John was at work in the garden. At least, so it would have appeared to
an ordinary observer; in reality he was carrying on a sanguinary combat,
and dealing death on every side. His name was George Washington, and he
was at Bunker Hill (where he certainly had no business to be), and the
British were intrenched behind the cabbages. "They've just got down into
the ground, they are so frightened!" he said to himself, pausing to
straighten his aching back, and toss the red curls out of his eyes. "See
'em, all scrooched down, with their feet in the earth, trying to make
believe they grow there! But I'll have 'em out! Whack! there goes the
general. Come out, I say!" He wrestled fiercely with an enormous
Britisher, disguised as a stalk of pig-weed, and, after a breathless
tussle, dragged him bodily out of the ground, and flung his headless
corpse on the neighbouring pile of weeds.

"Ha! that was fine!" cried the boy. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if
that was George the Third himself; it was ugly enough for him. Come up
here! hi! down with you! Now Jack the Giant-Killer is coming to help me,
and the British have got Cormoran (this was before Jack killed him), and
there's going to be a terrible row." But General Washington waves his
gallant sword, and calls to his men, and says,--

"Good morning, sir! you make a busy day, I see."

It was not General Washington who spoke. It was the Skipper, and he was
leaning on the gate and looking at the boy John and smiling. "You make a
busy day," he repeated. "I think there are soon no more weeds in Sir
Scraper's garden."

"Oh, yes!" cried John, straightening himself again, and leaning on his