At Virneu an old housewife threw open her blinds and seeing the dusty khaki of the rider, summoned her brood, who waved the tricolor from the casement, laughing and calling, "Vive l'Amerique!"

Their cheery voices and fraternal patriotism did cause Tom to turn his head and call,

"Merci. Vive la France!"

And they answered again with a torrent of French.

The morning was well established as he passed through Chuisson, and a clock upon a romantic, medieval-looking little tower told him that it lacked but ten minutes of five o'clock.

A feeling of doubt, almost of despair, seized upon him and he called in that impatient surliness which springs from tense anxiety, asking an old man how far it was to Dieppe.

The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in polite confession that he did not understand English.

In his anxiety it irritated Tom. "What do you know?" he muttered.

Out of Chuisson he labored up a long hill, and though Uncle Sam made no more concession to it than to slacken his unprecedented rate of speed the merest trifle, the difference communicated itself to Tom at once and it seemed, by contrast, as if they were creeping. On and up Uncle Sam went, plying his way sturdily, making a great noise and a terrific odor—dogged, determined and irresistible.

But the rider stirred impatiently. Would they ever, ever, reach the top? And when they should, there would be another hamlet in a valley, another bridge, more stupid people who could not speak English, more villages, more bends in the road, still other villages, and then—another hill.

It seemed to Tom that he had been travelling for ten years and that there was to be no end of it. Ride, ride, ride—it brought him nowhere. His right arm which had borne that tremendous strain, was throbbing so that he let go the handle-bar from time to time in the hope of relief. It was the pain of acute tiredness, for which there could be no relief but rest. Just to throw himself down and rest! Oh, if he could only lay that weary, aching arm across some soft pillow and leave it there—just leave it there. Let it hang, bend it, hold it above him, lay it on Uncle Sam's staunch, unfeeling arm of steel, he could not, could not, get it rested.

The palm of his hand tingled with a kind of irritating feeling like chilblains, and he must be continually removing one or other hand from the bar so that he could reach one with the other. It did not help him keep his poise. If he could only scratch his right hand once and be done with it! But it annoyed him like a fly.

Up, up, up, they went, and passed a quaint, old, thatch-roofed house. Crazy place to build a house! And the people in it—probably all they could do was to shrug their shoulders in that stupid way when asked a question in English.

He was losing his morale—was this dispatch-rider.

But near the top of the hill he regained it somewhat. Perhaps he could make up for this lost time in some straight, level reach of road beyond.

Up, up, up, plowed Uncle Sam, one lonely splinter of shingle still bound within his spokes, and his poor, dented headlight bereft of its dignity.

"I've an idea the road turns north about a mile down," Tom said to himself, "and runs around through——"

The words stopped upon his lips as Uncle Sam, still laboring upward, reached level ground, and as if to answer Tom out of his own uncomplaining and stouter courage, showed him a sight which sent his faltering hope skyward and started his heart bounding.

For there below them lay the vast and endless background of the sea, throwing every intervening detail of the landscape into insignificance. There it was, steel blue in the brightening sunlight and glimmering here and there in changing white, where perhaps some treacherous rock or bar lay just submerged. And upon it, looking infinitesimal in the limitless expanse, was something solid with a column of black smoke rising and winding away from it and dissolving in the clear, morning air.

"There you are!" said Tom, patting Uncle Sam patronizingly in a swift change of mood. "See there? That's the Atlantic Ocean—that is. Now will you hurry? That's a ship coming in—see? I bet it's a whopper, too. Do you know what—what's off beyond there?" he fairly panted in his excitement; "do you? You old French hobo, you? America! That's where I came from. Now will you hurry? That's Dieppe, where the white[2] is and those steeples, see? And way across there on the other side is America!"

For Uncle Sam, notwithstanding his name, was a French motorcycle and had never seen America.

[2] Dieppe's famous beach.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A SURPRISE

Down the hill coasted Uncle Sam, bearing his rider furiously onward. A fence along the wayside seemed like a very entanglement of stakes and pickets. Then it was gone. A house loomed up in view, grew larger, and was gone. A cow that was grazing in a field languidly raised her head, blinked her eyes, and stood as if uncertain whether she had really seen something pass or not.

They were in the valley now and the sea was no longer discernible. On they rushed with a fine disdain for poor little Charos, whose village steeple appeared and disappeared like a flash of lightning. The road was broad and level and Uncle Sam sped along amid a cloud of dust, the bordering trees and houses flying away behind like dried leaves in a hurricane. The rider's hair was fluttering like a victorious emblem, his eyes fixed with a wild intensity.

"We'd get arrested for this in America," he muttered; "we—we should worry."

It was little Uncle Sam cared for the traffic laws of America.

Around the outskirts of Teurley they swept and into the broad highway like a pair of demons, and a muleteer, seeing discretion to be the better part of valor, drove his team well to the side—far enough, even, to escape any devilish contamination which this unearthly apparition might diffuse.

They had reached a broad highway, one of those noble roads which Napoleon had made. They could not go wrong now. They passed a luxurious chateau, then a great hotel where people haled them in French. Then they passed an army auto truck loaded with mattresses, with the bully old initials U. S. A. on its side. Two boys in khaki were on the seat.

"Is the Texas Pioneer in?" Tom yelled.

"What?" one of them called back.

"He's deaf or something," muttered Tom; "we—should worry."

On they sped till the road merged into a street lined with shops, where children in wooden shoes and men in blouses shuffled about. Tom thought he had never seen people so slow in his life.



Now, indeed, he must make some concession to the throngs moving back and forth, and he slackened his speed, but only slightly.

"Dieppe?" he called.

"Dieppe," came the laughing answer from a passer-by, who was evidently amused at Tom's pronunciation.

"Where's the wharves?"

Again that polite shrug of the shoulders.

He took a chance with another passer-by, who nodded and pointed down a narrow street with dull brown houses tumbling all over each other, as it seemed to Tom. It was the familiar, old-world architecture of the French coast towns, which he had seen in Brest and St. Nazaire, as if all the houses had become suddenly frightened and huddled together like panicky sheep.

More leisurely now, but quickly still, rode the dispatch-rider through this narrow, surging way which had all the earmarks of the shore—damp-smelling barrels, brass lanterns, dilapidated ships' figureheads, cosy but uncleanly drinking places, and sailors.

And of all the sights save one which Tom Slade ever beheld, the one which most gladdened his heart was a neat new sign outside a stone building,

Office of United States Quartermaster.

Several American army wagons were backed up against the building and half a dozen khaki-clad boys lounged about. There was much coming and going, but it is a part of the dispatch-rider's prestige to have immediate admittance anywhere, and Tom stopped before this building and was immediately surrounded by a flattering representation of military and civilian life, both French and American.

To these he paid not the slightest heed, but carefully lowered Uncle Sam's rest so that his weary companion might stand alone.

"You old tramp," he said in an undertone; "stay here and take it easy. Keep away," he added curtly to a curious private who was venturing a too close inspection of Uncle Sam's honorable wounds.

"What's the matter—run into something?" he asked.

"No, I didn't," said Tom, starting toward the building.

Suddenly he stopped short, staring.

A man in civilian clothes sat tilted back in one of several chairs beside the door. He wore a little black moustache and because his head was pressed against the brick wall behind him, his hat was pushed forward giving him a rakish look which was rather heightened by an unlighted cigar sticking up out of the corner of his mouth like a piece of field artillery.

He might have been a travelling salesman waiting for his samples on the veranda of a country hotel and he had about him a kind of sophisticated look as if he took a sort of blase pleasure in watching the world go round. His feet rested upon the rung of his tilted chair, forming his knees into a sort of desk upon which lay a French newspaper. The tilting of his knees, the tilting of his chair, the tilting of his hat and the rakish tilt of his cigar, gave him the appearance of great self-sufficiency, as if, away down in his soul, he knew what he was there for, and cared not a whit whether anyone else did or not.

Tom Slade paused on the lower step and stared. Then with a slowly dawning smile supplanting his look of astonishment, he ejaculated,

"M-i-s-t-e-r C-o-n-n-e!"

The man made not the slightest change in his attitude except to smile the while he worked his cigar over to the other corner of his mouth. Then he cocked his head slightly sideways.

"H'lo, Tommy," said he.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SMOKE AND FIRE

Mr. Carleton Conne, of the United States Secret Service, had come over from Liverpool via Dover on a blind quest after an elusive spy. There had been a sort of undercurrent of rumor, with many extravagant trappings, that a mysterious agent of the Kaiser was on his way to Europe with secrets of a most important character. Some stories had it that he was intimately related to Bloody Bill himself; others that he gloried in a kinship with Ludendorf, while still other versions represented him as holding Mexico in the palm of his hand. Dark stories floated about and no one knew just where they originated.

One sprightly form this story took, which had been whispered in New York and then in Liverpool, was that a certain young lady (identity unknown) had talked with a soldier (identity unknown) in the Grand Central Station in New York, and that the soldier had told her that at his cantonment (cantonment not identified) there was a man in a special branch of the service (branch not mentioned) who was a cousin or a brother or a nephew or a son or something or other to a German general or statesman or something or other, and that he had got into the American army by a pretty narrow squeak. There seemed to be a unanimity of opinion in the lower strata of Uncle Sam's official family in Liverpool that the soldier who had talked with the young lady was coming over on the transport Manchester and it was assumed (no one seemed to know exactly why) that the mysterious and sinister personage would be upon the same ship.

But no soldier had been found upon the Manchester who showed by his appearance that he had chatted with a young lady. Perhaps several of them had done that. It is a way soldiers have.

As for the arch spy or propagandist, he did not come forward and introduce himself as such, and though a few selected suspects of German antecedents were searched and catechised by Mr. Conne and others, no one was held.

And there you are.

Rumors of this kind are always in circulation and the Secret Service people run them down as a matter of precaution. But though you can run a rumor down and stab it through and through you cannot kill it. It now appeared that this German agent had sailed from Mexico and would land at Brest—with a message to some French statesman. Also it appeared that he had stolen a secret from Edison and would land at Dieppe. It had also been reported that someone had attempted to blow up the loaded transport Texas Pioneer on her way over.

And so Mr. Carleton Conne, of the American Secret Service, quiet, observant, uncommunicative, never too sanguine and never too skeptical, had strolled on to the Channel Queen, lighted his cigar, and was now tilted back in his chair outside the Quartermaster's office in Dieppe, not at all excited and waiting for the Texas Pioneer to dock.

He had done this because he believed that where there is a great deal of smoke there is apt to be a little fire. He was never ruffled, never disappointed.

Tom's acquaintance with Mr. Conne had begun on the transport on which he had worked as a steward's boy, and where his observant qualities and stolid soberness had attracted and amused the detective.

"I never thought I'd see you here," said Tom, his face lighting up to an unusual degree. "I'm a dispatch-rider now. I just rode from Cantigny. I got a letter for the Quartermaster, but anyway he's got to turn me over to the Secret Service (Mr. Conne regarded him with whimsical attention as he stumbled on), because there's a plot and somebody—a spy—kind of——"

"A spy, kind of, eh?"

"And I hope the Texas Pioneer didn't land yet, that's one sure thing."

"It's one sure thing that she'll dock in about fifteen minutes, Tommy," said Mr. Conne rising. "Come inside and deliver your message. What's the matter with your machine? Been trying to wipe out the Germans alone and unaided, like the hero in a story book?"

Tom followed him in, clumsily telling the story of his exciting journey; "talking in chunks," as he usually did and leaving many gaps to be filled in by the listener.

"I'm glad I found you here, anyway," he finished, as if that were the only part that really counted; "'cause now I feel as if I can tell about an idea I've got. I'd of been scared to tell it to anybody else. I ain't exactly got it yet," he added, "but maybe I can help even better than they thought, 'cause as I was ridin' along I had a kind of an idea——"

"Yes?"

"Kind of. Did you ever notice how you get fool ideas when there's a steady noise going on?"

"So?" said Mr. Conne, as he led the way along a hall.

"It was the noise of my machine."

"How about the smell, Tommy?" Mr. Conne asked, glancing around with that pleasant, funny look which Tom had known so well.

"You don't get ideas from smells," he answered soberly.

In the Quartermaster's office he waited on a bench while Mr. Conne and several other men, two in uniform and two that he thought might be Secret Service men, talked in undertones. If he had been a hero in a book, to use Mr. Conne's phrase, these officials would doubtless have been assembled about him listening to his tale, but as it was he was left quite out of the conference until, near its end, he was summoned to tell of his capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer and asked if he thought he could identify a close relation of that high and mighty personage simply by seeing him pass as a total stranger.

Tom thought he might "by a special way," and explained his knowledge of breed marks and specie marks. He added, in his stolid way, that he had another idea, too. But they did not ask him what that was. One of the party, a naval officer, expressed surprise that he had ridden all the way from Cantigny and asked him if it were not true that part of the road was made impassible by floods. Tom answered that there were floods but that they were not impassible "if you knew how." The officer said he supposed Tom knew how, and Tom regarded this as a compliment.

Soon, to his relief, Mr. Conne took all the papers in the case and left the room, beckoning Tom to follow him. Another man in civilian clothes hurried away and Tom thought he might be going to the dock. It seemed to him that his rather doubtful ability to find a needle in a haystack had not made much of an impression upon these officials, and he wondered ruefully what Mr. Conne thought. He saw that his arrival with the papers had produced an enlivening effect among the officials, but it seemed that he himself was not taken very seriously. Well, in any event, he had made the trip, he had beaten the ship, delivered the message to Garcia.

"I got to go down and turn my grease cup before I forget it," he said, as they came out on the little stone portico again.

Several soldiers who were soon to see more harrowing sights than a bunged-up motorcycle, were gathered about Uncle Sam, gaping at him and commenting upon his disfigurements. Big U. S. A. auto trucks were passing by. A squad of German prisoners, of lowering and sullen aspect, marched by with wheelbarrows full of gray blankets. They were keeping perfect step, through sheer force of habit. Another dispatch-rider (a "local") passed by, casting a curious eye at Uncle Sam. A French child who sat upon the step had one of his wooden shoes full of smoky, used bullets, which he seemed greatly to prize. Several "flivver" ambulances stood across the way, new and roughly made, destined for the front. American naval and military officers were all about.

"We haven't got much time to spare, Tommy," said Mr. Conne, resuming his former seat and glancing at his watch.

"It's only a second. I just got to turn the grease cup."

He hurried down past the child, who called him "M'sieu Yankee," and elbowed his way through the group of soldiers who were standing about Uncle Sam.

"Your timer bar's bent," one of them volunteered.

Tom did not answer, but knelt and turned the grease cup, then wiped the nickel surfaces, bent and dented though they were, with a piece of cotton waste. Then he felt of his tires. Then he adjusted the position of the handle-bar more to his liking and as he did so the poor, dented, glassless searchlight bobbed over sideways as if to look at the middle of the street. Tom said something which was not audible to the curious onlookers. Perhaps Uncle Sam heard.

The local rider came jogging around the corner on his way back. His machine was American-made and a medley of nickel and polished brass. As he made the turn his polished searchlight, with a tiny flag perched jauntily upon it, seemed to be looking straight at Uncle Sam. And Uncle Sam's green-besprinkled,[3] glassless eye seemed to be leering with a kind of sophisticated look at the passing machine. It was the kind of look which the Chicago Limited might give to the five-thirty suburban starting with its load of New York commuters for East Orange, New Jersey.

[3] The effect of water on brass is to produce a greenish, superficial erosion.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"MADE IN GERMANY"

"Now, Tommy, let's hear your idea," said Mr. Conne, indulgently, as he worked his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "I find there's generally a little fire where there's a good deal of smoke. There's somebody or other, as you say, but the trouble is we don't know who he is. We think maybe he looks like someone you've seen. We think he may have a patent ear." He looked at Tom sideways and Tom could not help laughing. Then he looked at the mysterious letter with a funny, ruminating look.

"What can we—you—do?" Tom ventured to ask, feeling somewhat squelched.

Mr. Conne screwed up his mouth with a dubious look. "Search everybody on board, two or three thousand, quiz a few, that's about all. It'll take a long time and probably reveal nothing. Family resemblances are all right when you know both members, Tommy, but out in the big world—Well, let's look this over again," he added, taking up the letter.

Tom knew that he was not being consulted. He had a feeling that his suggestion about breed marks and personal resemblances was not being taken seriously. He was glad that he had not put his foot too far in by telling of his other precious idea. But he was proud of Mr. Conne's companionable attitude toward him. He was proud to be the friend of such a man. He was delighted at the thought of participation in this matter. He knew Mr. Conne liked him and had at least a good enough opinion of him to adopt the appearance of conferring with him. Mr. Conne's rather whimsical attitude toward this conference did not lessen his pride.

"Let's see now," said the detective. "This thing evidently went through Holland in code. It's a rendering."

It was easy for Tom to believe that Mr. Conne was re-reading the letter just to himself—or to himself and Tom.

"Let's see now—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. I wish he'd cross his arms when he comes ashore. He's evidently planning to get himself captured. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth trying. Hmm! Probably thought of deserting at the wharf and getting into Holland or Belgium. No, that wouldn't be worth trying. As for the code key, that'll be safe enough—they'll never find it. Hmm! If it wasn't for the—what's all this—the English swine. Humph! They fight pretty good for swine, don't they, Tommy? As far as I can ascertain, we'll go on the T. P. We know that much, anyway, thanks to you, Tommy." (Tom felt highly elated.) "There was some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is to cheer when they play the S. S. B. over here. Humph! That's worth knowing. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him——

"He didn't," said Mr. Conne dryly; "I was the one who caught him.—because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on the safe side. Safety first, hey? I have notice from H. not to use it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands before—Seems to be blotted out—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. He means actual, concealed or disguised form, I s'pose. The idea is L.'s. I suppose he means the manner of concealing the key and credentials."

"Yes," said Tom rather excitedly.

Mr. Conne glanced at him, joggled his cigar, and went on,

"You remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds. So don't fall to have them watch out."

"Hmm!" concluded Mr. Conne ruminatively. "You see what they're up to. We caught Schmitter in Philadelphia. They think maybe Schmitter had the key of a code with him. So they're changing the code and sending the key to it across with this somebody or other. That's about the size of it. He's got a lot of information, too, in his head, where we can't get at it."

"But his credentials will have to be something that can be seen, won't they?" Tom ventured to ask.

"Prob'ly. You see, he means to desert or get captured. It's a long way round, but about the best one—for him. Think of that snake wearing Uncle Sam's uniform!"

"It makes me mad, too—kind of," said Tom.

"So he's probably got some secret means of identification about him, and probably the new code key in actual form—somewhere else than just in his head. Then there'd be a chance of getting it across even if he fell. We'll give him an acid bath and look in his shoes if we can find him. The whole thing hangs on a pretty thin thread. They used to have invisible writing on their backs till we started the acid bath."

He whistled reflectively for a few moments, while Tom struggled to muster the courage to say something that he wished to say.

"Could I tell you about that other idea of mine?" he blurted finally.

"You sure can, Tommy. That's about all we're likely to get—ideas." And he glanced at Tom again with that funny, sideways look. "Shoot, my boy."

"It's only this," said Tom, still not without some trepidation, "and maybe you'll say it's no good. You told me once not to be thinking of things that's none of my business."

"Uncle Sam's business is our business now, Tommy boy."

"Well, then, it's just this, and I was thinking about it while I was riding just after I started away from Cantigny. Mostly I was thinking about it after I took that last special look at old Piff——"

Mr. Conne chuckled. "I see," he said encouragingly.

"Whoever that feller is," said Tom, "there's one thing sure. If he's comin' as a soldier he won't get to the front very soon, 'cause they're mostly the drafted fellers that are comin' now and they have to go in training over here. I know, 'cause I've seen lots of 'em in billets."

"Hmm," said Mr. Conne.

"So if the feller expects to go to the front and get captured pretty soon, prob'ly he's in a special unit. Maybe I might be all wrong about it—some fellers used to call me Bullhead," he added by way of shaving his boldness down a little.

But Mr. Conne, with hat tilted far down over his forehead and cigar at an outrageously rakish angle, was looking straight ahead of him, at a French flag across the way.

"Go on," he said crisply.

"Anyway, I'm sure the feller wouldn't be an engineer, 'cause mostly they're behind the lines. So I thought maybe he'd be a surgeon——"

Mr. Conne was whistling, almost inaudibly, his eyes fixed upon the flagpole opposite. "He was educated at Heidelberg," said he.

"I didn't think of that," said Tom.

"It's where he met L."

Tom said nothing. His line of reasoning seemed to be lifted quietly away from him. Mr. Conne was turning the kaleidoscope and showing him new designs. "He took L. home for the holidays," he quietly observed. "Old Piff and the boys."

"I—I didn't think of that," said Tom, rather crestfallen.

"You didn't ride fast enough and make enough noise," Mr. Conne said. His eyes were still fixed on the fluttering tricolor and he whistled very low. Then he rubbed his lip with his tongue and aimed his cigar in another direction.

"They were studying medicine there, I guess," he mused.

"That's just what my idea's about," said Tom. "It ain't an idea exactly, either," he added, "but it's kind of come to me sudden-like. You know what a hunch is, don't you? There's something there about somebody having a cataract, and that's something the matter with your eyes; Mr. Temple had one. So maybe that feller L. that he met again is an eye doctor. Long before the war started they told Mr. Temple maybe he ought to go to Berlin to see the eye specialists there—'cause they're so fine. So maybe the spy is a surgeon and L. is an eye doctor. It says how he met him again on account of somebody having a cataract. And he said the way of bringing the code key was L.'s idea. I read about a dentist that had a piece of paper with writing on it rolled up in his tooth. He was a spy. So that made me think maybe L.'s idea had something to do with eyes or glasses, as you might say."

"Hmm! Go on. Anything else?"

"But, anyway, that ain't the idea I had. In Temple Camp there was a scout that had a little pocket looking-glass and you couldn't see anything on it but your own reflection. But all you had to do was to breathe on it and there was a picture—all mountains and a castle, like. Then it would fade away again right away. Roy Blakeley wanted to swap his scout knife for it, but the feller wouldn't do it. On the back of it it said Made in Germany. It just came to me sudden-like that maybe that was L.'s idea and they'd have it on a pair of spectacles. Maybe it's a kind of crazy idea, but——"

He looked doubtfully at Mr. Conne, who still sat tilted back, hat almost hiding his face, cigar sticking out from under it like a camouflaged field-piece. He was whistling very quietly, "Oh, boy, where do we go from here?" He had whistled that same tune more than a year before when he was waiting for a glimpse of "Dr. Curry," spy and bomb plotter, aboard the vessel on which Tom was working at that time. He had whistled it as he escorted the "doctor" down the companionway. How well Tom remembered!

"Come on, Tommy," he said, jumping suddenly to his feet.

Tom followed. But Mr. Conne did not speak; he was still busy with the tune. Only now he was singing the words. There was something portentous in the careless way he sang them. It took Tom back to the days when it was the battle hymn of the transport:

"And when we meet a pretty girl, we whisper in her ear, Oh, Boy! Oh, Joy! Where do we go from here?"



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"NOW YOU SEE IT, NOW YOU DON'T"

The big transport Texas Pioneer came slowly about in obedience to her straining ropes and rubbed her mammoth side against the long wharf. Up and down, this way and that, slanting-wise and curved, drab and gray and white and red, the grotesque design upon her towering freeboard shone like a distorted rainbow in the sunlight. Out of the night she had come, stealing silently through the haunts where murder lurks, and the same dancing rays which had run ahead of the dispatch-rider and turned to mock him, had gilded her mighty prow as if to say, "Behold, I have reached you first."

At her rail crowded hundreds of boys in khaki, demanding in English and atrocious French to know where they were.

"Are we in France?" one called.

"Where's the Boiderberlong, anyway?" another shouted, the famous Parisian boulevard evidently being his only means of identifying France.

"Is that Napoleon's tomb?" another demanded, pointing to a little round building.

"Look at the pile of hams," shouted another gazing over the rail at a stack of that delectable. "Maybe we're in Hamburg!"

"This is Dippy," his neighbor corrected him.

"You mean Deppy," another said.

And so on and so on. There seemed to be hundreds of them, thousands of them, and all on a gigantic picnic.

"Which is the quickest way to Berlin?" one called, addressing the throng impartially.

"Second turn to your left."

Some of these boys would settle down in France and make it their long, final home, under little wooden crosses. But they did not seem to think of that.

At the foot of the gangplank stood the dispatch-rider and the man with the cigar. Several other men, evidently of their party, stood near by. Mr. Conne's head was cocked sideways and he scanned the gangway with a leisurely, self-assured look. Tom was shaking all over—the victim of suppressed excitement. He had been less excited on that memorable morning when he had "done his bit" at Cantigny.

It seemed to be in the air that something unusual was likely to happen. Workers, passing with their wheelbarrows and hand trucks, slackened their pace and dallied as long as they dared, near the gangplank. They were quickly moved along. Tom shifted from one foot to the other, waiting. Mr. Conne worked his cigar over to the opposite corner of his mouth and observed to an American officer that the day was going to be warm. Then he glanced up and smiled pleasantly at the boys crowding at the rail. He might have been waiting on a street corner for a car.

"Not nervous, are you?" he smiled at Tom.

"Not exactly," said Tom, with his usual candor; "but it seems as if nothing can happen at all, now that we're here. It seems different, thinking up things when you're riding along the road—kind of."

"Uh huh."

Presently the soldiers began coming down the gangplank.

"You watch for resemblances and I'll do the rest," said Mr. Conne in a low tone. "Give yourself the benefit of every doubt. Know what I mean?"

"Yes—I do."

"I can't help you there."

Tom felt a certain compunction at scrutinizing these fine, American fellows as they came down with their kits—hearty, boisterous, open-hearted. He felt that it was unworthy of him to suspect any of this laughing, bantering army, of crime—and such a crime! Treason! In the hope of catching one he must scrutinize them all, and in his generous heart it seemed to put a stigma on them all. He hoped he wouldn't see anyone who looked like Major von Piffinhoeffer. Then he hoped he would. Then he wondered if he would dare to look at him after—— And suppose he should be mistaken. He did not like this sort of work at all now that he was face to face with it. He would rather be off with Uncle Sam, riding along the French roads, with the French children calling to him. For the first time in his life he was nervous and afraid—not of being caught but of catching someone; of the danger of suspecting and being mistaken.

Mr. Conne, who never missed anything, noticed his perturbation and patted him on the shoulder saying,

"All kinds of work have to be done, Tommy."

Tom tried to smile back at him.

Down the long gangplank they came, one after another, pushing each other, tripping each other—joking, laughing. Among them came a young private, wearing glasses, who was singing,

"Good-bye, Broadway. Hello, France!"

He was startled out of his careless merriment by a tap on the shoulder from Mr. Conne, and almost before Tom realized what had happened, he was standing blinking at one of the other Secret Service men who was handing him back his glasses.

"All right, my boy," said Mr. Conne pleasantly, which seemed to wipe out any indignity the young man might have felt.

Tom looked up the gangplank as they surged down, holding the rail to steady them on the steep incline. Nobody seemed to have noticed what had happened.

"Keep your mind on your part, Tommy," said Mr. Conne warningly.

Tom saw that of all those in sight only one wore glasses—a black-haired youth who kept his hands on the shoulders of the man before him. Tom made up his mind that he, in any event, would not detain this fellow on the ground of anything in his appearance, nor any of the others now in sight. He was drawn aside by Mr. Conne, however, and became the object of attention of the other Secret Service men.

Tom kept his eyes riveted upon the gangplank. One, two, more, wearing glasses, came in view, were stopped, examined, and passed on. After that perhaps a hundred passed down and away, none of them with glasses, and all of them he scrutinized carefully. Now another, with neatly adjusted rimless glasses, came down. He had a clean-cut, professional look. Tom did not take his eyes off the descending column for a second, but he heard Mr. Conne say pleasantly,

"Just a minute."

He was glad when he was conscious of this fine-looking young American passing on.

So it went.

There were some whom poor Tom might have been inclined to stop by way of precaution for no better reason than that they had a rough-and-ready look—hard fellows. He was glad—half glad—when Mr. Conne, for reasons of his own, detained one, then another, of these, though they wore no glasses. And he felt like apologizing to them for his momentary suspicion, as he saw them pause surprised, answer frankly and honestly and pass on.

Then came a young officer, immaculately attired, his leather leggings shining, his uniform fitting him as if he had been moulded into it. He wore little rimless eye-glasses. He might lead a raiding party for all that; but he was a bit pompous and very self-conscious. Tom was rather gratified to see him hailed aside.

Nothing.

Down they came, holding both rails and lifting their feet to swing, like school boys—hundreds of them, thousands of them, it seemed. Tom watched them all keenly as they passed out like an endless ribbon from a magician's hat. There seemed to be no end of them.

There came now a fellow whom he watched closely. He had blond hair and blue eyes, but no glasses. He looked something like—something like—oh, who? Fritzie Schmitt, whom he used to know in Bridgeboro. No, he didn't—not so much.

But his blond hair and blue eyes did not escape Mr. Conne.

Nothing.

"Watching, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir."

A hundred more, two hundred, and then a young sergeant with glasses.

While this young man was undergoing his ordeal (whatever it was, for Tom kept his eyes riveted on the gangway), there appeared the tall figure of a lieutenant. Tom thought he was of the medical corps, but he was not certain. He seemed to be looking down at Mr. Conne's little group, with a fierce, piercing stare. He wore horned spectacles of goodly circumference and as Tom's eyes followed the thick, left wing of these, he saw that it embraced an ear which stood out prominently. Both the ear and the piercing eagle gaze set him all agog.

Should he speak? The lieutenant was gazing steadfastly down at Mr. Conne and coming nearer with every step. Of course, Mr. Conne would stop him anyway, but—— To mention that piercing stare and that ear after the man had been stopped for the more tangible reason—there would be no triumph in that.

Tom's hand trembled like a leaf and his voice was unsteady as he turned to Mr. Conne, and said.

"This one coming down—the one that's looking at you—he looks like—and I notice——"

"Put your hands down, my man," called Mr. Conne peremptorily, at the same time leaping with the agility of a panther up past the descending throng. "I'll take those."

But Tom Slade had spoken first. He did not know whether Mr. Conne's sudden dash had been prompted by his words or not. He saw him lift the heavy spectacles off the man's ears and with beating heart watched him as he came down alongside the lieutenant.

"Going to throw them away, eh?" he heard Mr. Conne say.

Evidently the man, seeing another's glasses examined, had tried to remove his own before he reached the place of inspection. Mr. Conne, who saw everything, had seen this. But Tom had spoken before Mr. Conne moved and he was satisfied.

"All right, Tommy," said Mr. Conne in his easy way. "You beat me to it."

Tom hardly knew what took place in the next few moments. He saw Mr. Conne breathe upon the glasses, was conscious of soldiers slackening their pace to see and hear what was going on, and of their being ordered forward. He saw the two men who were with Mr. Conne standing beside the tall lieutenant, who seemed bewildered. He noticed (it is funny how one notices these little things amid such great things) the little ring of red upon the lieutenant's nose where the glasses had sat.

"There you are, see?" he heard Mr. Conne say quietly, breathing heavily upon the glasses and holding them up to the light, for the benefit of his colleagues. "B L—two dots—X—see—Plain as day. See there, Tommy!"

He breathed upon them again and held them quickly up so that Tom could see.

"Yes, sir," Tom stammered, somewhat perturbed at such official attention.

"Look in the other one, too, Tommy—now—quick!"

"Oh, yes," said Tom as the strange figures die away. He felt very proud, and not a little uncomfortable at being drawn into the centre of things. And he did not feel slighted as he saw Mr. Conne and the captive lieutenant, and the other officials whom he did not know, start away thoughtless of anything else in the stress of the extraordinary affair. He followed because he did not know what else to do, and he supposed they wished him to follow. Outside the wharf he got Uncle Sam and wheeled him along at a respectful distance behind these high officials. So he had one companion. Several times Mr. Conne looked back at him and smiled. And once he said in that funny way of his,

"All right, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, trudging along. He had been greatly agitated, but his wonted stolidness was returning now. Probably he felt more comfortable and at home coming along behind with Uncle Sam than he would have felt in the midst of this group where the vilest treason walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of Uncle Sam.

Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom were following. His cigar was stuck up in the corner; of his mouth as usual and he gave Tom a whimsical look.

"You hit the Piff family at both ends, didn't you, Tommy."

"Y-yes, sir," said Tom.



CHAPTER THIRTY

HE DISAPPEARS

Swiftly and silently along the quiet, winding road sped the dispatch-rider. Away from the ocean he was hurrying, where the great ships were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge; away from scenes of debarkation where Uncle Sam was pouring his endless wealth of courage and determination into bleeding, suffering, gallant France.

Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant villa, through village and hamlet, and farther and farther into the East, bound for the little corner of the big salient whence he had come.

He bore with him a packet and some letters. One was to be left at Neufchatel; others at Breteuil. There was one in particular for Cantigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did not know that. He never concerned himself with the contents of his papers.

So he sped along, thinking how he would get a new headlight for Uncle Sam and a new mud-guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny would wonder what had happened to his machine. He had no thought of telling them. There was nothing to tell.

Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had come from the blue hills of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon the handle-bar of Uncle Sam, which the rider held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they knew so well. Back from the coast they sped, those two, along the winding road which lay on hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow of the first twilight. Swiftly and silently they sped. Hills rose and fell, the fair panorama of the lowlands with its quaint old houses here and there opened before them. And so they journeyed on into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy and Flanders—for service as required.

(END)

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EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY BOY SCOUT EDITION SIMILAR TO THIS VOLUME

The Boy Scouts of America in making up this Library, selected only such books as had been proven by a nation-wide canvass to be most universally in demand among the boys themselves. Originally published in more expensive editions only, they are now, under the direction of the Scout's National Council, re-issued at a lower price so that all boys may have the advantage of reading and owning them. It is the only series of books published under the control of this great organization, whose sole object is the welfare and happiness of the boy himself. For the first time in history a guaranteed library is available, and at a price so low as to be within the reach of all.

ALONG THE MOHAWK TRAIL Percy K. Fitzhugh

ANIMAL HEROES Ernest Thompson Seton

BABY ELTON, QUARTER-BACK Leslie W. Quirk

BARTLEY, FRESHMAN PITCHER William Heyliger

BE PREPARED, THE BOY SCOUTS IN FLORIDA A. W. Bimock

BEN-HUR Lew Wallace

BOAT-BUILDING AND BOATING Dan. Beard

THE BOY SCOUTS OF BLACK EAGLE PATROL Leslie W. Quirk

THE BOY SCOUTS OF BOB'S HILL Charles Pierce Burton

THE BOYS' BOOK OF NEW INVENTIONS Harry E. Maule

BUCCANEERS AND PIRATES OF OUR COASTS Frank R. Stockton

THE CALL OF THE WILD Jack London

CATTLE RANCH TO COLLEGE Russell Doubleday

COLLEGE YEARS Ralph D. Paine

CROOKED TRAILS Frederic Remington

THE CRUISE OF THE CACHALOT Frank T. Bullen

THE CRUISE OF THE DAZZLER Jack London

DANNY FISTS Walter Camp

FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL Ralph Henry Barbour

A GUNNER ABOARD THE "YANKEE" From the Diary of Number Five of the After Port Gun

THE HALF-BACK Ralph Henry Barbour

HANDBOOK FOR BOYS, REVISED EDITION Boy Scouts of America

HANDICRAFT FOR OUTDOOR BOYS Dan. Beard

THE HORSEMEN OF THE PLAINS Joseph A. Altsheler

JEB HUTTON; THE STORY OF A GEORGIA BOY James B. Connolly

THE JESTER OF ST. TIMOTHY'S Arthur Stanwood Pier

JIM DAVIS John Masefield

KIDNAPPED Robert Louis Stevenson

LAST OF THE CHIEFS Joseph A. Altsheler

LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN Zane Grey

THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS James Fenimore Cooper

A MIDSHIPMAN IN THE PACIFIC Cyrus Townsend Brady

PITCHING IN A PINCH Christy Mathewson

RANCHE ON THE OXHIDE Henry Inman

REDNEY MCGAW; A CIRCUS STORY FOR BOYS Arthur E. McFarlane

THE SCHOOL DAYS OF ELLIOTT GRAY, JR. Colton Maynard

SCOUTING WITH DANIEL BOONE Everett T. Tomlinson

THREE YEARS BEHIND THE GUNS Lieu Tisdale

TOMMY REMINGTON'S BATTLE Burton E. Stevenson

TECUMSEH'S YOUNG BRAVES Everett T. Tomlinson

TOM STRONG, WASHINGTON'S SCOUT Alfred Bishop Mason

TO THE LAND OF THE CARIBOU Paul Greene Tomlinson

TREASURE ISLAND Robert Louis Stevenson

20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA Jules Verne

UNGAVA BOB; A TALE OF THE FUR TRAPPERS Dillon Wallace

WELLS BROTHERS; THE YOUNG CATTLE KINGS Andy Adams

WILLIAMS OF WEST POINT Hugh S. Johnson

THE WIRELESS MAN; HIS WORK AND ADVENTURES Francis A. Collins

THE WOLF HUNTERS George Bird Grinnell

THE WRECKING MASTER Ralph D. Paine

YANKEE SHIPS AND YANKEE SAILORS James Barnes

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK

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THE EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW SERIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

BIRDS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Neltje Blanchan. Illustrated

EARTH AND SKY EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Julia Ellen Rogers. Illustrated

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FAIRY TALES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited By Hamilton W. Mabie

FAMOUS STORIES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited By Hamilton W. Mabie

FOLK TALES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Hamilton W. Mabie

HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Hamilton W. Mabie

HEROINES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Coedited by Hamilton W. Mabie and Kate Stephens

HYMNS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Dolores Bacon

LEGENDS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Hamilton W. Mabie

MYTHS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW' Edited by Hamilton W. Mabie

OPERAS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Dolores Bacon. Illustrated

PICTURES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Dolores Bacon. Illustrated

POEMS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Mary E. Burt

PROSE EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Mary E. Burt

SONGS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW Edited by Dolores Bacon

TREES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Julia Ellen Rogers. Illustrated

WATER WONDERS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Jean M. Thompson. Illustrated

WILD ANIMALS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW By Julia Ellen Rogers. Illustrated

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THE EDITORS; AND WHAT THE CHILDREN'S CRIMSON SERIES OFFERS YOUR CHILD

In the first place, "The Children's Crimson Series" is designed to please and interest every child, by reason of the sheer fascination of the stories and poems contained therein.

To accomplish such an end, a vast amount of patient labor, a rare judgment, a life-long study of children, and a genuine love for all that is best in literature, are essential factors of success.

Kate Douglas Wiggin (Mrs. Riggs) and Nora Archibald Smith possess these qualities and this experience. Their efforts, as pioneers of kindergarten work, the love and admiration in which their works are held by all young people, prove them to be in full sympathy with this unique piece of work.

Let all parents, who wish their little ones to have their minds and tastes developed along the right paths, remember that once a child is interested and amused, the rest is comparatively easy. Stories and poems so admirably selected, cannot then but sow the seeds of a real literary culture, which must be encouraged in childhood if it is ever to exercise a real influence in life.

EDITED BY KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AND NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

THE FAIRY RING: Fairy Tales for Children 4 to 8

MAGIC CASEMENTS: Fairy Tales for Children 6 to 12

TALES OF LAUGHTER: Fairy Tales for Growing Boys and Girls

TALES OF WONDER: Fairy Tales that Make One Wonder

PINAFORE PALACE: Rhymes and Jingles for Tiny Tots

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THE TALKING BEASTS: Birds and Beasts in Fable Edited by Asa Don Dickinson

CHRISTMAS STORIES: "Read Us a Story About Christmas" Edited by Mary E. Burt and W. T. Chapin

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THE END