"Here's what an English writer supposes Drake to have said when he was dying:
'Take my drum to England, hang it by the shore,
Strike it when your powder's running low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port of heaven
And drum them up the Channel, as we drummed them long ago.'"
"How stirring that is!" cried Ruth, clapping her hands.
"Yes," admitted Drew, a little dryly. "They must have forgotten to beat it though at the time of the American Revolution."
It was a discordant note and all felt it.
"Oh, how horrid of you!" exclaimed Ruth. "You take all the romance out of the story."
"I'm sorry," said Drew, instantly penitent.
"I don't believe you are a bit," declared Ruth. "And Mr. Parmalee told that story so beautifully," she added, with a wicked little desire to punish Drew.
"Cross my heart and hope to die," protested Drew, to appease his divinity. "Put any penance on me you like. I'll sit in sackcloth and put ashes on my head if you say so, and you'll never hear a whimper."
"He seems to be suffering horribly," said Parmalee, a bit sarcastically, "and you know, Miss Ruth, that cruel and unusual punishments are forbidden by the Constitution. I think you'd better forgive him."