A friend of mine hurried into Scarborough by motor to rescue her sister,
who was a pupil at one of the boarding schools. But it appeared that
when the windows of the school began to crash the teachers hurried from
prayers, ordered the pupils to gather hats and coats and sweet chocolate
that happened to be on hand as a substitute for breakfast, and made them
run for a mile and a half, with shells exploding about them, through the
streets to the nearest out-of-Scarborough railway station. My friend,
after unbelievable difficulties, finally found her sister in a private
house of a village near by, the girl in tears and pleading not to be
sent to London; she had been told that her family's house was probably
destroyed, as it was actually on the seacoast.
On the other hand, instances of self-possession were not lacking.
Another school hardby took all its children to the cellars, where the
teachers made light of the matter, and the frightened father of one very
nervous child was pleasantly amazed to find his child much calmer than
himself--and quite delighted with the experience. In St. Martin's
Church, the Archdeacon was celebrating communion. Shells struck the roof
of the church. The Archdeacon stopped the service for a brief moment to
say:
"We are evidently being bombarded. But we are as safe here as we can be
anywhere," and proceeded calmly with the service.
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