"I don't mind it."

So they talked, in half whispers, always scanning the woods about them, until after some time their vigil was rewarded by the sight of three gray-coated, helmeted figures coming up the bank of the stream. They made no pretence of concealment, evidently believing themselves to be safe here in the forest. Roscoe had hauled the body of the dead German under the thick brush so that it might not furnish a warning to other visitors, and now he brought his rifle into position and touching his finger to his lips by way of caution he fixed his steady eye on the approaching trio.

One of these was a tremendous man and, from his uniform and arrogant bearing, evidently an officer. The other two were plain, ordinary "Fritzies." Tom believed that they had come to this spot by some circuitous route, bent upon the act which their comrade and the mechanism had failed to accomplish. He watched them in suspense, glancing occasionally at Roscoe.

The German officer evidently knew the ground for he went straight to the bush where the hogshead stood concealed, and beckoned to his two underlings. Tom, not daring to stir, looked expectantly at Roscoe, whose rifle was aimed and resting across a convenient branch before him. The sniper's intent profile was a study. Tom wondered why he did not fire. He saw one of the Boches approach the officer, who evidently would not deign to stoop, and kneel at the foot of the bush. Then the crisp, echoing report of Roscoe's rifle rang out, and on the instant the officer and the remaining soldier disappeared behind the leaf-covered hogshead. Tom was aware of the one German lying beside the bush, stark and motionless, and of Roscoe jerking his head and screwing up his mouth in a sort of spontaneous vexation. Then he looked suddenly at Tom and winked unmirthfully with a kind of worried annoyance.

"Think they can hit us from there? Think they know where we are?" Tom asked in the faintest whisper.

"'Tisn't that," Roscoe whispered back. "Look at that flat stone under the bush there. Shh! I couldn't get him in the right light before. Shh!"

Narrowing his eyes, Tom scanned the earth at the foot of the bush and was just able to discern a little band of black upon a gray stone there. It was evidently a wet spot on the dusty stone and for a second he thought it was blood; then the staggering truth dawned upon him that in shooting the Hun in the very act of letting loose the murderous liquid Roscoe had shot a hole in the hogshead and the potent poison was flowing out rapidly and down into the stream.

And just in that moment there flashed into Tom's mind the picture of that weary, perspiring boy in khaki down in captured Cantigny, who had mopped his forehead, saying, "A drink of water would go good now."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TOM USES HIS FIRST BULLET

It had been a pet saying of Tom's scoutmaster back in America that you should wait long enough to make up your mind and not one second longer.

Tom knew that the pressure of liquid above that fatal bullet hole near the bottom of the hogshead was great enough to send the poison fairly pouring out. He could not see this death-dealing stream, for it was hidden in the bush, but he knew that it would continue to pour forth until several of these great receptacles had been emptied and the running brook with its refreshing coolness had become an instrument of frightful death.

Safe behind the protecting bulk of the hogshead crouched the two surviving Germans, while Roscoe, covering the spot, kept his eyes riveted upon it for the first rash move of either of the pair. And meanwhile the poison poured out of the very bulwark that shielded them and into the swift-running stream.

"I don't think they've got us spotted," Tom whispered, moving cautiously toward the trunk of the tree; "the private had a rifle, didn't he?"

"What are you going to do?" Roscoe breathed.

"Stop up that hole. Give me a bullet, will you?"

"You're taking a big chance, Tom."

"I ain't thinking about that. Give me a bullet. All you got to do is keep those two covered."

With a silent dexterity which seemed singularly out of keeping with his rather heavy build, Tom shinnied down the side of the tree farthest from the brook, and lying almost prone upon the ground began wriggling his way through the sparse brush, quickening his progress now and again whenever the diverting roar of distant artillery or the closer report of rifles and machine guns enabled him to advance with less caution.

In a few minutes he reached the stream, apparently undiscovered, when suddenly he was startled by another rifle report, close at hand, and he lay flat, breathing in suspense.

It was simply that one of that pair had made the mistake so often made in the trenches of raising his head, and had paid the penalty.

Tom was just cautiously crossing the brook when he became aware of a frantic scramble in the bush and saw the German private rushing pell-mell through the thick undergrowth beyond, hiding himself in it as best he might and apparently trying to keep the bush-enshrouded hogshead between himself and the tree where the sniper was. Evidently he had discovered Roscoe's perch and, there being now no restraining authority, had decided on flight. It had been the officer's battle, not his, and he abandoned it as soon as the officer was shot. It was typical of the German system and of the total lack of individual spirit and resource of the poor wretches who fight for Kaiser Bill's glory.

Reaching the bush, Tom pulled away the leafy covering and saw that the poisonous liquid was pouring out of a clean bullet hole as he had suspected. He hurriedly wrapped a bit of the gauze bandage which he always carried around the bullet Roscoe had given him and forced it into the hole, wedging it tight with a rock. Then he waved his hand in the direction of the tree to let Roscoe know that all was well.

Tom Slade had used his first bullet and it had saved hundreds of lives.

"They're both dead," he said, as Roscoe came quickly through the underbrush in the gathering dusk. "Did the officer put his head up?"

"Mm-mm," said Roscoe, examining the two victims.

"You always kill, don't you?" said Tom.

"I have to, Tommy. You see, I'm all alone, mostly," Roscoe added as he fumbled in the dead officer's clothing. "There are no surgeons or nurses in reach. I don't have stretcher-bearers following me around and it isn't often that even a Hun will surrender, fair and square, to one man. I've seen too much of this 'kamarad' business. I can't afford to take chances, Tommy. But I don't put nicks in my rifle butt like some of them do. I don't want to know how many I beaned after it's all over. We kill to save—that's the idea you want to get into your head, Tommy boy."

"I know it," said Tom.

The officer had no papers of any importance and since it was getting dark and Tom must report at headquarters, they discussed the possibility of upsetting these murderous hogsheads, and putting an end to the danger. Evidently the woods were not yet wholly cleared of the enemy who might still seek to make use of these agents of destruction.

"There may be stragglers in the woods even to-morrow," Roscoe said.

"S'pose we dig a little trench running away from the brook and then turn on the cock and let the stuff flow off?" suggested Tom.

The idea seemed a good one and they fell to, hewing out a ditch with a couple of sticks. It was a very crude piece of engineering, as Roscoe observed, and they were embarrassed in their work by the gathering darkness, but at length they succeeded, by dint of jabbing and plowing and lifting the earth out in handfuls, in excavating a little gully through the rising bank so that the liquid would flow off and down the rocky decline beyond at a safe distance from the stream.

For upwards of an hour they remained close by, until the hogsheads had run dry, and then they set out through the woods for the captured village.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE GUN PIT

"I think the best way to get into the village," said Roscoe, "is to follow the edge of the wood around. That'll bring us to the by-path that runs into the main road. They've got the woods pretty well cleared out over that way. There's a road a little north of here and I think the Germans have withdrawn across that. What do you say?"

"You know more about it than I do," said Tom. "I followed the brook up. It's pretty bad in some places."

"There's only two of us," said Roscoe, "and you've no rifle. Safety first."

"I suppose there's a lot of places they could hide along the brook; the brush is pretty thick all the way up," Tom added.

Roscoe whistled softly in indecision. "I like the open better," said he.

"I guess so," Tom agreed, "when there's only two of us."

"There's three of us, though," said Roscoe, "and Tommy here likes the open better. I'd toss up a coin only with these blamed French coins you can't tell which is heads and which is tails."

Roscoe was right about the Germans having withdrawn beyond the road north of the woods. Whether he was right about its being safer to go around the edge of the forest remained to be determined.

This wood, in which they had passed the day, extended north of the village (see map) and thinned out upon the eastern side so that one following the eastern edge would emerge from the wood a little east of the main settlement. Here was the by-path which Roscoe had mentioned, and which led down into the main road.

Running east and west across the northern extremity of the woods was a road, and the Germans, driven first from their trenches, then out of the village, and then out of the woods, were establishing their lines north of this road.

If the boys had followed the brook down they would have reached the village by a much shorter course, but Roscoe preferred the open country where they could keep a better lookout. Whether his decision was a wise one, we shall see.



Leaving the scene of their "complete annihilation of the crack poison division," as Roscoe said, they followed the ragged edge of the woods where it thinned out to the north, verging around with it until they were headed in a southerly direction.

"There's a house on that path," said Roscoe, "and we ought to be able to see a light there pretty soon."

"There's a little piece of woods ahead of us," said Tom; "when we get past that we'll see it, I guess. We'll cut through there, hey?"

"Wait a minute," said Roscoe, pausing and peering about in the half darkness. "I'm all twisted. There's the house now."

He pointed to a dim light in the opposite direction to that which they had taken.

"That's north," said Tom in his usual dull manner.

"You're mistaken, my boy. What makes you think it's north?"

"I didn't say I thought so," said Tom. "I said it is."

Roscoe laughed. "Same old Tom," he said. "But how do you know it's north?"

"You remember that mountain up in the Catskills?" Tom said. "The first time I ever went to the top of that mountain was in the middle of the night. I never make that kind of mistakes. I know because I just know."

Roscoe laughed again and looked rather dubiously at the light in the distance. Then he shook his head, unconvinced.

"We've been winding in and out along the edge of this woods," said Tom, "so that you're kind of mixed up, that's all. It's always those little turns that throw people out, just like it's a choppy sea that upsets a boat; it ain't the big waves. I used to get rattled like that myself, but I don't any more."

Roscoe drew his lips tight and shook his head skeptically. "I can't understand about that light," he said.

"I always told you you made a mistake not to be a scout when you were younger," said Tom in that impassive tone which seemed utterly free of the spirit of criticism and which always amused Roscoe, "'cause then you wouldn't bother about the light but you'd look at the stars. Those are sure."

Roscoe looked up at the sky and back at Tom, and perhaps he found a kind of reassurance in that stolid face. "All right, Tommy," said he, "what you say, goes. Come ahead."

"That light is probably on the road the Germans retreated across," said Tom, as they picked their way along. His unerring instinct left him entirely free from the doubts which Roscoe could not altogether dismiss. "I don't say there ain't a light on the path you're talking about, but if we followed this one we'd probably get captured. I was seven months in a German prison. I don't know how you'd like it, but I didn't."

Roscoe laughed silently at Tom's dry way of putting it. "All right, Tommy, boy," he said. "Have it your own way."

"You ought to be satisfied the way you can shoot," said Tom, by way of reconciling Roscoe to his leadership.

"All right, Tommy. Maybe you've got the bump of locality. When we get past that little arm of the woods just ahead we ought to see the right light then, huh?"

"Spur is the right name for it, not arm," said Tom. "You might as well say it right."

"The pleasure is mine," laughed Roscoe; "Tommy, you're as good as a circus."

They made their way in a southeasterly direction, following the edge of the woods, with the open country to the north and east of them. Presently they reached the "spur," as Tom called it, which seemed to consist of a little "cape" of woods, as one might say, sticking out eastward. They could shorten their path a trifle by cutting through here, and this they did, Roscoe (notwithstanding Tom's stolid self-confidence) watching anxiously for the light which this spur had probably concealed, and which would assure them that they were heading southward toward the path which led into Cantigny village.

Once, twice, in their passage through this little clump of woods Tom paused, examining the trees and ground, picking up small branches and looking at their ends, and throwing them away again.

"Funny how those branches got broken off," he said.

Roscoe answered with a touch of annoyance, the first he had shown since their meeting in the woods.

"I'm not worrying about those twigs," he said; "I don't see that light and I think we're headed wrong."

"They're not twigs," said Tom literally; "they're branches, and they're broken off."

"Any fool could tell the reason for that," said Roscoe, rather scornfully. "It's the artillery fire."

Tom said nothing, but he did not accept Roscoe's theory. He believed that some one had been through here before them and that the branches had been broken off by human hands; and but for the fact that Roscoe had let him have his own way in the matter of direction he would have suggested that they make a detour around this woody spur. However, he contented himself by saying in his impassive way, "I know when branches are broken off."

"Well, what are we going to do now?" Roscoe demanded, stopping short and speaking with undisguised impatience. "You can see far beyond those trees now and you can see there's no light. They'll have us nailed upon a couple of crosses to-morrow. I don't intend to be tortured on account of the Boy Scouts of America."

He used the name as being synonymous with bungling and silly notions and star-gazing, and it hit Tom in a dangerous spot. He answered with a kind of proud independence which he seldom showed.

"I didn't say there'd be a light. Just because there's a house it doesn't mean there's got to be a light. I said the light we saw was in the north, and it's got nothing to do with the Boy Scouts. You wouldn't let me point your rifle for you, would you? They sent me to this sector 'cause I don't get lost and I don't get rattled. You said that about the Scouts just because you're mad. I'm not hunting for any light. I'm going back to Cantigny and I know where I'm at. You can come if you want to or you can go and get caught by the Germans if you want to. I went a hundred miles through Germany and they didn't catch me—'cause I always know where I'm at."

He went on for a few steps, Roscoe, after the first shock of surprise, following silently behind him. He saw Tom stumble, struggle to regain his balance, heard a crunching sound, and then, to his consternation, saw him sink down and disappear before his very eyes.

In the same instant he was aware of a figure which was not Tom's scrambling up out of the dark, leaf-covered hollow and of the muzzle of a rifle pointed straight at him.

Evidently Tom Slade had not known "where he was at" at all.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PRISONERS

Apparently some of the enemy had not yet withdrawn to the north, for in less than five seconds Roscoe was surrounded by a group of German soldiers, among whom towered a huge officer with an eye so fierce and piercing that it was apparent even in the half darkness. He sported a moustache more aggressively terrible than that of Kaiser Bill himself and his demeanor was such as to make that of a roaring lion seem like a docile lamb by comparison. An Iron Cross depended from a heavy chain about his bull neck and his portly breast was so covered with the junk of rank and commemoration that it seemed like one of those boards from which street hawkers sell badges at a public celebration.

Poor Tom, who had been hauled out of the hole, stood dogged and sullen in the clutch of a Boche soldier, and Roscoe, even in his surprise at this singular turn of affairs, bestowed a look of withering scorn upon him.

"I knew those branches were broken off," Tom muttered, as if in answer. "They're using them for camouflage. It's got nothing to do with the other thing about which way we were going."

But Roscoe only looked at him with a sneer.

Wherever the wrong and right lay as to their direction, they had run plunk into a machine-gun nest and Roscoe Bent, with all his diabolical skill of aim, could not afford his fine indulgence of sneering, for as an active combatant, which Tom was not, he should have known that these nests were more likely to be found at the wood's edge than anywhere else, where they could command the open country. The little spur of woods afforded, indeed, an ideal spot for secreting a machine gun, whence a clear range might be had both north and south.

If Tom had not been a little afraid of Roscoe he would have acted on the good scout warning of the broken branches and made a detour in time to escape this dreadful plight. And the vain regret that he had not done so rankled in his breast now. The pit was completely surrounded and almost covered with branches, so that no part of the guns and their tripods which rose out of it was discoverable, at least to Roscoe.

"Vell, you go home, huh?" the officer demanded, with a grim touch of humor.

Roscoe was about to answer, but Tom took the words out of his mouth.

"We got lost and we got rattled," he said, with a frank confession which surprised Roscoe; "we thought we were headed south."

The sniper bestowed another angrily contemptuous look upon him, but Tom appeared not to notice it.

"Vell, we rattle you some more—vat?" the officer said, without very much meaning. His voice was enough to rattle any captive, but Tom was not easily disconcerted, and instead of cowering under this martial ferocity and the scorning looks of his friend, he glanced about him in his frowning, lowering way as if the surroundings interested him more than his captors. But he said nothing.

"You English—no?" the officer demanded.

"We're Americans," said Roscoe, regaining his self-possession.

"Ach! Diss iss good for you. If you are English, ve kill you! You have kamerads—vere?"

"There's only the two of us," said Roscoe. Tom seemed willing enough to let his companion do the talking, and indeed Roscoe, now that he had recovered his poise, seemed altogether the fitter of the two to be the spokesman. "We got rattled, as this kid says." "If we'd followed that light we wouldn't have happened in on you. We hope we don't intrude," he added sarcastically.

The officer glanced at the tiny light in the distance, then at one of the soldiers, then at another, then poured forth a gutteral torrent at them all. Then he peered suspiciously into the darkness.

"For treachery, ve kill," he said.

"I told you there are only two of us," said Roscoe simply.

"Ach, two! Two millions, you mean! Vat? Ach!" he added, with a deprecating wave of his hands. "Vy not billions, huh?"

Roscoe gathered that he was sneering skeptically about the number of Americans reported to be in France.

"Ve know just how many," the officer added; "vell, vat you got, huh?"

At this two of the Boches proceeded to search the captives, neither of whom had anything of value or importance about them, and handed the booty to the officer.

"Vat is diss, huh?" he said, looking at a small object in his hand.

Tom's answer nearly knocked Roscoe off his feet.

"It's a compass," said he.

So Tom had had a compass with him all the time they had been discussing which was the right direction to take! Why he had not brought it out to prove the accuracy of his own contention Roscoe could not comprehend.

"A compass, huh. Vy you not use it?"

"Because I was sure I was right," said Tom.

"Always sure you are right, you Yankees! Vat?"

"Nothing," said Tom.

The officer examined the trifling haul as well as he could in the darkness, then began talking in German to one of his men. And meanwhile Tom watched him in evident suspense, and Roscoe, unmollified, cast at Tom a look of sneering disgust for his bungling error—a look which seemed to include the whole brotherhood of scouts.

Finally the officer turned upon Roscoe with his characteristic martial ferocity.

"How long you in France?" he demanded.

"Oh, about a year or so."

"Vat ship you come on?"

"I don't know the name of it."

"You come to Havre, vat?"

"I didn't notice the port."

"Huh! You are not so—vide-avake, huh?"

"Absent-minded, yes," said Roscoe.

The officer paused, glaring at Roscoe, and Tom could not help envying his friend's easy and self-possessed air.

"You know the Texas Pioneer?" the officer shot out in that short, imperious tone of demand which is the only way in which a German knows how to ask a question.

"Never met him," said Roscoe.

"A ship!" thundered the officer.

"Oh, a ship. No, I've never been introduced."

"She come to Havre—vat?"

"That'll be nice," said Roscoe.

"You never hear of dis ship, huh?"

"No, there are so many, you know."

"To bring billions, yes!" the officer said ironically.

"That's the idea."

Pause.

"You hear about more doctors coming—no? Soon?"

"Sorry I can't oblige you," said Roscoe.

The officer paused a moment, glaring at him and Tom felt very unimportant and insignificant.

"Vell, anyway, you haf good muscle, huh?" the officer finally observed; then, turning to his subordinates, he held forth in German until it appeared to Tom that he and Roscoe were to carry the machine gun to the enemy line.

To Tom, under whose sullen, lowering manner, was a keenness of observation sometimes almost uncanny, it seemed that these men were not the regular crew which had been stationed here, but had themselves somehow chanced upon the deserted nest in the course of their withdrawal from the village.

For one thing, it seemed to him that this imperious officer was a personage of high rank, who would not ordinarily have been stationed in one of these machine gun pits. And for another thing, there was something (he could not tell exactly what) about the general demeanor of their captors, their way of removing the gun and their apparent unfamiliarity with the spot, which made him think that they had stumbled into it in the course of their wanderings just as he and Roscoe had done. They talked in German and he could not understand them, but he noticed particularly; that the two who went into the pit to gather the more valuable portion of the paraphernalia appeared not to be familiar with the place, and he thought that the officer inquired of them whether there were two or more guns.

When he lifted his share of the burden, Roscoe noticed how he watched the officer with a kind of apprehension, almost terror, in his furtive glance, and kept his eyes upon him as they started away in the darkness.

Roscoe was in a mood to think ill of Tom, whom he considered the bungling, stubborn author of their predicament. It pleased him now to believe that Tom was afraid and losing his nerve. He remembered that he had said they would be crucified as a result of Tom's pin-headed error. And he was rather glad to believe that Tom was thinking of that now.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SHADES OF ARCHIBALD ARCHER

After a minute the officer paused and consulted with one of his men; then another was summoned to the confab, the three of them reminding Tom of a newspaper picture he had seen of the Kaiser standing in a field with two officers and gazing fiercely at a map.

One of the soldiers waved a hand toward the distance, while Tom watched sharply. And Roscoe, who accepted their predicament with a kind of reckless bravado, sneered slightly at Tom's evident apprehension.

Then the officer produced something, holding it in his hand while the others peered over his shoulder. And Tom watched them with lowering brows, breathing hurriedly. No one knew it, but in that little pause Tom Slade lived a whole life of nervous suspense. It was not, however, the nervousness and suspense which his friend thought.

Then, as if unable to control his impulse, he moved slightly as though to start in the direction which he and Roscoe had been following. It was only a slight movement, made in obedience to an overwhelming desire, and as if he would incline his captors' thoughts in that direction. Roscoe, who held his burden jointly with Tom, felt this impatient impulse communicated to him and he took it as a confession from Tom that he had made the fatal error of mistaking their way before. And he moved a trifle, too, in the direction where he knew the German lines had been established, muttering scornfully at Tom, "You know where you're headed for now, all right. It's what I said right along."

"I admit I know," said Tom dully.

No doubt it was the compass which was the main agent in deciding the officer as to their route, but he and his men moved, even as Tom did, as if to make an end of needless parleying.

As they tramped along, following the edge of the wood, a tiny light appeared ahead of them, far in the distance, like a volunteer beacon, and Roscoe, turning, a trifle puzzled, tried to discover the other light, which had now diminished to a mere speck. Now and again the officer paused and glanced at that trifling prize of war, Tom's little glassless, tin-encased compass. But Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead, looked up from time to time at the quiet, trustful stars.

So they made their way along, following a fairly straight course, and verging away from the wood's edge, heading toward the distant light. Two of the Germans went ahead with fixed bayonets, scouring the underbrush, and the others escorted Tom and Roscoe, who carried all of the burden.

The officer strode midway between the advance guard and the escorting party, pausing now and again as if to make sure of his ground and occasionally consulting the compass. Once he looked up at the sky and then Tom fairly trembled. He might have saved himself this worry, however, for Herr Officer recognized no friends nor allies in that peaceful, gold-studded heaven.

"It was an unlucky day for me I ran into you over here," Roscoe muttered, yielding to his very worst mood.

Tom said nothing.

"We won't even have the satisfaction of dying in action now."

No answer.

"After almost a year of watching my step I come to this just because I took your word. Believe me, I deserve to hang. I don't even get on the casualty list, on account of you. You see what we're both up against now, through that bump of locality you're so proud of. Edwards' Grove[1] is where you belong. I'm not blaming you, though—I'm blaming myself for listening to a dispatch kid!"

The Germans, not understanding, paid no attention, and Roscoe went on, reminding Tom of the old, flippant, cheaply cynical Roscoe, who had stolen his employer's time to smoke cigarettes in the Temple Camp office, trying to arouse the stenographer's mirth by ridiculing the Boy Scouts.

"I'm not thinking about what you're saying," he said bluntly, after a few minutes. "I'm remembering how you saved my life and named your gun after me."

"Hey, Fritzie, have they got any Boy Scouts in Germany?" Roscoe asked, ignoring Tom, but speaking apparently at him. The nearest Boche gave a glowering look at the word Fritzie, but otherwise paid no attention.

"We were on our way to German headquarters, anyway," Roscoe added, addressing himself indifferently to the soldiers, "but we're glad of your company. The more, the merrier. Young Daniel Boone here was leading the way."

The Germans, of course, did not understand, but Tom felt ashamed of his companion's cynical bravado. The insults to himself he did not mind. His thoughts were fixed on something else.

On they went, into a marshy area where Tom looked more apprehensively at the officer than before, as if he feared the character of the ground might arouse the suspicion of his captors. But they passed through here without pause or question and soon were near enough to the flickering light to see that it burned in a house.

Again Roscoe looked perplexedly behind him, but the light there was not visible at all now. Again the officer stopped and, as Tom watched him fearfully, he glanced about and then looked again at the compass.

For one brief moment the huge figure stood there, outlined in the darkness as if doubting. And Tom, looking impassive and dogged, held his breath in an agony of suspense.

It was nothing and they moved on again, Roscoe, in complete repudiation of his better self, indulging his sullen anger and making Tom and the Scouts (as if they had anything to do with it) the victims of his cutting shafts.

And still again the big, medal-bespangled officer paused to look at the compass, glanced, suspiciously, Tom thought, at the faint shadow of a road ahead of them, and moved on, his medals clanging and chinking in unison with his martial stride.

And Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead, glanced up from time to time at the quiet, trustful stars.

If he thought of any human being then, it was not of Roscoe Bent (not this Roscoe Bent, in any event), but of a certain young friend far away, he did not know where. And he thanked Archibald Archer, vandal though he was, for, one idle, foolish thing that he had done.

[1] The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom and the Scouts had hiked and camped.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BIG COUP

No one knew, no one ever would know, of the anxiety and suspense which Tom Slade experienced in that fateful march through the country above Cantigny. Every uncertain pause of that huge officer, and every half inquiring turn of his head sent a shock of chill misgiving through poor Tom and he trudged along under the weight of his burden, hearing the flippant and bitter jibes of Roscoe as if in a trance.

At last, having crossed a large field, they fell into a well-worn path, and here Tom experienced his moment of keenest anxiety, for the officer paused as if in momentary recognition of the spot. For a second he seemed a bit perplexed, then strode on. Still again he paused within a few yards of the little house where the light had appeared.

But it was too late. About this house a dozen or more figures moved in the darkness. Their style of dress was not distinguishable, but Tom Slade called aloud to them, "Here's some prisoners we brought you back."

In an instant they were surrounded by Americans and Tom thought that his native tongue had never sounded so good before.

"Hello, Snipy," some one said.

But Roscoe Bent was too astonished to answer. In a kind of trance he saw the big Prussian officer start back, heard him utter some terrific German expletive, beheld the others of the party herded together, and was aware of the young American captain giving orders. In a daze he looked at Tom's stolid face, then at the Prussian officer, who seemed too stunned to say anything after his first startled outburst. He saw two boys in khaki approaching with lanterns and in the dim light of these he could distinguish a dozen or so khaki-clad figures perched along a fence.

"Where are we at, anyway?" he finally managed to ask.

"Just inside the village," one of the Americans answered.

"What village?"

"Coney Island on the subway," one of the boys on the fence called.

"Cantigny," some one nearer to him said. "You made a good haul."

"Well—I'll—be——" Roscoe began.

Tom Slade said nothing. Like a trusty pilot leaving his ship he strolled over and vaulted up on the fence beside the boys who, having taken the village, were now making themselves comfortable in it. His first question showed his thoughtfulness.

"Is the brook water all right?"

"Sure. Thirsty?"

"No, I only wanted to make sure it was all right. There were some big hogsheads of poison up in the woods where the brook starts and the other feller killed three Germans who tried to empty them in the stream. By mistake he shot a hole in one of the hogsheads and I thought maybe some of the stuff got into the water. But I guess it didn't."

It was characteristic of Tom that he did not mention his own part in the business.

"I drank about a quart of it around noontime," said a young sergeant, "and I'm here yet."

"It's good and cool," observed another.

"What's the matter with Snipy, anyway?" a private asked, laughing. "Somebody been spinning him around?"

"He just got mixed up, kind of, that's all," Tom said.

That was all.

There was much excitement in and about the little cottage on the edge of the village. Up the narrow path, from headquarters below, came other Americans, officers as Tom could see, who disappeared inside the house. Presently, the German prisoners, all except the big officer, came out, sullen in captivity, poor losers as Germans always are, and marched away toward the centre of the village, under escort.

"They thought they were taking us to the German lines," said Tom simply.

Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his surprise and feeling deeply chagrined, walked over and stood in front of Tom.

"Why didn't you show me that compass, Tom?" he asked.

"Because it was wrong, just like you were," Tom answered frankly, but without any trace of resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd have thought it proved you were right. It was marked, crazy like, by that feller I told you about. I knew all the time we were coming to Cantigny."

There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe, his voice full of feeling, said simply,

"Tom Slade, you're a wonder."

"Hear that, Paul Revere?" one of the soldiers said jokingly. "Praise from the Jersey Snipe means something."

"No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-distrust. "You've saved me from a Hun prison camp and while you were doing it you had to listen to me—Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he broke off.

"I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his expressionless way. "If I'd had my way we'd have made a detour when I saw those broken branches, 'cause I knew it meant people were there, and then we wouldn't have got those fellers as prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more than me."

This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was Tom Slade all over.

"Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom, you're the same old hickory nut. Forgive me, old man, if you can."

"I don't have to," said Tom.

Roscoe stood there staring at him, thrilled with honest admiration and stung by humiliation.

And as the little group, augmented by other soldiers who strolled over to hear of this extraordinary affair first hand, grew into something of a crowd, Tom, alias Thatchy, alias Paul Revere, alias Towhead, sat upon the fence, answering questions and telling of his great coup with a dull unconcern which left them all gaping.

"As soon as I made up my mind they didn't belong there," he said, "I decided they weren't sure of their own way, kind of. If the big man hadn't taken the compass away from me, I'd have given it to him anyway. It had the N changed into an S and the S into an N. I think he kind of thought the other way was right, but when he saw the compass, that settled him. All the time I was looking at the Big Dipper, 'cause I knew nobody ever tampered with that. I noticed he never even looked up, but once, and then I was scared. When we got to the marsh, I was scared, too, 'cause I thought maybe he'd know about the low land being south of the woods. I was scared all the time, as you might say, but mostly when he turned his head and seemed kind of uncertain-like. It ain't so much any credit to me as it is to Archer—the feller that changed the letters. Anyway, I ain't mad, that's sure," he added, evidently intending this for Roscoe. "Everybody gets mistaken sometimes."

"You're one bully old trump, Tom," said Roscoe shamefacedly.

"So now you see how it was," Tom concluded. "I couldn't get rattled as long as I could see the Big Dipper up there in the sky."

For a few moments there was silence, save for the low whistling of one of the soldiers.

"You're all right, kiddo," he broke off to say.

Then one of the others turned suddenly, giving Tom a cordial rap on the shoulder which almost made him lose his balance. "Well, as long as we've got the Big Dipper," said he, "and as long as the water's pure, what d'you say we all go and have a drink—in honor of Paul Revere?"

So it was that presently Tom and Roscoe found themselves sitting alone upon the fence in the darkness. Neither spoke. In the distance they could hear the muffled boom of some isolated field-piece, belching forth its challenge in the night. High overhead there was a whirring, buzzing sound as a shadow glided through the sky where the stars shone peacefully. A company of boys in khaki, carrying intrenching implements, passed by, greeting them cheerily as they trudged back from doing their turn in digging the new trench line which would embrace Cantigny.

Cantigny!

"I'm glad we took the town, that's one sure thing," Tom said.

"It's the first good whack we've given them," agreed Roscoe.

Again there was silence. In the little house across the road a light burned. Little did Tom Slade know what was going on there, and what it would mean to him. And still the American boys guarding this approach down into the town, moved to and fro, to and fro, in the darkness.

"Tom," said Roscoe, "I was a fool again, just like I was before, back home in America. Will you try to forget it, old man?" he added.

"There ain't anything to forget," said Tom, "I got to be thankful I found you; that's the only thing I'm thinking about and—and—that we didn't let the Germans get us. If you like a feller you don't mind about what he says. Do you think I forget you named that rifle after me? Just because—because you didn't know about trusting to the stars,—I wouldn't be mad at you——"

Roscoe did not answer.



CHAPTER NINETEEN

TOM IS QUESTIONED

When it became known in the captured village (as it did immediately) that the tall prisoner whom Tom Slade had brought in, was none other than the famous Major Johann Slauberstrauffn von Piffinhoeffer, excitement ran high in the neighborhood, and the towheaded young dispatch-rider from the Toul sector was hardly less of a celebrity than the terrible Prussian himself. "Paul Revere" and his compass became the subjects of much mirth, touched, as usual, with a kind of bantering evidence of genuine liking.

In face of all this, Tom bestowed all the credit on Roscoe (it would be hard to say why), and on Archibald Archer and the Big Dipper.

"Now that we've got the Big Dipper with us we ought to be able to push right through to Berlin," observed one young corporal. "They say Edison's got some new kind of a wrinkle up his sleeve, but believe me, if he's got anything to beat Paul Revere's compass, he's a winner!"

"Old Piff nearly threw a fit, I heard, when he found out that he was captured by a kid in the messenger service," another added.

"They may pull a big stroke with Mars, the god of war," still another said, "but we've got the Big Dipper on our side."

Indeed, some of them nicknamed Tom the Big Dipper, but he did not mind for, as he said soberly, he had "always liked the Big Dipper, anyway."

As the next day passed the importance of Tom's coup became known among the troops stationed in the village and was the prime topic with those who were digging the new trench line northeast of the town. Indeed, aside from the particular reasons which were presently to appear, the capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer was a "stunt" of the first order which proved particularly humiliating to German dignity. That he should have been captured at all was remarkable. That he should have been hoodwinked and brought in by a young dispatch-rider was a matter of crushing mortification to him, and must have been no less so to the German high command.

Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested the use of the poisoned bandage in the treatment of English prisoners' wounds? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had devised the very scheme of contaminating streams, which Tom and Roscoe had discovered? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had invented the famous "circle code" which had so long puzzled and baffled Uncle Sam's Secret Service agents? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested putting cholera germs in rifle bullets, and tuberculosis germs in American cigarettes?

A soldier of the highest distinction was Major von Piffinhoeffer, of Heidelberg University, whose decorative junk had come direct from the grateful junkers, and whose famous eight-volume work on "Principles of Modern Torture" was a text-book in the realm. A warrior of mettle was Major von Piffinhoeffer, who deserved a more glorious fate than to be captured by an American dispatch-rider!

But Tom Slade was not vain and it is doubtful if his stolid face, crowned by his shock of rebellious hair, would have shown the slightest symptom of excitement if he had captured Hindenburg, or the Kaiser himself.

In the morning he rode down to Chepoix with some dispatches and in the afternoon to St. Justen-Chaussee. He was kept busy all day. When he returned to Cantigny, a little before dark, he was told to remain at headquarters, and for a while he feared that he was going to be court-martialled for overstaying his leave.

When he was at last admitted into the presence of the commanding officer, he shifted from one foot to the other, feeling ill at ease as he always did in the presence of officialdom. The officer sat at a heavy table which had evidently been the kitchen table of the French peasant people who had originally occupied the poor cottage. Signs of petty German devastation were all about the humble, low-ceiled place, and they seemed to evidence a more loathsome brutality even than did the blighted country which Tom had ridden through.

Apparently everything which could show an arrogant contempt of the simple family life which had reigned there had been done. There was a kind of childish spitefulness in the sword thrusts through the few pictures which hung on the walls. The German genius for destruction and wanton vandalism was evident in broken knick-knacks and mottoes of hate and bloody vengeance scrawled upon floor and wall.

It did Tom's heart good to see the resolute, capable American officers sitting there attending to their business in quiet disregard of all these silly, vulgar signs of impotent hate and baffled power.

"When you first met these Germans," the officer asked, "did the big fellow have anything to say?"

"He asked us some questions," said Tom.

"Yes? Now what did he ask you?" the officer encouraged, as he reached out and took a couple of papers pinned together, which lay among others on the table.

"He seemed to be interested in transports, kind of, and the number of Americans there are here."

"Hmm. Did he mention any particular ship—do you remember?" the officer asked, glancing at the paper.

"Yes, he did. Texas Pioneer. I don't remember whether it was Texan or Texas."

"Oh, yes," said the officer.

"We didn't tell him anything," said Tom.

"No, of course not."

The officer sat whistling for a few seconds, and scrutinizing the papers.

"Do you remember the color of the officer's eyes?" he suddenly asked.

"It was only in the dark we saw him."

"Yes, surely. So you didn't get a very good look at him."

"I saw he had a nose shaped like a carrot, kind of," said Tom ingenuously.

Both of the officers smiled.

"I mean the big end of it," said Tom soberly.

The two men glanced at each other and laughed outright. Tom did not quite appreciate what they were laughing at but it encouraged him to greater boldness, and shifting from one foot to the other, he said,

"The thing I noticed specially was how his mouth went sideways when he talked, so one side of it seemed to slant the same as his moustache, like, and the other didn't."

The officers smiled at each other again, but the one quizzing Tom looked at him shrewdly and seemed interested.

"I mean the two ends of his moustache that stuck up like the Kaiser's——"

"Oh, yes."

"I mean they didn't slant the same when he talked. One was crooked."

Again the officers smiled and the one who had been speaking said thoughtfully,

"I see."

Tom shifted back to his other foot while the officer seemed to ruminate.

"He had a breed mark, too," Tom volunteered.

"A what?"

"Breed mark—it's different from a species mark," he added naively.

The officer looked at him rather curiously. "And what do you call a breed mark?" he asked.

Tom looked at the other man who seemed also to be watching him closely. He shifted from one foot to the other and said,

"It's a scout sign. A man named Jeb Rushmore told me about it. All trappers know about it. It was his ear, how it stuck out, like."

He shifted to the other foot.

"Yes, go on."

"Nothing, only that's what a breed sign is. If Jeb Rushmore saw a bear and afterwards way off he saw another bear he could tell if the first bear was its grandmother—most always he could.

"Hmm. I see," said the officer, plainly interested and watching Tom curiously. "And that's what a breed sign is, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Eyes ain't breed signs, but ears are. Feet are, too, and different ways of walking are, but ears are the best of all—that's one sure thing."

"And you mean that relationships can be determined by these breed signs?"

"I don't mean people just looking like each other," Tom explained, "'cause any way animals don't look like each other in the face. But you got to go by breed signs. Knuckles are good signs, too."

"Well, well," said the officer, "that's very fine, and news to me."

"Maybe you were never a scout," said Tom naively.

"So that if you saw your Prussian major's brother or son somewhere, where you had reason to think he would be, you'd know him—you'd recognize him?"

Tom hesitated and shifted again. It was getting pretty deep for him.



CHAPTER TWENTY

THE MAJOR'S PAPERS

It was perfectly evident that the officer's purpose in sending for Tom, whatever that was, was considerably affected by the boy's own remarks, and he now, after pondering a few moments, handed Tom the two papers which he had been holding.

"Just glance that over and then I'll talk to you," he said.

Tom felt very important, indeed, and somewhat perturbed as well, for though he had carried many dispatches it had never been his lot to know their purport.

"If you know the importance and seriousness of what I am thinking of letting you do," the officer said, "perhaps it will help you to be very careful and thorough."

"Yes, sir," said Tom, awkwardly.

"All right, just glance that over."

The two papers were clipped together, and as Tom looked at the one on top he saw that it was soiled and creased and written in German. The other was evidently a translation of it. It seemed to be a letter the first part of which was missing, and this is what Tom read:

"but, as you say, everything for the Fatherland. If you receive this let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful before they shoot. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth trying. As for the code key, that will be safe enough—they'll never find it. If it wasn't for the —— English service —— (worn and undecipherable) —— as far as that's concerned. As far as I can ascertain we'll go on the T.P. There was some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is cheer when they play the S.S.B. over here. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on the safe side. I have notice from H. not to use it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands before —— (text undecipherable) —— in time so it can be used through Mexico.

"I'll have much information to communicate verbally in T. and A. matters, but will bring nothing in —— —— form but key and credentials. The idea is L.'s—you remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, the fellow who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds. So don't fail to have them watch out.

"To the day,

"A. P."

"So you see some one is probably coming over on the Texas Pioneer," said the officer, as he took the papers from bewildered Tom, "and we'd like to get hold of that fellow. The only trouble is we don't know who he is."

It was quite half a minute before Tom could get a grip on himself, so dark and mysterious had seemed this extraordinary communication. And it was not until afterward, when he was alone and not handicapped by his present embarrassment, that certain puzzling things about it became clear to him. At present he depended wholly upon what his superior told him and thought of nothing else.

"That was taken from your tall friend," said the officer, "and it means, if it means anything, that somebody or other closely related to him is coming over to France on the Texas Pioneer. From his mention of the name to you I take it that is what T. P. means.

"Now, my boy, we want to get hold of this fellow—he's a spy. Apparently, he won't have anything incriminating about him. My impression is that he's in the army and hopes to get himself captured by his friends. Yet he may desert and take a chance of getting into Germany through Holland. About the only clew there is, is the intimation that he's related to the prisoner. He may look like him. We've been trying to get in communication with Dieppe, where this transport is expected to dock to-morrow, but the wires seem to be shot into a tangle again.

"Do you think you could make Dieppe before morning—eighty to ninety miles?"

"Yes, sir. The first twenty or so will be bad on account of shell holes, I heard they threw as far as Forges."

"Hmm," said the officer, drumming with his fingers. "We'll leave all that to you. The thing is to get there before morning."

"I know they never let anybody ashore before daylight," said Tom, "because I worked on a transport."

"Very well. Now we'll see if the general and others hereabouts have been overrating you. You've two things to do. One is to get to Dieppe before to-morrow morning. That's imperative. The other is to assist the authorities there to identify the writer of this letter if you can. Of course, you'll not concern yourself with anything else in the letter. I let you read it partly because of your very commendable bringing in of this important captive and partly because I want you to know how serious and important are the matters involved. I was rather impressed with what you said about—er—breed marks."

"Yes, sir."

"And I believe you're thoughtful and careful. You've ridden by night a good deal, I understand."

"Yes, sir."

"So. Now you are to ride at once to Breteuil, a little east of here, where they're holding this prisoner. You'll deliver a note I shall give you to Colonel Wallace, and he'll see to it that you have a look at the man, in a sufficiently good light. Don't be afraid to observe him closely. And whatever acuteness you may have in this way, let your country have the benefit of it."

"Yes, sir."

"It may be that some striking likeness will enable you to recognize this stranger. Possibly your special knowledge will be helpful. In any case, when you reach Dieppe, present these papers, with the letter which I shall give you, to the quartermaster there, and he will turn you over to the Secret Service men. Do whatever they tell you and help them in every way you can. I shall mention that you've seen the prisoner and observed him closely. They may have means of discovery and identification which I know nothing of, but don't be afraid to offer your help. Too much won't be expected of you in that way, but it's imperative that you reach Dieppe before morning. The roads are pretty bad, I know that. Think you can do it?"

"What you got to do, you can do," said Tom simply.

It was a favorite saying of the same Jeb Rushmore, scout and woodsman, who had told Tom about breed marks, and how they differed from mere points of resemblance. And it made him think about Jeb Rushmore.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE

Swiftly and silently along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come out of the East, from the far-off Toul sector, for service as required. All the way across bleeding, devastated France he had travelled, and having paused, as it were, to help in the little job at Cantigny, he was now speeding through the darkness toward the coast with as important a message as he had ever carried.

A little while before, as time is reckoned, he had been a Boy Scout in America and had thought it was something to hike from New York to the Catskills. Since then, he had been on a torpedoed transport, had been carried in a submarine to Germany, had escaped through that war-mad land and made his way to France, whose scarred and disordered territory he had crossed almost from one end to the other, and was now headed for almost the very point where he had first landed. Yet he was only eighteen, and no one whom he met seemed to think that his experiences had been remarkable. For in a world where all are having extraordinary experiences, those of one particular person are hardly matter for comment.

At Breteuil Tom had another look at "Major Piff," who bent his terrible, scornful gaze upon him, making poor Tom feel like an insignificant worm. But the imperious Prussian's stare netted him not half so much in the matter of valuable data as Tom derived from his rather timid scrutiny. Yet he would almost have preferred to face the muzzle of a field-piece rather than wither beneath that arrogant, contemptuous glare.

It was close on to midnight when he reached Hardivillers, passing beyond the point of the Huns' farthest advance, and sped along the straight road for Marseille-en-Froissy, where he was to leave a relay packet for Paris. From there he intended to run down to Gournay and then northwest along the highway to the coast. He thought he had plenty of time.

At Gournay they told him that some American engineers were repairing the bridge at Saumont, which had been damaged by floods, but that he might gain the north road to the coast by going back as far as Songeons and following the path along the upper Therain River, which would take him to Aumale, and bring him into the Neufchatel road.

He lost perhaps two hours in doing this, partly by reason of the extra distance and partly by reason of the muddy, and in some places submerged, path along the Therain. The stream, ordinarily hardly more than a creek, was so swollen that he had to run his machine through a veritable swamp in places, and anything approaching speed was out of the question. So difficult was his progress, what with running off the flooded road and into the stream bed, and also from his wheels sticking in the mud, that he began to fear that he was losing too much time in this discouraging business.

But there was nothing to do but go forward, and he struggled on, sometimes wheeling his machine, sometimes riding it, until at last it sank almost wheel deep in muddy water and he had to lose another half hour in cleaning out his carbureter. He feared that it might give trouble even then, but the machine labored along when the mud was not too deep, and at last, after almost superhuman effort, he and Uncle Sam emerged, dirty and dripping, out of a region where he could almost have made as good progress with a boat, into Aumale, where he stopped long enough to clean the grit out of his engine parts.

It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning, and his instructions were to reach Dieppe not later than five. He knew, from his own experience, that transports always discharge their thronging human cargoes early in the morning, and that every minute after five o'clock would increase the likelihood of his finding the soldiers already gone ashore and separated for the journeys to their various destinations. To reach Dieppe after the departure of the soldiers was simply unthinkable to Tom. Whatever excuse there might have been to the authorities for his failure, that also he could not allow to enter his thoughts. He had been trusted to do something and he was going to do it.

Perhaps it was this dogged resolve which deterred him from doing something which he had thought of doing; that is, acquainting the authorities at Aumale with his plight and letting them wire on to Dieppe. Surely the wires between Aumale and the coast must be working, but suppose——

Suppose the Germans should demolish those wires with a random shot from some great gun such as the monster which had bombarded Paris at a distance of seventy miles. Such a random shot might demolish Tom Slade, too, but he did not think of that. What he thought of chiefly was the inglorious role he would play if, after shifting his responsibility, he should go riding into Dieppe only to find that the faithful dots and dashes had done his work for him. Then again, suppose the wires should be tapped—there were spies everywhere, he knew that.

Whatever might have been the part of wisdom and caution, he was well past Aumale before he allowed himself to realize that he was taking rather a big chance. If there were floods in one place there might be floods in another, but——

He banished the thought from his mind. Tom Slade, motorcycle dispatch-bearer, had always regarded the villages he rushed through with a kind of patronizing condescension. His business had always been between some headquarters or other and some point of destination, and between these points he had no interest. He and Uncle Sam had a little pride in these matters. French children with clattering wooden shoes had clustered about him when he paused, old wives had called, "Vive l'Amerique!" from windows and, like the post-boy of old, he had enjoyed the prestige which was his. Should he, Tom Slade, surrender or ask for help in one of these mere incidental places along his line of travel?

What you got to do, you do, he had said, and you cannot do it by going half way and then letting some one else do the rest. He had read the Message to Garcia (as what scout has not), and did that bully messenger—whatever his name was—turn back because the Cuban jungle was too much for him? He delivered the message to Garcia, that was the point. There were swamps, and dank, tangled, poisonous vines, and venomous snakes, and the sickening breath of fever. But he delivered the message to Garcia.

It was sixty miles, Tom knew, from Aumale to Dieppe by the road. And he must reach Dieppe not later than five o'clock. The road was a good road, if it held nothing unexpected. The map showed it to be a good road, and as far west as this there was small danger from shell holes.

Fifty miles, and one hour!

Swiftly along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come from the far-off blue hills of Alsace across the war-scorched area of northern France into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy for service as required. Past St. Prey he rushed; past Thiueloy, and into Mortemer, and on to the hilly region where the Eualine flows between its hilly banks. He was in and out of La Tois in half a minute.

When he passed through Neufchatel several poilus, lounging at the station, hailed him cheerily in French, but he paid no heed, and they stood gaping, seeing his bent form and head thrust forward with its shock of tow hair flying all about.

Twenty miles, and half an hour!

Through St. Authon he sped, raising a cloud of dust, his keen eyes rivetted upon the road ahead, and down into the valley where a tributary of the Bethune winds its troubled way—past Le Farge, past tiny, picturesque Loix, into an area of 'lowland where an isolated cottage seemed like a lonely spectre of the night as he passed, on through Mernoy to the crossing at Chabris, and then——



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"UNCLE SAM"

Tom Slade stood looking with consternation at the scene before him. His trusty motorcycle which had borne him so far stood beside him, and as he steadied it, it seemed as if this mute companion and co-patriot which he had come to love, were sharing his utter dismay. Almost at his very feet rushed a boisterous torrent, melting the packed earth of the road like wax in a tropic sunshine, and carrying its devastating work of erosion to the very spot where he stood.

In a kind of cold despair, he stooped, reached for a board which lay near, and retreating a little, stood upon it, watching the surging water in its heedless career. This one board was all that was left of the bridge over which Tom Slade and Uncle Sam were to have rushed in their race with the dawn. Already the first glimmering of gray was discernible in the sky behind him, and Tom looked at Uncle Sam as if for council in his dilemma. The dawn would not require any bridge to get across.

"We're checked in our grand drive, kind of," he said, with a pathetic disappointment which his odd way of putting it did not disguise. "We're checked, that's all, just like the Germans were—kind of."

He knelt and let down the rest of his machine so that it might stand unaided, as if he would be considerate of those mud-covered, weary wheels.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.

"Anyway, you did your part," he muttered. And then, "If you only could swim."

It was evident that the recent rains had swollen the stream which ordinarily flowed in the narrow bed between slanting shores so that the rushing water filled the whole space between the declivities and was even flooding the two ends of road which had been connected by a bridge. An old ramshackle house, which Tom thought might once have been a boathouse, stood near, the water lapping its underpinning. Close by it was a buoyed mooring float six or eight feet square, bobbing in the rushing water. One of the four air-tight barrels which supported it had caught in the mud and kept the buoyant, raft-like platform from being carried downstream in the rush of water.

Holding his flashlight to his watch Tom saw that it was nearly fifteen minutes past four and he believed that about forty miles of road lay ahead of him. Slowly, silently, the first pale tint of gray in the sky behind him took on a more substantial hue, revealing the gaunt, black outlines of trees and painting the sun-dried, ragged shingles on the little house a dull silvery color.

"Anyway, you stood by me and it ain't your fault," Tom muttered disconsolately. He turned the handle bar this way and that, so that Uncle Sam's one big eye peered uncannily across the flooded stream and flickered up the road upon the other side, which wound up the hillside and away into the country beyond. The big, peering eye seemed to look longingly upon that road.

Then Tom was seized with a kind of frantic rebellion against fate—the same futile passion which causes a convict to wrench madly at the bars of his cell. The glimpse of that illuminated stretch of road across the flooded stream drove him to distraction. Baffled, powerless, his wonted stolidness left him, and he cast his eyes here and there with a sort of challenge born of despair and desperation.

Slowly, gently, the hazy dawn stole over the sky and the roof of dried and ragged shingles seemed as if it were covered with gray dust. Presently the light would flicker upon those black, mad waters and laugh at Tom from the other side.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.

He believed that he could swim the torrent and make a landing even though the rush of water carried him somewhat downstream. But what about Uncle Sam? He turned off the searchlight and still Uncle Sam was clearly visible now, standing, waiting. He could count the spokes in the wheels.

The spokes in the wheels—the spokes. With a sudden inspiration born of despair, Tom looked at that low, shingled roof. He could see it fairly well now. The gray dawn had almost caught up with him.

And meanwhile the minutes passed!

In a frantic burst of energy he took a running jump, caught the edge of the roof and swung himself upon it. In the thin haze his form was outlined there, his shock of light hair jerking this way and that, as he tore off one shingle after another, and threw them to the ground. He was racing now, as he had not raced before, and there was upon his square, homely face that look of uncompromising resolution which the soldier wears as he goes over the top with his bayonet fixed.

Leaping to the ground again he gathered up some half a dozen shingles, selecting them with as much care as his desperate haste would permit. Then he hurriedly opened the leather tool case on his machine and tumbled the contents about until he found the roll of insulated wire which he always carried.

His next work was to split one of the shingles over his knee so that he had a strip of wood about two inches wide. It took him but so many seconds to jab four or five holes through this, and adjusting it between two slopes of the power wheel so that it stood crossways and was re-enforced by the spokes themselves, he proceeded to bind it in place with the wire. Then he moved the wheel gently around, and found that the projecting edge of wooden strip knocked against the mud-guard. Hesitating not a second he pulled and bent and twisted the mud-guard, wrenching it off. The wheel revolved freely now. The spokes were beginning to shine in the brightening light.

And meanwhile the seconds passed!

It was the work of hardly a minute to bind three other narrow strips of shingle among the spokes so that they stood more or less crossways. There was no time to place and fasten more, but these, at equal intervals, forming a sort of cross within the wheel, were quite sufficient, Tom thought, for his purpose. It was necessary to shave the edges of the shingles somewhat, after they were in place, so that they would not chafe against the axle-bars. But this was also the hurried work of a few seconds, and then Tom moved his machine to the old mooring float and lifted it upon the bobbing platform.

He must work with the feverish speed of desperation for the float was held by no better anchor than one of its supporting barrels embedded in the mud. If he placed his weight or that of Uncle Sam upon the side of the float already in the water the weight would probably release the mud-held barrel and the float, with himself and Uncle Sam upon it, would be carried willy-nilly upon the impetuous waters.

And meanwhile—— How plainly he could distinguish the trees now, and the pale stars stealing away into the obscurity of the brightening heavens.

With all the strength that he could muster he wrenched a board from the centre of the platform, and moving his arm about in the opening felt the rushing water beneath.

The buoyancy of the air-tight barrels, one of which was lodged under each corner of the float, was such that with Tom and his machine upon the planks the whole platform would float six or eight inches free of the water. To pole or row this unwieldy raft in such a flood would have been quite out of the question, and even in carrying out the plan which Tom now thought furnished his only hope, he knew that the sole chance of success lay in starting right. If the float, through premature or unskilful starting, should get headed downstream, there would be no hope of counteracting its impetus.

Lifting his machine, he lowered it carefully into the opening left by the torn-off plank, until the pedals rested upon the planks on either side and the power wheel was partially submerged. So far, so good.

In less than a minute now he would either succeed or fail. It was necessary first to alter the position of the float slightly so that the opening left by the plank pointed across and slightly upstream. He had often noticed how the pilot of a ferryboat directs his craft above or below the point of landing to counteract the rising or ebbing tide, and this was his intention now; but to neutralize the force of the water with another force not subject to direction or adjustment involved a rather nice calculation.

Very cautiously he waded out upon the precipitous, submerged bank and brought the float into position. This done, he acted with lightning rapidity. Leaping upon the freed float before it had time to swing around, he raised his machine, started it, and lowering the power wheel into the opening, steadied the machine as best he could. It was not possible to let it hang upon its pedals for he must hold it at a steep angle, and it required all his strength to manage its clumsy, furiously vibrating bulk.

But the effects of his makeshift paddle-wheel were pronounced and instantaneous. His own weight and that of the machine sufficiently submerged the racing power wheel so that the rough paddles plowed the water, sending the float diagonally across the flooded stream with tremendous force. He was even able, by inclining the upper end of the machine to right or left, to guide his clumsy craft, which responded to this live rudder with surprising promptness.

In the rapid crossing this rough ferryboat lost rather more than Tom had thought it would lose from the rush of water and it brought him close to the opposite shore at a point some fifty feet beyond the road, but he had been able to maintain its direction at least to the extent of heading shoreward and preventing the buoyant float from fatal swirling, which would have meant loss of control altogether.

Perhaps it was better that his point of landing was some distance below the road, where he was able to grasp at an overhanging tree with one hand while shutting his power off and holding fast to his machine with the other. A landing would have been difficult anywhere else.

Even now he was in the precarious position of sitting upon a limb in a rather complicated network of small branches and foliage, hanging onto his motorcycle for dear life, while the buoyant float went swirling and bobbing down the flood.

It had taken him perhaps five minutes to prepare for his crossing and about thirty seconds to cross. But his strategic position was far from satisfactory. And already the more substantial light of the morning revealed the gray road winding ribbon-like away into the distance, the first glints of sunlight falling upon its bordering rocks and trees as if to taunt and mock him.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

UP A TREE

In military parlance, Tom had advanced only to be caught in a pocket. There he sat, astride a large limb, hanging onto the heavy machine, which depended below him just free of the water. He had, with difficulty, moved his painful grip upon a part of the machine's mechanism and succeeded in clutching the edge of the forward wheel. This did not cut his hands so much, but the weight was unbearable in his embarrassed attitude.

Indeed, it was not so much his strength, which was remarkable, that enabled him to keep his hold upon this depending dead weight, as it was sheer desperation. It seemed to be pulling his arms out of their sockets, and his shoulders ached incessantly. At the risk of losing his balance altogether he sought relief by the continual shifting of his position but he knew that the strain was too great for him and that he must let go presently.

It seemed like a mockery that he should have gained the shore only to be caught in this predicament, and to see his trusty machine go tumbling into the water beyond all hope of present recovery, simply because he could not hang on to it.

Well, then, he would hang on to it. He would hang on to it though every muscle of his body throbbed, though his arms were dragged out, and though he collapsed and fell from that limb himself in the last anguish of the aching strain. He and Uncle Sam, having failed, would go down together.

And meanwhile the minutes passed and Uncle Sam and Tom were reflected, inverted, in the water where the spreading light was now flickering. How strange and grotesque they looked, upside down and clinging to each other for dear life and wriggling in the ripples of rushing water. Uncle Sam seemed to be holding him up. It was all the same—they were partners.

He noticed in the water something which he had not noticed before—the reflection of a short, thick, broken branch projecting from the heavy limb he was straddling. He glanced about and found that it was behind him. His stooping attitude, necessitated by the tremendous drag on his arms, prevented him even from looking freely behind him, and in trying to do so he nearly fell. The strain he was suffering was so great that the least move caused him pain.

But by looking into the water he was able to see that this little stub of a limb might serve as a hook on which the machine might be hung if he could clear away the leafy twigs which grew from it, and if he could succeed in raising the cycle and slipping the wheel over it. That would not end his predicament but it would save the machine, relieve him for a few moments, and give him time to think.

For a few moments! They were fleeting by—the moments.

There is a strength born of desperation—a strength of will which is conjured into physical power in the last extremity. It is when the frantic, baffled spirit calls aloud to rally every failing muscle and weakening nerve. It is then that the lips tighten and the eyes become as steel, as the last reserves waiting in the entrenchments of the soul are summoned up to re-enforce the losing cause.

And there in that tree, on the brink of the heedless, rushing waters which crossed the highroad to Dieppe was going to be fought out one of the most desperate battles of the whole war. There, in the mocking light of the paling dawn, Tom Slade, his big mouth set like a vice, and with every last reserve he could command, was going to make his last cast of the dice—let go, give up—or, hold on.

Let go! Of all the inglorious forms of defeat or surrender! To let go! To be struck down, to be taken prisoner, to be——

But to let go! The bulldog, the snapping turtle, seemed like very heroes now.

"He always said I had a good muscle—he liked to feel it," he muttered. "And besides, she said she guessed I was strong."

He was thinking of Margaret Ellison, away back in America, and of Roscoe Bent, as he had known him there. When he muttered again there was a beseeching pathos in his voice which would have pierced the heart of anyone who could have seen him struggling still against fate, in this all but hopeless predicament.

But no one saw him except the sun who was raising his head above the horizon as a soldier steals a cautious look over the trench parapet.

There would be no report of this affair.

He lowered his chest to the limb, wound his legs around it and for a second lay there while he tightened and set his legs, as one will tighten a belt against some impending strain. Not another fraction of an inch could he have tightened those encircling legs.

And now the fateful second was come. It had to come quickly for his strength was ebbing. There is a pretty dependable rule that if you can just manage to lift a weight with both hands, you can just about budge it with one hand. Tom had tried this at Temple Camp with a visiting scout's baggage chest. With both hands he had been barely able to lift it by its strap. With one hand he had been able to budge it for the fraction of a second. But there had been no overmastering incentive—and no reserves called up out of the depths of his soul.

He could feel his breast palpitating against the limb, drawn tight against it by the dead weight. Yet he could not put his desperate purpose to the test.

And so a second—two, three, seconds—were wasted.

"I won't let go," he muttered through his teeth. "I wish I could wipe the sweat off my hand." Then, as if his dogged resolution were not enough, he added, almost appealingly, "Don't you drop and—and go back on me."

Uncle Sam only swung a little in the breeze and wriggled like an eel in the watery mirror.

Slowly Tom loosened his perspiring left hand, not daring to withdraw it. The act seemed to communicate an extra strain to every part of his body. Of all the fateful moments of his life, this seemed to be the most tense. Then, in an impulse of desperation, he drew his left hand away.

"I won't—let—go," he muttered.

The muscles on his taut right arm stood out like cords. His forearm throbbed with an indescribable, pulling pain. There was a feeling of dull soreness in his shoulder blade. His perspiring hand closed tighter around the wheel's rim and he could feel his pulse pounding. His fingers tingled as if they had been asleep. Then his hand slipped a little.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH"

Whether merely from the change of an eighth of an inch or so in its hold upon the rim, or because his palm fitted better around the slight alteration of curve, Tom was conscious of the slightest measure of relief.

As quickly as he dared (for he knew that any sudden move would be fatal), he reached behind him with his left arm and, groping for the stub of limb, tore away from it the twigs which he knew would form an obstacle to placing the wheel rim with its network of spokes over this short projection.

The dead soreness of his straining shoulder blade ran down his arm, which throbbed painfully. His twitching, struggling fingers, straining against the weight which was forcing them open, clutched the rim. They were burning and yet seemed numb. Oh, if he could only wipe his palm and that rim with a dry handkerchief! He tightened his slipping fingers again and again. The muscles of his arm smarted as from a blow. He tightened his lips—and that seemed to help.

Carefully, though his aching breast pounded against the limb, he brought back his left hand, cautiously rubbed it against his khaki shirt, then encircled it about the rim. For a moment the weight seemed manageably light in the quick relief he felt.

Availing himself of the slight measure of refreshment he raised the machine a trifle, a trifle more, squirmed about to get in better position, bent, strained, got the bulky thing past his clutching legs, exerted every muscle of chest and abdomen, which now could assume some share of the strain, and by a superhuman effort of litheness and dexterity and all the overwhelming power of physical strength and frenzied resolution, he succeeded in slipping the wheel rim over the stubby projection behind him.

If he had been running for ten miles he could not have been more exhausted. His breast heaved with every spasmodic breath he drew. His shoulder blades throbbed like an aching tooth. His dripping palm was utterly numb. For a few brief, precious seconds he sat upon the limb with a sense of unutterable relief, and mopped his beaded forehead. And the sun's full, round face smiled approvingly upon him.

Meanwhile the minutes flew.

Hurrying now, he scrambled down the tree trunk where he had a better and less discouraging view of the situation. He saw that Uncle Sam hung about five feet from the brink and just clear of the water. If the bank on this side was less precipitous than on the other there would be some prospect of rescuing his machine without serious damage. He could afford to let it get wet provided the carburetor and magneto were not submerged and the gas tank——

The gas tank. That thought stabbed him. Could the gasoline have flowed out of the tank while the machine was hanging up and down? That would bring the supply hole, with its perforated screw-cover, underneath.

He waded cautiously into the water and found to his infinite relief that the submerged bank formed a gentle slope. He could not go far enough to lift his machine, but he could reach to wiggle it off its hook and then guide it, in some measure, enough to ease its fall and keep its damageable parts clear of the water. At least he believed he could. In any event, he had no alternative choice and time was flying. After what he had already done he felt he could do anything. Success, however wearying and exhausting, gives one a certain working capital of strength, and having succeeded so far he would not now fail. His success in crossing had given him that working capital of resolution and incentive whence came his superhuman strength and overmastering resolve in that lonely tree. And he would not fail now.

Yet he could not bring himself to look at his watch. He was willing to venture a guess, from the sun, as to what time it was, but he could not clinch the knowledge by a look at the cruel, uncompromising little glass-faced autocrat in his pocket. He preferred to work in the less disheartening element of uncertainty. He did not want to know the hard, cold truth—not till he was moving.

Here now was the need of nice calculating, and Tom eyed the shore and the tree and the machine with the appraising glance of a wrestler eyeing his opponent. He broke several branches from the tree, laying them so as to form a kind of springy, leafy mound close to the brink. Then standing knee-deep he wiggled the wheel's rim very cautiously out to the end of its hanger, so that it just balanced there.

One more grand drive, one more effort of unyielding strength and accurate dexterity and—he would be upon the road.

The thought acted as a stimulant. Lodging one hand under the seat of the machine and the other upon a stout bar of the mechanism which he thought would afford him just the play and swing he needed, he joggled the wheel off its hanger, and with a wide sweep, in which he skillfully minimized the heavy weight, he swung the machine onto the springy bed which he had made to receive it.

Then, as the comrade of a wounded soldier may bend over him, he knelt down beside his companion upon the makeshift, leafy couch.

"Are you all right?" he asked in the agitation of his triumphant effort.

Uncle Sam did not answer.

He stood the machine upright and lowered the rest so that it could stand unaided; and he tore away the remnant of mud-guard which Uncle Sam had sacrificed in his role of combination engine and paddle-wheel.

"You've got the wires all tangled up in your spokes," Tom said; "you look like a—a wreck. What do you want with those old sticks of shingles? How are you off for gas—you—you old tramp?"

Uncle Sam did not answer.

"Anyway, you're all right," Tom panted; "only my arm is worse than your old mud-guard. We're a pair of—— Can't you speak?" he added breathing the deadly fatigue he felt and putting his foot upon the pedal. "What—do—you—say? Huh?"

And then Uncle Sam answered.

"Tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r—— Never mind your arm. Come ahead—hurry," he seemed to say.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO—"

Swiftly along the sun-flecked road sped the dispatch-rider. In the mellow freshness of the new day he rode, and the whir of his machine in its lightning flight mingled with the cheery songs of the birds, whose early morning chorus heartened and encouraged him. There was a balm in the fragrant atmosphere of the cool, gray morning which entered the soul of Tom Slade and whispered to him, There is no such word as fail.

Out of the night he had come, out of travail, and brain-racking perplexity and torturing effort, crossing rushing waters and matching his splendid strength and towering will against obstacles, against fate, against everything.

As he held the handle-bar of Uncle Sam in that continuous handshake which they knew so well, his right arm felt numb and sore, and his whole body ached. Uncle Sam's big, leering glass eye was smashed, his mud-guard wrenched off, and dried mud was upon his wheels. His rider's uniform was torn and water-soaked, his face black with grime. They made a good pair.

Never a glance to right or left did the rider give, nor so much as a perfunctory nod to the few early risers who paused to stare at him as he sped by. In the little hamlet of Persan an old Frenchman sitting on a rustic seat before the village inn, removed his pipe from his mouth long enough to call,

"La cote?"

But never a word did the rider answer. Children, who, following the good example of the early bird, were already abroad, scurried out of his way, making a great clatter in their wooden shoes, and gaping until he passed beyond their sight.

Over the bridge at Soignois he rushed, making its ramshackle planks rattle and throw up a cloud of dust from between the vibrating seams. Out of this cloud he emerged like a gray spectre, body bent, head low, gaze fixed and intense, leaving a pandemonium of dust and subsiding echoes behind him.