CHAPTER TWENTY-THREEUP 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, hewouldhang 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 andUncle Sam, having failed, would go down together.
And meanwhile the minutes passed andUncle Samand 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 Samseemed to be holdinghimup. 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 theheedless, 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 tolet 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,shesaid 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 aboutbudgeit 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 tobudgeit 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 histeeth. "I wish I could wipe the sweat off my hand." Then, as if his dogged resolution were not enough, he added, almost appealingly, "Don'tyoudrop and—and go back on me."
Uncle Samonly 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! Hetightened 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 limbwith 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 thatUncle Samhung 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 leasthe 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. Thenstanding 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 Samdid 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 whichUncle Samhad 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 Samdid 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 thenUncle Samanswered.
"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 ofUncle Samin that continuous handshake which they knew so well, his right arm felt numb and sore, and hiswhole body ached.Uncle Sam'sbig, 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 côte?"
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.
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. "Whatdoyou know?" he muttered.
Out of Chuisson he labored up a long hill, and thoughUncle Sammade no more concession to it than to slacken his unprecedented rate of speedthe merest trifle, the difference communicated itself to Tom at once and it seemed, by contrast, as if they were creeping. On and upUncle Samwent, 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 onUncle Sam'sstaunch, unfeeling arm of steel, he could not,couldnot, 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, plowedUncle 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 asUncle 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, pattingUncle Sampatronizingly in a swift change of mood. "See there? That's the Atlantic Ocean—that is.Nowwill 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 whereIcame from.Nowwill you hurry? That's Dieppe,where the white[2]is and those steeples, see? And way across there on the other side is America!"
ForUncle Sam, notwithstanding his name, was a French motorcycle and had never seen America.
[2]Dieppe's famous beach.
[2]Dieppe's famous beach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXA SURPRISE
Down the hill coastedUncle 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 andUncle Samsped 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 littleUncle Samcared 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 theTexas Pioneerin?" 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.
DOWN THE HILL COASTED UNCLE SAM BEARING TOM FURIOUSLY ONWARD.DOWN THE HILL COASTED UNCLE SAM BEARING TOM FURIOUSLY ONWARD.
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 TomSlade 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 loweredUncle Sam'srest 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 ofUncle Sam'shonorable 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 blasé 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-rC-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-SEVENSMOKE AND FIRE
Mr. Carleton Conne, of the United States Secret Service, had come over from LiverpoolviaDover 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 transportManchesterand 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 theManchesterwho 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 transportTexas Pioneeron 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 theChannel 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 theTexas Pioneerto 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 asa 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 theTexas Pioneerdidn'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 reallycounted; "'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 ofhis 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 withthe 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 aboutUncle 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 atUncle 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 aboutUncle 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. PerhapsUncle Samheard.
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 atUncle Sam. AndUncle Sam'sgreen-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.
[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 knowboth 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 carefulbefore 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—Seemsto 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 somethingthat 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 withoutsome 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 overhis 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 ahunchis, 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 anythingon 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 saidMade 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 hewas 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?"