was with a bound of alarm to see clear day. The command was breaking camp. I rushed out of the tent with canteen, soap and comb, and ran into the arms of the mess-cook. We were alone. "Oh, yass, seh," he laughed as he poured the water into my hands, "th'ee days' rairtion. Seh? Lawd! dey done drawed and cook' befo' de fus' streak o' light. But you all right; here yo' habbersack, full up. Oh, I done fed yo' hoss. Here yo' jacket an' cap; and here yo' saddle an' bridle--Oh, you welcome; I dess tryin' to git shet of 'em so's I kin strak de tent."

"Ferry's scouts." He scrutinized me. "What command do you say you--"

"Those? That one is the Virgin's sheaf; and those two are the Balances."

She struck a mock-sentimental attitude and murmured musically--

"Why haven't I got it right?"

I remarked that had I been in her place I should either have sunk into the mire, so to speak, or thrown myself, literally, into the river.

"'Tis the enemy, I think," he said, "but only scouts, I suppose."

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