She never perfectly extricated herself, but most of the kids ended up signing the anti-gun pledge anyway, so I guess it worked out. But that's how I spent the morning, instead of finishing what is an amusing chapter in which the main character is explaining to his guardian why Mr. Dawson was threatening to kill him if he was ever caught in his orchard again.
In other news, I've been reading an amusing memoir called "A Monk Swimming," by Malachy McCourt, an Irishman who came to the U.S. penniless in 1952, became the first celebrity bartender, invented the singles bar, was a well-regarded actor and ended up as a regular on Jack Paar's "The Tonight Show" spinning tales as only an Irishman can. In the acknowledgments he writes, among many thing, "To the English, for forcing their language down our throats so that we could regurgitate it in glorious colors." Which sounds like as good a description of the Irish as I've heard. It also includes this passage:
The great Gaels of Ireland
Are men the gods made made
For all their wars are merry ones
And all their songs are sad.
Yep, another hardcover I paid a quarter for at the thrift store.