It was a long time before they got down to the subject of the engine, but when they did they discussed it for the greater part of the night, for, of course, they bunked together.

"First I thought it was the triphammer," said Archer; "then I thought it was the mixing valve; then I thought it was bronchitis on account of the noise it made, and after that I decided it was German measles. Blamed if I know what's the matter with it. It's got the pip, I guess. I was going to file a nick in the make-and-break business but they're too foxy to give me a file. Now I wish I had a hammer and I'd knock the whole blamed business to smithereens."

"Have a heart," laughed Tom. "And keep still, I want to go asleep. We'll look at it in the morning."

"Did I tell you how we made a hand grenade full of old tomatoes near Rheims?"

"No, but I want to go to sleep now," said Tom.

"It landed plunk on a German officer's bun; Charlie Waite saw it from his plane."

"Good night," laughed Tom.



CHAPTER XXVI

HE HAS AN IDEA WHICH SUGGESTS ANOTHER

In the morning, after grub line-up, they lost no time in going to the pump. Here, at least, was something to occupy Tom's mind and afford Archer fresh material for banter.

"D'I tell you how I was kiddin' the niggerr we had in the life boat—when it was leakin'?"

"No," said Tom, ready for anything.

"Told him to bore anotherr hole so the waterr could get out again. Did I tell you 'bout——"

"Here we are, let's take a look at the engine," said Tom.

It was one of those one-cylinder kickers, about two horse power, and had an independent disposition.

"Know what I think would be the best thing for it?" said the chief engineer. "Dynamite. D'I tell you 'bout the sharrk eatin' a bomb?"

"Is there any gas in the tank?" said Tom.

"Sure is, but I dunno what kind it is. Mebbe it's poison gas, for all I know. There was a fellow in Ireland when we——"

Tom ignored him, and making a guess adjustment of the mixing valve, opened the gas and threw the wheel over. "No batteries—magneto, huh?"

"Yes, but it don't magnete. I'd ruther have a couple o' batteries that would bat."

A few crankings and the little engine started, missing frightfully.

"She'll stop in a minute," said Archer, and so she did. "We've all taken a crack at the carbureter and the timer," he added, "but nothin' doin'. It's cussedness, I say."

Tom started it again, listening as it missed, went faster, slowed down, stopped. It was getting gas and getting air and the bearings did not bind. He tried it again. It ran lamely and stopped, but started all right again whenever he cranked it, provided he waited a minute or two between each trial.

"Can you beat that?" said Archer.

"There's water getting into the cylinder," Tom said.

"Cylinder's lucky. We poor guys got to go way down the other end of the earth to get water."

"Maybe the water in the water jacket froze last winter and cracked the cylinder wall and the crack didn't let any through at first, most likely. You can't get your explosions right if there's water. That's why it starts first off and keeps going till the water works through. 'Tisn't much of a crack, I guess. A file wouldn't be any more use than a teaspoon."

"A what? Believe me, I wouldn't know a teaspoon if I saw one," said Archer.

"If we had a wrench to get the cylinder head off," said Tom, "I could show you."

"It's the end of that engine," said Archer.

"Depends on how bad it is. If it's only a little crack sometimes you can fix it with a chemical—sal ammoniac. It kind of—corrodes, I think they call it—right where the crack is and it'll work all right for quite a while. We had a cracked cylinder on our scout boat one time."

Archer was generously pleased at Tom's sagacity and showed no professional jealousy. Before that day was over every prisoner in the camp knew that the rusty, dilapidated engine which languished near the pump was good for another season of usefulness. If Archer was not a good engineer he was at least a good promoter, and he started a grand drive for a rejuvenated pump. The R's rolled out of his busy mouth as the water had not flowed from the pump in many a day.

A petition a yard long was passed about and everybody signed it with lukewarm interest. It besought General von Griffenhaus either to have the cylinder head of the engine removed or a wrench loaned to Tom Slade for that purpose.

The prisoners did not lose any sleep over this enterprise, for both Tom and Archer were young and Archer at least was regarded as an irresponsible soul, whose mission on earth was to cause trifling annoyance and much amusement. Tom, sober, silent and new among them, was an unknown quantity.

"Doncher care," said Archer. "Robert Fulton had a lot o' trouble and nobuddy b'lieved him, and all that."

Tom was ready to stand upon his pronouncement of a cracked water jacket and, that established, he believed a little bottle of sal ammoniac would be easy to procure. When the pump was running again they would all be glad to use it and meanwhile they might laugh and call him the "consulting engineer" if they wanted to.

At last Archer, having boosted this laggard campaign with amazing energy, elected himself the one to present the imposing petition to General von Griffenhaus, because, as he said, he was never rattled in the presence of greatness, which was quite true. He caught the general on inspection tour and prayed for a monkey wrench with the humility but determination of the old barons before King John.

When he returned to their box-stall abode he triumphantly announced that "Old Griff" had surrendered with the one portentous sentence, "Ach! I vill see aboud this!" He found Tom sitting back against the board partition, arms about his drawn-up knees, sober and thoughtful.

"Ain't gettin' cold feet, are you?" Archer asked.

Tom looked at him, but did not speak.

"You ain't afraid there's something else the matter with the engine, after all, are you?" Archer asked, anxiously. "I don't want this whole bunch guyin' me—afterr the petition, and all."

"It's the way I said," said Tom dully.

"Not sore 'cause they've been kiddin' us, are you? You can't blame 'em fer that; they've got nothin' else to do. Look at Columbus, how they guyed him—and all. But they were thankful afterward all right, all right—those greasy Spaniards. D'I tell you 'bout the way I——"

"I don't mind their kiddin'," Tom interrupted; "I had a lot of that on the ship. And I know they'll be glad when the pump's running. I was thinkin' about something else. Come on, let's go out and hike." He always called those little restricted walks about the enclosure, hiking. He could not forget the good scout word.

When they had walked for some little way Tom looked about to see if there was anyone near. The safest place for secrets and confidences is out in the open. He hesitated, made a couple of false starts, then began:

"There's somethin' I've always thought about ever since I came here. I don't know if you've ever thought about it—I know you like adventures, but you're kind of——" He meant irresponsible and rattle-brained, but he did not want to say so. "And I wouldn't want to see you get in any trouble on account of me. You're different from me. You see, for a special reason I got to go and fight. Whatever you do, will you promise not to say anything to anybody?"

Archer, somewhat bewildered, promised.

"I'm going to get away," said Tom simply.

"You must be crazy," Archer said, staring at him in astonishment. "How are you going to do it? Didn't I tell you, you couldn't even get a file?"

Tom went on seriously.

"I'd like to have you go with me only I don't know if you'd want to take a chance the same as I would."

"Sure, I'd take a chance, but——"

"You don't have to go and I do," Tom interrupted. "That's what I mean. If the war should end and I didn't fight, I'd be a kind of a—— I mean I got to fight for two people. I got to. So it ain't a question of whether I take a chance or not. And it ain't a question of whether it's fair to try and escape. 'Cause I got that all settled."

Archer said nothing, but looked at Tom just as he had first looked at him a year ago, and tried to dope him out. For a few paces they walked in silence.

"If you take a chance, I take a chance with you," Archer said.

"If anybody should discover us and call for us to halt, I'm not going to halt," said Tom.

"Believe me, I'll sprint," said Archer, "but that part's a cinch anyway——"

"It ain't a cinch," said Tom, "but I got to do it. I got a little button a French soldier gave me that'll help me get through Alsace. His people live there—in Leture—I mean Dundgardt."

"That's only six miles down," said Archer.

"That's so much the better," said Tom; "if I can once get that far——"

"Don't say I—say we."

"We'll be all right," finished Tom.

"But what's the use talking about it, when we got that tangle of wire out there in front of us all the way round?"

"You know where it runs through the bushes at the other end?" said Tom.

"Yes, and if you made a sound down there you'd be heard! Besides, where you goin' to get the file?"

"I'm hoping to have that to-morrow."

"You got your work cut out for you, gettin' it."

"If that stuff will corrode a cylinder wall it'll corrode wire," said Tom, after a few moments' silence. "It might take a few days, but after that you could break the wire with your fingers. It wouldn't make any noise. That ain't what I wanted to ask you about—'cause I know about that. The thing is, are you with me? You got to judge for yourself, 'cause it's risky."

Archer hit him a rap on the shoulder, then put his arm in friendly fashion about his neck.

"Slady, I'm with you strong as mustarrd," said he; "did I tell you 'bout the feller I met in France that escaped from Siberia——"

"And keep your mouth shut," said Tom. "First we got to fix the engine."



CHAPTER XXVII

HE PLANS A DESPERATE GAME AND DOES A GOOD JOB

Archer was thoroughly game, Tom knew that, but he did not want to involve him in his own peril unless his friend fully realized what it meant. With himself, as he had said, it was different. But he might have saved himself any worry about his friend. Archer was not only game; he was delighted.

Needless to say, they slept little that night. In the morning they were given a wrench with which they removed the cylinder head amid the gibes of a group of spectators. And there, sure enough, after the piston was disconnected and removed, they found a little, thin crack in the inner cylinder wall.

"Feel o' that," said Archer, triumphantly rubbing his finger nail across it, for it was more easily felt than seen, "and then go away back and sit down, the whole bunch of you. We got a regularr chief engineer here now," he added generously, "and you better treat him decent while he's here."

Tom shuddered for fear he would say too much.

"He might get exchanged any time," said Archer.

"Some boys," remarked one of the prisoners.

"But findin's ain't fixin's," said a British soldier.

"Oh, ain't they though!" said Archer. "We'll have it fixed in—— How long'll it take to fix it, Slady?"

"Maybe a couple of days," said Tom.

"Mybe a couple o' weeks," said the Britisher.

"Mybe it won't, yer jolly good bloomin' ole London fag, you!" mimicked Archer. "It's as good as fixed already."

"Better knock wood, Archie."

"I'll knock something thickerr'n wood if you don't get out o' the way!" said Archer.

One by one they strolled away laughing.

"I'll give that bunch one parting shot, all right!" said Archer.

"Shh!" said Tom, "look out what you're saying."

Whether it was because the grim authorities who presided over this unfortunate community believed that the renewed activity of the pump would be advantageous to themselves, or whether it was just out of the goodness of their hearts that they supplied the small quantity of sal ammoniac, it would be difficult to say, but in the afternoon a small bottle was forthcoming with the label of Herman Schlossen-something-or-other, chemist, of the neighboring town.

The boys smeared some of it on the crack and then poured some into a little vial which had contained toothache drops.

"Things are so bad in Gerrmany they have to use sal ammoniac for files," said Archer. "If the warr keeps up much longer the poor people'll be usin' witch hazel for screw drivers."

"Shhh!" said Tom. It was about all he ever said now.

After dark, with fast beating hearts, they went down to the place which Tom had selected for their operations. It was near the extreme end of the grounds, at a place where the wire ran through some thick shrubbery. Even a file might have been used here, if a file had been procurable, for one might work fully concealed though always in danger of the sentry's hearing the sound. But no file could ever get inside of that camp. They were not even obtainable in the stores of the neighboring town, except upon government order and every letter and package that came to the camp was scrutinized with German thoroughness. Since the recent army reorganization in which the number of sentries at camps all through the Empire had been reduced, and since the discontinuance of electrified wiring at this particular camp, the little file was watched for with greater suspicion than ever before, so that the prisoners had regarded it as a joke when Archer expressed the wish for one. The very thought of a file on the premises was preposterous. And what other way was there to get out?

It was necessary, however, to watch for the sentry outside and here was where the team work came in. Archer spotted the gleam of his rifle at some distance up near the provision gate, and he scurried in that direction to hold him with his usual engaging banter, for even glowering "Fritzie" was not altogether proof against young Archer's wiles and his extraordinary German.

Meanwhile, Tom, first looking in every direction, slipped under the bushes and felt carefully of the wiring. It was not simple flat fencing ranged in orderly strands, but somewhat like the entanglements before the trenches. As best he could, in the dim light, he selected seven places where, if the wiring were parted, he believed it would be possible to get through. The seven points involved four wires. He had to use his brain and calculate, as one does when seeking for the "combination" of a knotted rope, and his old scout habit of studying jungle bush before parting it when on scout hikes, served him in good stead here. He was nothing if not methodical, and neither the danger nor his high hopes interfered with his plodding thoroughness.

Having selected the places, he poured a little of the liquid on the wiring at each spot and hid the bottle in the bushes. Then he rejoined Archer, the first step taken in their risky program.

"How'll I know the places if I go there?" Archer inquired.

"You won't go there," said Tom. "I'll be the one to do that."

"I'm the entertainment committee, hey?"

There was no sleep that night either—nothing but silent thoughtfulness and high expectation and dreadful suspense; for, notwithstanding Archer's loquacity, Tom refused positively to talk in their box stall for fear some one outside might hear.

In the morning they gave the crack in the cylinder another dose (but oh, how prosy and unimportant seemed this business now), and at evening they screwed down the cylinder head, and with a gibing audience about them, wrestled with the mixing valve, slammed the timer this way and that, until the dilapidated old engine began to go—and kept on going.

"There you are," said Archer blithely, as if the glory were all his. "Who're the public benefactors now? Every time you get a drink at that pump you'll think of Slady and me. Hey, Slady?"

The engine kept on going until they stopped it. And the Philistines put aside their unholy mirth and did not stint their praise and gratitude.

"Two plaguy clever American chaps," said a ragged British wireless operator.

"Slade and Archer, Consulting Engineers," said Archer.

It was a great triumph—one of the greatest of the world war, and the only reason that mankind has not heard more about it is probably because of the grudging German censor.

"I'm glad it went," said Archer confidentially. "I was shaking in my shoes."

"There wasn't any reason to shake," said Tom. "I knew it would go."

"Same as we will."

"Hush," said Tom.



CHAPTER XXVIII

HE DISAPPEARS—FOR THE TIME BEING

Tom was too sensible to make his trip to the bushes each night. For one thing he wanted to give the mildly corrosive process a chance to weaken the wires. It was a case for small doses. Also he could not afford to attract attention. His hardest job was keeping Archer patient and quiet.

When he did manage a second trip he was gratified to see that the spots he had "treated" were white and salty, like the bar in a battery. He gave them another dose and crawled out cautiously.

Archer, in his excitement, had supposed the whole thing would be a matter of a day or two and his impatience greatly disturbed Tom.

"Don't you see, if I try to break the wires before they're ready, we'll be worse off than ever?" he said. "Leave it to me."

At last there came a dark night when Tom announced in a whisper that he had used the last of the sal ammoniac.

"The wires are all white," he said, "and you can scrape into them with your finger-nails. It's good and dark to-night. If you want to back out you can. I won't be sore about it. Only tell me again about the road to Dundgardt."

"Didn't I tell you I was with you strong as mustarrd? I don't want to back out."

A while after dark Tom went down to the bushes. It was understood that Archer should follow him, timing his coming according to the sentry's rounds. Meanwhile Tom, not without some misgivings, bent the thick wire in one of the weakened spots and it broke. He paused and listened. Then he broke another strand, trembling lest even the breaking might cause a slight sound. The life had been eaten out of the wires and they parted easily.

By the time Archer arrived he had opened a way through the thick entanglement large enough to crawl through. His nerves were on edge as he wriggled far enough through to peer about in the dark outside.

"Anyway, your head has escaped," said Archer.

"Shh," whispered Tom.

Far down the side of the long fence he could see a little glint bobbing in the darkness.

"Shh," he whispered. "I don't know which way he's going. Keep your feet still."

For a few seconds more he waited, his heart in his mouth and every nerve tense.

The tiny bobbing glint disappeared.

"Is he there?" Archer whispered.

"Shh! No, he's gone around the end."

"He won't go all the way round; he'll turn back when he gets to the gate. Go on, make a break——"

"Shh!" said Tom, straining his eyes in all directions.

For one moment of awful suspense he waited, his thumping heart almost choking him. Then he moved silently out into the night, and paused again, holding a deterring hand up to keep his companion back until he knew the way was clear.

Then he moved his hand.

"Come on," he whispered, his whole frame trembling with suspense. "Let's get away from the fence. Don't speak."

There was something of the old stalking and trailing stealth about his movements now as he hurried across the field adjacent to the camp. "Follow me," he whispered, "and do just what I do. What's that you've got in your hand?"

"Nothin'. Where you goin'? The road ain't over there."

"Shhh!"

Silently Tom stole across the field.

"You're goin' out of your way," whispered Archer again.

"I don't want the road, I only want to know where it is," Tom answered; "I know what I'm doing."

He had never dreamed that his tracking and trailing lore would one day serve him in far-off Germany and help him in so desperate a flight. Never before had he such need of all his wit—and such an incentive.

Archer followed silently. Presently Tom paused and listened.

"Anybody comin'?"

"No, I was listenin' for—it's down there."

He turned suddenly and grabbing Archer around the waist, lifted him off his feet and ran swiftly down a little slope and into the brook which in its meanderings crossed an end of the prison grounds. Then he let Archer down.

"They'll never track us here," he panted, and felt for his precious button to make sure that Archer's body had not pulled it off. "They'll think only one came this way, maybe, and they won't know which way to go—Shh!"

Archer held his breath. There was no sound except that of the water rippling at their feet.

"Is that upstream?" Tom asked. "It ought to be shallow all the way. Keep in the water."

"Step on that shore and you're in Alsace," said Archer.

"Don't step on it," said Tom. "Shores are tell-tales. Which is the hill?"

"That one with the windmill on it."

"That black thing?"

"The road runs around that," said Archer, "the other side."

"We'll follow the road," said Tom, "but we'll keep in the brook till we get about a couple of hundred feet from the road. Come on."

"You heading for Dundgardt?" Archer whispered.

"Don't talk so loud. Yes—I got to find some people there named Leture—I can't pronounce it just right. That's nothin' but a tree——"

"I thought it was a man," said Archer.

"We ought to be there in an hour," and again Tom felt for his precious button. "If they'll keep us till to-morrow night we can get a good start for the Swiss border; I—I got some—some good ideas."

"For traveling?"

"Yes—at night. They'll do—anything after I tell 'em about Frenchy. Quiet. Bend your toes over the pebbles like I do."

* * * * *

But did they ever reach Dundgardt—once Leteur? Did they make their way through fair Alsace, under the shadow of the Blue Alsatian Mountains, to the Swiss border? Did Tom's "good ideas" pan out? Was the scout of the Acorn and the Indian head, to triumph still in the solitude of the Black Forest, even as he had triumphed in the rugged Catskills roundabout his beloved Temple Camp?

Was he indeed permitted to carry out his determination to fight for two?

Ah, that is another story.

But one little hint may be given now, which perhaps throws some light upon his future history. Some months after this momentous night Mrs. Silas Archer, whose husband had a farm with a big apple orchard in the vicinity of Temple Camp, received a small box containing a little piece of junk and a letter in a sprawling hand. And this is what the letter said:

Dear Old Mudgie:

"Wish I was home to get in the fall russets. They don't have any decent apples over here at all. Stand this piece of wire on the whatnot in the sitting room and show it to the minister when he comes. It's part of a German barbed wire fence. I kept it for a souvenir when I escaped from Slops prison. You won't find that name on the map, but nobody can pronounce the real name. You don't say it—you have to sneeze it. I had a bully time in the prison camp and met a feller that used to go to Temple Camp. We escaped together.

"Send your letters to the War Department for we're with Pershing's boys now and they'll be forwarded. Can't tell you much on account of the censor. But don't worry, I'll be home for next Christmas. Give my love to dad. And don't use all the sour apples when you're making cider.

"Down with the Kaiser! Lots of love. "ARCHIE."

————————————————————————————————————

THIS ISN'T ALL!

Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book?

Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author?

On the reverse side of the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book.

Don't throw away the Wrapper

Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete catalog.

————————————————————————————————————

THE TOM SLADE BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH Author of "Roy Blakeley," "Pee-wee Harris," "Westy Martin," Etc.

Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors. Every Volume Complete in Itself.

"Let your boy grow up with Tom Slade," is a suggestion which thousands of parents have followed during the past, with the result that the TOM SLADE BOOKS are the most popular boys' books published today. They take Tom Slade through a series of typical boy adventures through his tenderfoot days as a scout, through his gallant days as an American doughboy in France, back to his old patrol and the old camp ground at Black Lake, and so on.

TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER TOM SLADE WITH THE COLORS TOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORT TOM SLADE WITH THE BOYS OVER THERE TOM SLADE, MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH BEARER TOM SLADE WITH THE FLYING CORPS TOM SLADE AT BLACK LAKE TOM SLADE ON MYSTERY TRAIL TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE TOM SLADE ON OVERLOOK MOUNTAIN TOM SLADE PICKS A WINNER TOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York.

————————————————————————————————————

THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of "Tom Slade," "Pee-wee Harris," "Westy Martin," Etc.

Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color. Every Volume Complete in Itself.

In the character and adventures of Roy Blakeley are typified the very essence of Boy life. He is a real boy, as real as Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. He is the moving spirit of the troop of Scouts of which he is a member, and the average boy has to go only a little way in the first book before Roy is the best friend he ever had, and he is willing to part with his best treasure to get the next book in the series.

ROY BLAKELEY ROY BLAKELEY'S ADVENTURES IN CAMP ROY BLAKELEY, PATHFINDER ROY BLAKELEY'S CAMP ON WHEELS ROY BLAKELEY'S SILVER FOX PATROL ROY BLAKELEY'S MOTOR CARAVAN ROY BLAKELEY, LOST, STRAYED OR STOLEN ROY BLAKELEY'S BEE-LINE HIKE ROY BLAKELEY AT THE HAUNTED CAMP ROY BLAKELEY'S FUNNY BONE HIKE ROY BLAKELEY'S TANGLED TRAIL ROY BLAKELEY ON THE MOHAWK TRAIL

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York.

————————————————————————————————————

THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of "Tom Slade," "Roy Blakeley," "Westy Martin," Etc.

Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color. Every Volume Complete in Itself.

All readers of the Tom Slade and the Roy Blakeley books are acquainted with Pee-wee Harris. These stories record the true facts concerning his size (what there is of it) and his heroism (such as it is), his voice, his clothes, his appetite, his friends, his enemies, his victims. Together with the thrilling narrative of how he foiled, baffled, circumvented and triumphed over everything and everybody (except where he failed) and how even when he failed he succeeded. The whole recorded in a series of screams and told with neither muffler nor cut-out.

PEE-WEE HARRIS PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP PEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCK PEE-WEE HARRIS ADRIFT PEE-WEE HARRIS F. O. B. BRIDGEBORO PEE-WEE HARRIS FIXER PEE-WEE HARRIS: AS GOOD AS HIS WORD

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

THE END