One if by Land, Two if by Submarine: SAVING AMERICA SERIES, #1

By Eileen Schnabel

"Rambunctious YA educational entertainment that reimagines the American Revolution as a time-travel escapade. —Kirkus Reviews

"A deftly crafted and simply riveting read from first page to last, Eileen Schnabel's ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF BY SUBMARINE is an extraordinary science fiction story by an author with a genuine flair for originality and a remarkably effective narrative storytelling style. ..this first volume of a planned series is especially and unreservedly recommended for both school and community library Science Fiction & Fantasy collections for young readers." Midwest Book Review

"A page-turning read for any age... recommended to anyone interested in time travel or Revolutionary War events" Hidden Histories

When Paul Revere is kidnapped by a time traveler determined to change the outcome of the American Revolution, thirteen-year-old Kep Westguard is sent to Boston, 1775, to take his famous midnight ride. Kep's four-person team has twenty-four hours to light the famous lanterns at Old North Church, warn Lexington and Concord that the British are coming, and rescue John Hancock and Samuel Adams from hanging as traitors to the crown.

As the clock ticks, one teammate is arrested as a runaway slave, a British watchman stops another from lighting the lanterns, and Kep nearly drowns when he attempts to cross the Charles River in a Patriot inventor's prototype wooden, hand-crank submarine. When Hancock and Adams ask Kep to sneak a trunk of critical papers out from under the eyes of the British Army during the Battle of Lexington, Kep has to decide how much he's willing to sacrifice for his country. If he fails, there will be no America to return to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WONDER JUMPS PRESS
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733868112

Book preview

Chapter One

Thirteen-year-old Kep Westguard followed one rule: out-hustle your competition. That simple. His MO: 110 percent, every minute, every practice. He’d competed against stronger swimmers, more talented swimmers, but never a swimmer who put in more effort or lane time.

Three straight days out of the pool? Didn’t happen. Ever.

Till now.

Kep gritted his teeth. Not a chlorinated pool in sight. Stuck at this crazy Revolutionary War reenactment camp, he had two choices: go hard or go home. And he’d bust a gut before he quit. He needed that prize money and he’d do anything to get it—anything! Which was why he’d been playing toy soldier for the last seventy-two hours.

Despite marching on blistered feet under a blazing sun, the strap to his wooden canteen cutting into his shoulder, and his whole body steaming in a heavy wool Continental Army uniform, Kep refused to complain, even to himself.

Winners never quit. Quitters never win. As he thumped his drum every other step, he repeated the mantra to the beat. Not that the beat was particularly steady. His lifetime percussion experience consisted of that morning’s thirty-minute crash course from the camp’s official drum and fife corps, and his playing reflected it. He couldn’t even dodge his own drum, which banged his knee every other step.

To his left, his little brother Max puffed along, trying to get enough wind to blow a few tuneless shrieks out of his fife.

Kep cringed at each note. Can’t be much farther, he whispered out the side of his mouth. Talking wasn’t allowed in the ranks.

Max nodded miserably, his uniform hanging off his bony shoulders. Small and skinny for his age, his favorite pastimes were reading ginormous history books and doing science experiments in their basement back home. A five-mile military march in the heat and humidity of a Wisconsin summer didn’t make the top five hundred on the list of fun things to do.

A twinge of guilt jabbed at Kep when Max used the back of his hand to rub peeling layers of sunburned skin off his nose. Max’s normally vampire-pale skin—a result of preferring libraries to outdoor activities—had turned a painful-looking bright pink, and Kep was partly to blame. Camp guidelines discouraged the use of modern products including toothpaste, mouthwash, dental floss, deodorant, and sunscreen. And Kep had urged Max not to unpack any of the stuff Mom had sent; they had to follow every camp guideline, no matter how dumb. "Maybe the judges dock us if they catch a whiff of minty-fresh breath. Bad breath and BO, that’s period appropriate."

Kep had quickly figured out that Fort Liberty, the name of their camp, prized historical accuracy above all. It went way beyond avoiding personal care products. There were no computers, no electric lights, no flush toilets, and no toilet paper. At the latrine, the softest corncobs went first.

As they marched along the dirt road, thick noon heat pressed around them and sweat dribbled from under Kep’s tricorn hat into his eyes, making a blur of the stars and stripes held high by the flag bearer ahead. That guy looked old enough to be someone’s grandpa, and considering his beet-red face and Santa-sized gut, Kep hoped the camp had an historically inaccurate defibrillator stashed somewhere just in case.

But the old guy didn’t miss a step even as mosquitoes swarmed from hedges to attack. With bug spray also on the period inappropriate list, the flying bloodsuckers enjoyed total victory. Swatting at them was like spitting to douse a bonfire.

Like the flag bearer, the other forty or so adult reenactors advanced grim-faced, rifles at their shoulders, taking this fake battle march scary seriously. Kep thought they were kinda old for war games. But no judgment. For all he knew, the final competition would involve a march and if so, he needed all the practice he could get.

With the contest just over a week way, it frustrated him that he couldn’t get a straight answer on what to expect. He’d been told to prepare for any scenario that might face a soldier in Washington’s Continental Army, but that covered a lot of ground. He, Max, and the other two kids on their team were being taught to read military maps, break spy codes, and identify battle strategies. Today would be Kep and Max’s first mock battle, whatever that meant. Their two teammates, Tela and T.J., had a different assignment: cavalry riding techniques. That sounded fun to Kep, but Max was terrified of horses. At least on their current assignment Max, who also didn’t swim or bike, could keep his feet on land where he preferred them. And he appeared to be managing his fife job, producing high-pitched squeals every few steps. Just so the ringing in Kep’s ears wasn’t permanent.

Their little army continued down the road toward a hill of scrappy pines with a ten-foot stockade fort at the top. A Union Jack hung limp on a flagpole inside the fort. Presumably, that’s where the ‘enemy’ hung out.

Company halt! The call came from behind. Hoof beats thudded and metal clanked as the camp’s leader, Commander Bombast, rode along the column on his white horse, the sun glinting off his gold epaulets.

The men kept marching and Bombast stared pointedly at Kep. Because its sound carried, the drum was the voice and tongue of the commander. Kep had learned that bit of info along with specific drum rolls to signal maneuvers like halt, left turn, right turn, cease fire, and a bunch more. But which pattern? Rat-a-tat-tat? Tat-tat-tat-rat? Pa rum pum pum?

Bombast scowled from atop his horse and Kep’s stomach tightened. His speechless drum wasn’t going to fly. These guys didn’t play around with their war games. Hopefully, loud would cover inaccurate. He tried a rock star drumroll, but his drumsticks collided, throwing the whole thing off.

Bombast looked ready to order up a firing squad, but when the soldiers came to a stop, Kep figured it wasn’t a total wash. He swatted his hand through a cloud of mosquitoes and guzzled lukewarm water from his wooden canteen.

Attach bayonets! shouted Bombast.

Kep looked around in surprise as men locked two-foot bayonets onto their musket barrels. Details of their first mock battle had been even sketchier than the contest details. Basically, Kep and Max got a two-minute briefing by some private who said it was sort of like capture the flag, a game Kep had played dozens of times. But back home, a two-handed tag ‘froze’ the opponent. Here, men dressed head-to-toe in eighteenth-century army uniforms turned their guns into shooting spears. Granted this place took historical authenticity over the top, but surely ‘tags’ didn’t happen with metal bayonets.

Max, who always carried scissors point down and never failed to wait for the crossing guard at school, clutched his fife.

It’s just pretend, Kep said even as he wondered uneasily if the ‘enemy’ also attached bayonets behind those stockade walls. Besides, they said fife and drum corps were non-combatants so even if this wasn’t a fake battle, we wouldn’t get shot.

Max’s gaze darted around nervously. "Fact. The youngest soldier killed in the Civil War was a thirteen-year-old drummer!"

Fact. You read too many facts. Kep’s more pressing worry was remembering the drum roll commands on the battlefield. Shouldn’t they have sent some experienced corps members along today? You’ll be fine. I seriously doubt they want to turn the fifth-grade national history scholar into a human shish kebab.

Quiet in the ranks! shouted Bombast. At the head of the column, the commander reined his horse and adjusted his white wig so the right row of curls matched the left. Then, looking remarkably like a withered version of the dollar bill Washington, he addressed the troops. Our orders are to take that hill.

Max pointed at window-shaped gaps in the fort walls and whispered, Are those cannons?

Four cannon barrels, like large black eyes, stared down the hill straight at them.

Kep wondered what kind of ammo historically accurate camps used in cannons, but before he could ask anyone, Bombast waved his sword. First unit, move out!

That’s us! Max squeaked.

Kep tried to tap out forward march, but the men surged so fast they pushed him and Max from behind. As they hit the hill, the men spread out wide. Stay low! shouted the grandpa guy, gripping their company’s flag.

Clutching his drum, Kep crouched, feeling silly. His job was to drum out field commands and he needed Bombast for that. But when he stood to look, something whizzed over his head so close it nearly parted his hair.

Get behind me! Kep yanked Max by the arm and they sprinted toward the nearest tree, where he pushed his brother behind the skinny trunk. His palms went cold as gunshots peppered the hillside.

What’re they shooting? Max gasped as a series of loud pops filled the air.

Kep gripped his drumsticks in his clammy hand. Fake bullets?

"They don’t sound fake!"

Fifty feet away, the grandpa-looking flag bearer dropped to the ground. He jerked his arms and legs back and forth, still holding the flag aloft. I’ve been hit! he yelled.

Kep tried to keep his breathing calm. This was all pretend. But the man kept screaming for help. Maybe it was a practice test? Battlefield rescue? Or maybe the old man really did need help. Kep unslung the drum from his shoulder.

You stay! Kep ordered Max. He darted, half-bent, through gunfire. Dodge and go, dodge and go from one tree to another. He’d seen that technique in video war games. The ones Mom called a worthless waste of his time. Hah. Kep nearly made it to the injured man when two stretcher-bearers appeared and loaded the moaning man onto it. At least Kep didn’t spot any blood.

One of the stretcher-bearers snatched the flag and shoved it at Kep. Get it up the hill!

Kep grabbed it as a deafening boom shook the air. Something roared overhead, and men flung themselves flat as smoke twisted skyward. Kep dove to the ground and covered his head with his hands. Another boom shook the air like Fourth of July fireworks, before shifting to a loud whine at the edge of the hill.

The tramp of running feet surrounded him. Kep raised his head to see fellow patriot soldiers stampeding back down the hill. The fort’s enormous gate had burst open.

"Charge!" shouted a voice from the hilltop.

Redcoats with gleaming bayonets flooded out of the gates. The stretcher-bearers leaped to their feet and hauled their patient away at a gallop. Kep scrambled up too, his heart banging around like he’d set a record swimming the fifty freestyle. The forgotten flag lay in the dirt as he searched through the smoke for his brother.

Men, stand fast. The thunder of horse’s hooves approached and General Bombast waved his sword over his head and shouted, Stand fast, I said! Half the fleeing men ignored him. The other half obeyed, crouching, their weapons ready to receive the enemy.

To be Bombast’s voice on the field, Kep needed his drum. More important, he needed to find Max. Even with the smoke, noise, and confusion, it was clear the British had the advantage. They’d stopped their mad dash, but continued their advance and the two sides would be within hand-to-hand combat distance in minutes. What happened then?

Kep worked his way through the American line, dodging and darting toward the tree where he’d left Max. He spotted his brother still huddled behind it with the drum by his feet.

Another cannon ball or maybe a bottle rocket on steroids exploded nearby, filling the air with smoke, stinging Kep’s eyes, nearly blinding him. Something flickered in the corner of his vision: the dim outline of a redcoat storming from the opposite direction. The soldier had broken off from the others and charged, head down, bayonet thrust forward… right at Max!

A reenactor unglued? Gone whacko? Instinct kicked in and Kep raced after the man as fast as his legs could pump.

He tried to scream a warning, but another cannonball exploded and drowned him out.

Max shrank closer to the tree, clinging to its trunk.

Coming in at a diagonal, Kep put on an extra spurt of speed. No lineman ever went after a quarterback with more determination. The redcoat must have sensed him. He swiveled sideways and tried to jump clear, but too late. Kep crash-tackled with everything he had. The collision sent both of them sprawling. A sharp pain stabbed his wrist as the end of the man’s bayonet sliced against his skin.

For a second, in a tangled heap of limbs, neither Kep nor the redcoat moved.

Another reenactor raced toward them, blowing a shrill whistle.

Cease fire! Cease fire! he shouted. We’ve got an injury.

Breathing hard as he got to his feet, Kep felt dazed. Max stared at him wide-eyed as silence dropped over the hillside. No more shots, no more cannon fire. Soldiers on both sides stopped running. The ‘injured’ grandpa guy popped off his stretcher and trotted over. What’s up?

The blond redcoat Kep had just tackled sprang to his feet. You could’ve given me a concussion! What were you thinking?

Explaining to the curious gathering crowd that he’d been thinking the tall, blond redcoat was going to gut Max like a fish sounded melodramatic if not paranoid, so Kep mumbled, No one told us what to do in battle. The bullets and stuff seemed real.

Several soldiers laughed. Don’t give Bombast ideas.

The blond redcoat shook his head. Soldiers follow orders. Especially on a battlefield. As to the bullets, they’re made of a special foam. A bruise, maybe. But no dead reenactors. He looked at Kep’s wrist. You’d better get that bandaged.

By gad, who stopped my battle, Sergeant Turner? Bombast had ridden over, his lips in a tight line, his right hand gripping the flag Kep had left behind.

The blond redcoat, apparently Turner, responded. Our trainee got a bit gung ho. Came after me like hellfire. He’ll need to see Mule at the medic tent.

Bombast scowled at Kep. "By Jove, Private Westguard, carrying this flag is an honor! Drop it in the dirt again and you’re out of my fort. Permanently. Understand?"

First mock battle. Epic fail. Kep didn’t care that Bombast was in full rant mode about a piece of cloth getting dirty, even one with thirteen stars. What he did care about were his goals. And if he got kicked out of camp before the competition, or more specifically, before he won the cash prize, it would be the end of his swimming future, the end of his dreams. So ignoring his bleeding hand, itchy mosquito bites, and a fast-growing loathing of American history, he visualized the $2000 cash prize and nodded. Yes.

Yes, what?

Yes, sir.

Twenty minutes later, after telling Max they’d meet back at their barracks, Kep sat on a cot in a sweltering ‘hospital’ tent. He had to be the laughing stock of the camp. But what did they expect? They throw him and Max into a battle with zero preparation, shooting bullets and blasting cannons. Okay, so the bullets were foam—maybe someone could have said something before. Eleven more days. He only needed to survive this lunatic camp eleven more days.

Ain’t seen many wounds with real blood. Mule—who introduced himself as the camp medic despite looking too young to have a medical degree—lifted his hat, shoved back a handful of curly brown hair, and spit a stream of tobacco sludge into a spittoon. We’ll try three for starters. He reached for a metal bait bucket sitting on the dirt floor.

Three what? Kep scooted back, wondering what kind of medical treatment needed air holes.

Say mornin’ to your phlebotomist. Mule dangled an inch-long squirming blob in front of Kep’s face.

A leech! Are you freaking kidding? Kep scooched farther back. Just use disinfectant.

Mule shook his head. Ain’t authentic. These little fellows will clean up that wound just fine.

Kep already had a sour taste in his mouth from the battle and now he had to fight for first aid? "I just got carved by a bayonet. I want twenty-first century medical treatment."

That bitty scratch? When we get to bone saws and amputations, we can talk. Mule grabbed Kep’s forearm before he could react and dropped the leech on top of his wound. The creature latched on its two suckers. It felt like a mosquito bite and Kep watched horrified as the brown body squirmed and swelled.

Mule held Kep’s arm in a vice grip and dropped on another leech. Soon, three hungry creatures sipped away at his wound like buddies sharing a root beer float.

Kep gagged and his soggy oatmeal breakfast rose in his throat. I’m gonna barf.

Yer one of Washington’s soldiers now. Toughen up.

Kep took a deep breath and decided to try another tactic. I should call home and tell my parents about this.

You know the rules. Mule prodded the leeches with a dirty fingernail. Nothing that ain’t authentic in a Revolutionary War fort. Unless it’s an emergency, which this clearly ain’t, no phones, emails, texts or them tweeting doohickies.

Which leaves what? Smoke signals? Electronics bans were the norm at most summer camps. Getting around them, another norm. One kid from school bragged he’d turned over a dead phone to his counselor as a decoy, keeping his working phone stashed in a sleeping bag. But here in the boondocks, without cell coverage, even a contraband phone would be useless. A landline, that’s what he needed.

Washington’s soldiers weren’t glued to screens with earbuds stuck in their heads. Mule spat again, this time barely making the spittoon. Quit complaining. Weren’t no gun to yer head to come here.

Kep didn’t respond. When the invitation had arrived months ago for the Westguard brothers to Relive the American Revolution as Washington’s soldiers: An action-packed two weeks of military drills and battle reenactments, Kep had given his No way! response before Dad had finished reading.

Dad and Mom pushed for him to go. The camp was free! A full scholarship! Something about Max having won the national history award. For some reason, the scholarship included Kep, who had barely managed a C in history. Kep figured the camp wanted him to come as a glorified babysitter since Max was only nine. Even Grandpa Westguard, a Navy veteran who raised his American flag each morning and had bumper stickers like Freedom Doesn’t Come Free and If You Love Your Freedom, Thank A Vet plastered on his car, called to urge his grandsons to go.

And while Max had been eager to go ‘live history’, Kep stuck with his Not a chance! answer until they’d been robbed and this crazy camp’s two thousand dollar prize, awarded to each member on the winning team, became his last hope.

Mule used his fingernail to flick the fattest leech from Kep’s wrist. What’s so dang urgent you gotta call yer folks?

Besides bloody battle wounds? Kep could hardly tell Mule the real reason: he needed to find out if the police had tracked down his stolen money. If so, he no longer needed the cash prize and could hop on the first bus, train, or stagecoach back to the twenty-first century. He scratched at his bug-bitten neck with his free hand. Don’t suppose you’ve got Benadryl?

Just heat up a spoon an’ press it where it itches.

Kep forced back an eye roll and waved his arm, causing the remaining leeches to wiggle like fat hula dancers. Can you get these things off so I can go?

Yer dad being a history professor, woulda thought you’d be respectful of historic accuracy. Mule pulled off the remaining leeches and started wrapping a cotton bandage around Kep’s wrist.

My dad’s a physics professor, not history. At least he had been until he’d gotten fired. He teaches theoretical time travel—not much help here.

Time travel? Mule stopped wrapping. If that don’t beat all! A week back, one of the reenactors got bedbugs in his cabin. He bunked with me, Ramsey’s his name. Turns out he chatters like a magpie in his sleep mostly about some secret time-travel army. Just like yer dad. Ain’t that a coincidence!

"Dad teaches theoretical time travel. He doesn’t think it’s real."

Mule got quiet and continued wrapping the bandage.

Kep hadn’t meant to come off as a smart aleck so he added, Did er, Ramsey say what this secret army is for?

Asked him when he woke up and he got so jo-fired excited you’d think I was some Nosey Parker askin’ his bank account numbers. Told me not to say anything then makes tracks back to his own bunkhouse, bedbugs and all. Mule tied off the bandage. "Probably worried he’d get his pay docked. You ain’t allowed to even talk about stuff that ain’t authentic eighteenth century. Mule’s gaze roved the tent like there were hidden microphones. Best keep the whole thing under yer hat."

Kep understood why there were only four kids at camp. To put up with this loony bin, you either had to love history like Max, or be really, really desperate for that cash prize, like him. He wondered why their other two teammates, T.J. and Tela, who were his age, stuck it out. Most thirteen-year-olds had better things to do than hang at an eighteenth-century fort. What’s the final competition going to be like? We compete against another team of kids, right? Or is it a tournament with multiple teams? And do we reenact some battle or compete to see which team can do stuff the most ‘historically accurately?’ And is the other team, or teams, preparing at another fort?

Mule spit an especially long stream into the bucket. Not sure as to the details. Commander Bombast’s a big shot with the RWRA, Revolutionary War Reenactors of America. The big boss here hired him to run this fort exactly like the old days. Then hired us reenactors to train you kids like we was training you for the real thing.

What does ‘for the real thing’ mean?

Don’t rightly know. Mule scratched his ear, exposing a giant sweat stain on the armpit of his dingy shirt. But the pay’s good.

So much for finding out anything helpful. If Bombast gets his way, you’ll only be training three kids. He wants to kick me out. Kep could not let that happen. No matter what.

He’s just squawking. Querishi makes the calls around here.

Querishi? The woman? Kep had seen a tall, thin woman with dark hair walking to and from a small building near the commissary. Did women run forts in the Revolutionary War?

Ain’t technically authentic, her office and phone and all, but behind the scenes, she’s the biggest toad in this puddle. And the prettiest. Mule grinned. Signs our paychecks with the curliest little letters. Her boss, the really big boss, is another lady named Annie. She founded the place and hired Bombast to run the day-to-day operations. Most likely gets under his skin, answering to two ladies, him being so attached to keeping things authentic. But the real world ain’t like the old world.

One word stuck out to Kep. Phone. Before Kep could respond, one of his team members, T.J., poked his head inside the tent.

You gotta see this. T.J. waved a flyer with a stick-figure girl shooting bullets into a laundry barrel. Tela’s challenging the reenactors to a showdown. Says she’s sick of doing ‘girl’ duties. His gaze fell on the bandage. What happened to you?

Nothing. Kep rolled down his sleeve, a new plan forming. Let’s check out this showdown.

Chapter Two

When Kep and T.J. exited the tent, Kep squinted against the glaring mid-afternoon sun toward a phone wire that stretched to Querishi’s office. New plan. No more requesting to call home. If the cops had found his money, it was goodbye Fort Liberty.

Man, it’s hot in this thing! T.J. pulled at the collar of his 1st Rhode Island Regimental coat, part of a reproduction uniform he’d brought with from home. The first day of camp, he’d confided to Kep that he hadn’t been too sure what a ‘totally authentic eighteenth-century boot camp’ meant for a black kid and wanted to make sure he got a role as soldier.

So, are you a big history fan, like Max? Max had said something about T.J.’s mom being a lawyer and his dad a judge, so Kep doubted T.J. was here for the cash prize.

Not like Max, but pretty much every month is black history month at my house. My mom puts up all these posters along the hallways, on the refrigerator, even in the bathroom. The Revolutionary War stuff I don’t know as much about—I mean I know Washington, Crispus Attucks, that guy, Peter Salem, the hero of Bunker Hill. Basic stuff. He wiped sweat from the back of his neck. I just keep reminding myself this’ll all be worth it when we get that show. Fingers crossed it’s on a major network, not some cable station.

So that’s why T.J. stuck it out. Kep had forgotten about the show. The invitation had mentioned not only the cash prize, but a possible television reality show. You want to be an actor?

The camera loves me. I love the camera. T.J. tilted his head. Blast shampoo—the good-looking kid sudsing his hair—familiar?

Must have missed it. Kep hoped his plan to head home early, assuming the police had found his cash, didn’t mess up the show for T.J. Probably it would mean more screen time for his teammate. Not a problem, he suspected.

Might want to try some Blast. Just saying. T.J. glanced to Kep’s head. Your hair’s sort of… green.

It’s chlorine. Normally, I’m doing laps three hours a day. He’d bump that up to five when he got home and make up for lost time.

Max says you’re thinking Olympics. Cereal box covers and all that. Tell you what. I’ll get you some free Blast samples. My contribution to the country. You can’t represent the stars and stripes with that haystack on your head. Wrapped up any corporate endorsements yet? Got a fan club started?

Groups of soldiers drifted toward the shooting range. The showdown must be big entertainment and with all eyes on the field, what better time to get into Querishi’s office to make that call? Umm, no. No fan club.

You can join mine. I’ll even waive the membership fee. Once our show hits the airwaves, the price will skyrocket.

Let me get back to you. Kep was about to excuse himself when T.J. pointed to a second flyer nailed to a tree:

UNCLE SAM NEEDS ME – TELA STORM- SHOWDOWN 1 p.m. RIFLE RANGE

Wonder why Animal Rights Girl is here, T.J. said. You know who her dad is?

Should I? Kep looked toward Querishi’s office. The place looked empty. No movement in the window by the door.

"Senator Storm is the richest senator in the country. He coulda bought the place if Tela wanted to play dress up."

Guess she’s not here for the cash prize. Must be nice. That sounded bad. Kep loved his parents, but rich they weren’t. Not even close. Maybe she’s here for the educational angle.

"Doubt it. She goes to a private prep school—speaks like three or four languages. I wonder why she is here."

Because Tela had been given ‘girl duties,’ Kep usually only saw her at meals. And eating with her could be called complicated. At their first breakfast, the smell of frying bacon had filled the air and Kep headed to the chow line, his stomach rumbling. But a girl with red, curly hair and a fancy yellow dress that billowed out nearly two feet on either side blocked the line while holding a sign over her head. PIGS ARE SMARTER THAN DOGS! WOULD YOU EAT YOUR