CHAPTER XHE GOES BELOW AND GROPES IN THE DARK
There were half a dozen or more staterooms along this passage. At the end of it was the steep, greasy flight of iron steps leading down into the engine-rooms. Here, also, was a huge box with a hinged lid, filled with cotton waste. It was customary for one going down here to take a handful of this waste to protect his hands from the oily rail, and also on coming up to wipe his hands with a fresh lot. The very atmosphere of a ship’s engine-room is oily. Here, also, were several fire-buckets in a rack.
Along the side of the passage opposite the staterooms were electric bulbs at intervals, but only two of them were burning—just enough to light one through the narrow passage. Above each closed door was a solid wooden transom, hinged at its lower side and opened at an angle into the room.
Tom moved quickly and very quietly, for he feared to be caught loitering here. He saw at once that only one of these staterooms could possiblybe used for any such criminal purpose as he suspected, and that was the one with a light directly opposite it in the passage, for the other light was beyond the staterooms.
For a few seconds he stood listening to the slow, monotonous sound of the machinery just below him. The vibration was very pronounced here; the floor thumped with the pulsations of the mighty engines. And Tom’s heart was thumping too.
Within the staterooms all was dark and quiet. He knew the under engineers turned in early. Not the faintest flicker was to be seen through any of those transoms. He had been mistaken, he thought; had jumped at a crazy notion. And he half turned to go up again.
But instead he listened at the companionway, then tiptoed stealthily along the passage and looked over the oily iron rail, down, down into the depths of the great, dim, oil-smelling space with its iron galleries and the mammoth steel arms, moving back and forth, back and forth, far down there upon the grated floor. A tiny figure in a jumper went down from one of the lower galleries, paused to look at a big dial, then crossed the floor and disappeared, making never asound. No other living thing was in sight—unless those mighty steel arms, ever meeting and parting might be said to be living. To come up from down there would mean the ascent of three iron stairways.
Tom withdrew into the passage and quietly lifting one of the fire-buckets from the rack, tiptoed with it to the door which was directly opposite the passageway.
Then he paused again. He could open that door, he knew, for no keys or bolts were allowed on any stateroom door. He could surprise the occupant, whom he would find in darkness. If his suspicion was correct (and he was beginning now to fear that it was not) there would be no actual proof of anything inside of that dark little room, save only just what the authorities had already found—an apparently innocent mess plate. The criminal act would consist of simply holding a shiny plate in a certain position. The moment a sound was heard outside the plate could be laid down. And who would be the wiser?
Tom’s heart was thumping in his breast, his eyes anxiously scanning one end of the passage, then the other.
Not a sound—no sign of anyone.
Tom Slade had been a scout and notwithstanding his suspense and almost panicky apprehension, he was not going to act impulsively or thoughtlessly. He knew that if he could only present a convincing case to his superiors, they would forgive him his presumption. If he made a bungle it might go hard with him. Anyway, he could not, or would not, turn back now.
In truth, he did not believe that anything at all was going to happen. The stateroom was so dark and so still that all his fine ideas and deductions, which had seemed so striking and plausible up on the lonesome, wind-swept deck, began to fade away.
But there would be no harm in one little test, and no one would be the wiser. He tried to picture in his mind’s eye the interior of that little stateroom. If it were like his own, then the mirror was on the other side of the passage wall, that is, on the opposite side of the stateroom from the port hole. If one looked into the mirror he would see the port hole. All of the smaller rooms below decks which he had seen were arranged in the same way.
Therefore, thought Tom, if one should hold a shiny mess plate, for instance, up near the transom,so as to catch the light from without, he could throw it down into the mirror, which would reflect not only the glare but the brilliant image of the bulb as well. From out on the ocean that reflected light would be very clear.
All of which, thought Tom dubiously, was a very pretty theory, but——
Without making a sound he placed the inverted bucket on the floor and listened. He put one foot on it and listened again. Then he stood upon it, his heart pounding like a triphammer.
Not a sound.
Probably the tired occupant of the room was fast asleep—sleeping the peaceful sleep of the innocent.
Tom knew that if his mind’s eye picture of the room’s arrangement were correct, the metal reflector would be of no avail unless tilted at a slight angle from the horizontal, right inside the transom.
For a moment he stood upon the bucket, not daring to budge. He could hear his own breathing, and far away the steady, dull thud of the tireless machinery. Something creaked in the passage, and he turned cold. He did not stir a muscle.
Only some superficial crevice or crack somewhere—some loose panel or worn hinge responding to the onslaught of a giant wave without—— Nothing——
He turned his head and looked down the passage, clenching his fists in momentary fright, as if he feared the bending of his neck might be heard.
No one. Not a sound.
He tried to look through the transom but his eyes were not high enough. For another second he paused. Then he reached through the transom and moved his hand about in the silence and darkness. He heard the cracking again and waited, trembling, though he knew it was nothing.
Then he groped about with his hand again.
CHAPTER XIHE MAKES A DISCOVERY AND IS GREATLY AGITATED
Suddenly his hand encountered something hard and cold, and he grabbed it like lightning. His heart was in his throat now. There was a scuffling sound within and the object was wrenched and twisted and pulled frantically.
But Tom had been a scout and he was prepared. The two big clumsy hands which bore the captain’s tray back and forth each day had once torn a pack of thirty cards in half to entertain tenderfeet at campfire. And one of those hands clutched this thing now with the grip of a bulldog.
His excitement and his pounding heart did not embarrass him in the brief tussle. A few dexterous twists this way and that, and he withdrew his hand triumphantly, scratched and bleeding, the light in the passage glinting upon the polished surface of the mess plate which he held.
Scarcely three minutes had escaped since he came down from the deck, but in that short period his usually sturdy nerves had borne a terrific strain and for a moment he leaned against the opposite side of the passage, clutching the dish in consternation.
In that brief moment when he had paused before putting his hand through the transom, he had thought that if indeed the plate were being held there even still the conspirator’s eyes would be fixed upon the stationary mirror in order to keep the reflection centered in direct line with the porthole. Evidently he had been right and had taken the plotter quite unaware.
Sherlock Nobody Holmes had succeeded beyond his most extravagant dreams!
The door of the little room flew back and a figure stood in the dark opening, looking at him.
“That—that’swhat you meant,” Tom stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “about the same idea as a periscope. You thought—you thought——”
The man, evidently surprised at seeing no one but the captain’s mess boy, stuck out his head and looked apprehensively up and down the passage.
“There’s nobody,” breathed Tom, “except me;but it won’t do you any good—it won’t—because I’m going to tell——”
He paused, clutching the mess plate, and looked aghast at the disheveled, half-dressed man who faced him. Then the plate dropped from his hand, and a strange, cold feeling came over him.
“Who are you?” he gasped, his eyes stark and staring. “I—I didn’t know—I ain’t——”
He stopped, refusing to believe, and groped for the precious mess plate, part of the makeshift periscope which his own keenness had discovered and rendered useless. Then he stood again, fumbling the thing in his clumsy hands and staring, all bewildered, at the traitor who had used it to betray his country.
Was it——? It could not be—— But the years had wrought more change in Tom himself than in the man who stood there glaring back at him, half recognizing.
Yes, itwashis own brother, William Slade, who had left home so long ago!
CHAPTER XIIHE IS FRIGHTENED AND VERY THOUGHTFUL
And this was the triumph of Sherlock Nobody Holmes! This was the startling discovery with which he would astonish his superiors and win their approbation! It was not Sherlock Nobody Holmes who heard in a sort of daze the whispered words that were next uttered. It was just the captain’s mess boy, and he hung his head, not so much in crushing disappointment as in utter shame.
“Come inside here and keep still. How’dyouget on this ship? Nobody’ll be hunting for you, will they? Come in—quick. What’s the matter with you?”
Still clutching the dish, Tom was dragged into that dark little room. He seemed almost in a trance. The hand which had been raised in conspiracy and treason pushed him roughly onto the berth.
“So you turned up like a bad penny, huh?” whispered his brother, fiercely.
“I—I wrote you—a letter—after mother died,” Tom said simply. “I don’t know if you got it.”
“Shut up!” hissed his brother. “Don’t talk so loud! You want to get me in trouble? How’d you know about this?”
His voice was gruff and cold and seemed the more so for his frightened whisper.
“She died of pneumonia,” said Tom impassively. “I was——”
“Gimme that plate!” his brother interrupted.
But this roused Tom. He seemed to feel that his possession of the plate was a badge of innocence.
“I got to keep it,” he said; “it’s——”
“Shh!” his brother interrupted. “Somebody’s coming; don’t move and keep your mouth shut! It’s the second shift of stokers!”
From the companionway came the steady sound of footfalls. There was an authoritative sound to them as they echoed in the deserted passage, coming nearer and nearer. It was not the second shift of stokers.
“Shh,” said Tom’s brother, clutching his arm. “If they should come here keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. They ain’t got anythingon me,” he added in a hoarse whisper which bespoke his terror, “unlessyou—shhh!”
“I know what it is,” Tom whispered, “and I ain’t a-scared. They got a signal from the destroyer. They know the room.”
“There’s nothing they can find here,” his brother breathed. “They were all through here last night. Put that dish down—put it down, I tell you! Shh!”
Tom let go of the plate, scarcely knowing what he did.
Nearer, nearer, came the footsteps and stopped. The door was thrown open and in the passage stood the captain, a sailor and the officer who had spoken to Tom the night before.
Tom’s heart was in his throat; he did not move a muscle. What happened seemed all a jumble to him, like things in a dream. He was aware of a lantern held by the officer and of the sailor standing by the porthole, over which he had spread something black.
“Did you know this kid was mixed up in it?” the sailor asked. Tom felt that the sailor must be a Secret Service man.
“They’re brothers,” said the captain. “You can see that.”
“He had him posted for a lookout,” said the officer. “He was watching on the deck last night.” Then, turning upon Tom he said brusquely, “you were supposed to hurry down here with the tip if the convoy signaled, eh?”
Tom struggled to answer, but they did not give him time.
“You’re the fellow that read that semaphore message the other day, too, eh?” the officer said. “Stand up.”
Tom stood trembling while the sailor rapidly searched him. “Where’s your flashlight?” he demanded apparently disappointed not to find one.
“I haven’t got any,” said Tom, dully.
“Pretty good team work,” said the sailor.
“Here you,” he added, proceeding to search Tom’s brother, while the captain and the officer fell to turning the little room inside out, hauling the mattress from the berth and examining every nook and cranny of the place. Tom noticed that the plate, which was now on a stool, had a sandwich on it and a piece of cheese, and he realized, if he had not realized before, his brother’s almost diabolical foresight and sagacity. It looked very innocent—a harmless, late lunch, brought intothe stateroom as was often done among the ship’s people.
During the search of the stateroom Tom stood silently by. He watched the coverings pulled ruthlessly from the berth, moved out of the way as the mattress was hauled to the floor, gazed fascinated at the quick thoroughness which mercilessly unfolded every innocent towel and scrutinized each joint and section of the life preserver, until presently the orderly little apartment was in a state of chaos. He saw the officer move the plate so as to examine the under side of the stool. He saw the disguised Secret Service man pick up a little piece of innocent cotton waste and carelessly throw it down again.
But the turmoil about him was nothing to the turmoil in his own brain. What should he do? Would he dare to speak? What could he say? And still he stood silent, watching with a strange, cold feeling, looking occasionally at his brother, and thinking—thinking. As his brother watched him furtively, and a little fearfully, Tom became aware of a queer way he had of contracting his eyebrows, just as Uncle Job used to do when he told a joke. And there came into his mind the memory of a certain day long ago when his bigbrother and he had shot craps together in front of the bank building in Bridgeboro and his brother had looked just that same way when he watched the street for stray policemen. Funny that he should think of that just now. The sailor (or whatever he was) gave Tom a shove to get him out of the way so that he could crawl under the berth.
And still Tom watched them dazedly. He was thinking of something that Mr. Ellsworth, his scoutmaster, had once said—that blood is thicker than water. As nearly as he could make out, that meant that after all a fellow’s own people came first—before anything else. He had great respect for Mr. Ellsworth.
The man in the sailor suit picked up the plate of food from the berth and slung the whole business into the basin. The jangle of the dish startled Tom and roused him. The others didn’t seem to mind it. They had more important things to think of than a mess plate.
And Tom Slade, captain’s mess boy and former scout, went on thinking.
CHAPTER XIIIHE PONDERS AND DECIDES BETWEEN TWO NEAR RELATIONS
When Tom at length did speak his own voice sounded strange to him; but he said what he had to say with a simple straightforwardness which in ordinary circumstances would have carried conviction.
“If you’d let me say something,” he said, trying to keep his throat clear, “I’d like to tell you——”
“It’s the best thing, sonny,” said the man in the sailor suit; “you needn’t be afraid of squealing. How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” said Tom, “but it wasn’t squealing I was thinking about. I ain’t a-scared, if that’s what you think.”
He avoided looking at his brother, who tried to catch his eye, and the men, perhaps seeing this and thinking it might be fruitful to let him say what he would in his own way, relaxed a trifle toward him.
“While you were searching,” Tom went on, hesitating, but still showing something of his old stolid manner, “I wasn’t a-scared, but I was thinking—I had to think about something—before I could decide what I ought to do.”
“All right, sonny,” said the man in the sailor clothes. “I’m glad you know what’s best for you. Out with it. You’ve got a key to that porthole, eh? Now where is it?”
“You had a flashlight and threw it out, didn’t you?” added the officer. “Come now.”
Tom looked from one to the other. His brother began to speak but was peremptorily silenced.
“It ain’t knowin’ what’s good for me,” Tom managed to say, “’cause as soon as I—as soon as I—made up my mind about that—then right away I knew what I ought to do——”
He gulped and looked straight at the officer so as not to meet his brother’s threatening look.
“I had to decide it myself—’cause—’cause Mr. Ellsworth—a man I know—ain’t here. Maybe a feller’s own family come first and I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t—tell on ’em—if—if they stole—or something like that,” he blurted out, twisting his fingers together. “And—and—I didn’t forgetneither—I didn’t,” he added, turning and looking his brother straight in the face, “I didn’t—I——”
He broke down completely and the men stared at him, waiting.
“Anyway—anyway—I got to remember——” He broke off.
“Well, what became of the light?” the officer urged rather coldly.
“And when you saw me standing on the—deck—last night—I was thinking about Uncle Sam——” He gulped and hesitated, then went on, “and—and—that’s what made me think about Uncle Sam being a relation too—kind of—and I got to decide between my brother and my uncle—like.” He gulped again and shook his head with a kind of desperate resolution. “There—thereit is,” he almost shouted, pointing at the scattered sandwich and the mess plate in the wash basin. “You—picked it up twice,” he added with a kind of reckless triumph, “and you didn’t know it.”
“What?” said the captain, with a puzzled look at his companions, as if he were a little doubtful of Tom’s sanity.
“There it is,” Tom repeated, controlling himself better now that the truth was out. “He heldit—up there—so’s the light would shine in the glass. There ain’t anything except that. It’s—it’s the same idea as a periscope. He said it in a letter that I gave Mr. Conne—and—and I found out what he meant. I—I didn’t know he was——”
Trying desperately to master his feeling he broke down and big tears rolled down his cheeks. “I couldn’t help it,” he said to his brother. “It ain’t ’cause I don’t remember—but—I had to decide—and I got to stand by Uncle Sam!”
“If you didn’t know about this,” said the captain, watching him keenly, “how did you suspect it? You’d better try to control yourself and tell everything. This is a very serious matter.”
“You see that piece of cotton waste that you kicked?” said Tom, turning upon the disguised government agent. “You can see it’s fresh and hasn’t got any oil on it. You can see from the flat place on it how it was used to polish the dish. I ain’t——” he gulped. “I ain’t going to talk about my brother—but I got to tell about the papers he’s got somewhere. The same person that said it was like a periscope said something about having plans of a motor. I got to tell that, and I ain’t going to say any more about him.So now he can’t do any more harm. And—and I want you to please go away,” he burst forth, “because I—I got to tell him about how our mother died—’cause maybe he didn’t—get the letter.”
CHAPTER XIVHE IS ARRESTED AND PUT IN THE GUARDHOUSE
But of course his brotherhadreceived that letter. The circumstances of his mother’s death were the least of his troubles now and he must have thought his young brother very innocent and sentimental. He did not understand Tom’s wanting to talk about their mother’s death any more than Tom understood how Bill could be a spy and a traitor.
In short, the wily, self-seeking Bill, who would stop at nothing, probably thought his brother had a screw loose, as the saying is, and perhaps that is what the others thought also.
Tom was never very lucid in explanation, and his emotion had made his surprising story choppy and unsatisfactory. His explanation of the use of the plate and of the telltale piece of cotton which his keen eyes had not missed, seemed plausible enough, and fell like a bomb-shell among his questioners.
But they did not give him credit for his discovery nor even for his apparent innocence. It was, as the captain had said, a serious business, and Uncle Sam was taking no chances where spies and traitors were concerned. Probably they thought Tom was a weak-minded tool of his shrewder brother.
“Well,” said the officer rather curtly, “I’m glad you told the truth. If you had told me the truth last night when I caught you up there, it would have been better for you. Still, confession made at bay is better than none,” he said to the captain, adding as he left the room, “I’ll have a squad down.”
William Slade sat upon the berth, glaring at the detective who stood guarding the doorway. He looked vicious enough with his disheveled hair and sooty face and the dirty jumper such as the under engineers wore. Tom wondered when he had come east and how he had fallen in with his old patron, Adolf Schmitt.
And this was his own brother! Evidently William had been in the German spy service for some time, for he had learned the rule of absolute silence when discovered and he had even acquired some of that lowering sullenness which sets the Teuton apart from all other beings.
"THERE--THERE IT IS," TOM ALMOST SHOUTED. Page 94"THERE—THEREIT IS," TOM ALMOST SHOUTED.Page94
"THERE—THEREIT IS," TOM ALMOST SHOUTED.
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Presently there came the steady footfalls of soldiers in formation and a sudden fear seized upon Tom.
“They—they ain’t going to arrest me, are they?” he asked, with alarm in every line of his ordinarily expressionless face.
“Put you both in the guardhouse,” said the captain briefly.[2]
“Didn’t you—didn’t you—believe me?” Tom pleaded simply and not without some effect.
“You and your brother get your jobs together?” the captain asked.
“Mr. Conne, who’s in the Secret Service, got me mine,” Tom said.
“Who did he recommend you to?” asked the detective.
Tom hesitated a moment. “To Mr. Wessel, the steward,” he said.
“Humph! Too bad Mr. Wessel died. You’ll both have to go to the guardhouse.”
Tom saw there was no hope for him. For a moment he struggled, drawing a long breath in pitiful little gulps. If he had followed Mr. Conne’s advice he would not be in this predicament. But where then might the great transport be? Who but he, captain’s mess boy, had saved the ship and showed these people how the light——
“It makes me feel like——” he began. “Can’t I—please—can’t I not be arrested—please?”
Neither man answered him. Presently the door opened and four soldiers entered. One of them was “Pickles,” who had nicknamed Tom “Tombstone,” because he was so sober. But he was not Pickles now; he was just one of a squad of four, and though he looked surprised he neither smiled nor spoke.
“Pickles,” said Tom. “I ain’t—Youdon’t believe——”
But Pickles had been too long in training camp to forget duty and discipline so readily and the only answer Tom got was the dull thud of Pickles’ rifle butt on the floor as the officer uttered some word or other.
That thud was a good thing for Tom. Itseemed to settle him into his old stolid composure, which had so amused the boys in khaki.
Side by side with his brother, whom so long ago he could not bear to see “licked,” he marched out and along the passage, a soldier in front, one behind and one at either side. How strange the whole thing seemed!
His brother who had gone out to Arizona when Tom was just a bad, troublesome little hoodlum! And here they were now, marching silently side by side, on one of Uncle Sam’s big transports, with four soldiers escorting them! Both, the nephews of Uncle Job Slade who had died in the Soldiers’ Home and had been buried with the Stars and Stripes draped over his coffin.
Two things stood out in Tom Slade’s memory, clearest of all, showing how unreasonable and contrary he was. Two lickings. One that made him mad and one that made him glad—and that he was proud of. The licking that his brother had got, when he could, as he had told honest Pete Connigan, “feel the madness way down in his fingers.” And the licking his father had givenhimfor not hanging out the flag.
“Zey must be all fine people to haf’ such a boy,”Frenchy had said. He hoped he would not see Frenchy now.
But he was to be spared nothing. The second cabin saloon was filled with soldiers and they stared in amazement as the little group marched through, the steady thud, thud, of the guards’ heavy shoes emphasized by the wondering stillness. Tom shuffled along with his usual clumsy gait, looking neither to right nor left. Up the main saloon stairway they went, and here, upon the top carpeted step sat Frenchy chatting with another soldier. He was such a hand to get off into odd corners for little chats! He stared, uttered an exclamation, then remembered that he was a soldier and caught himself. But he turned and following the little procession with astonished eyes until they disappeared.
The guardhouse was the little smoking-room where Tom and Frenchy had sat upon the sill and talked and Frenchy had given him the iron button. Into the blank darkness of this place he and his brother were marched, and all through that long, dreadful night Tom could hear a soldier pacing back and forth, back and forth, on the deck just outside the door.
[2]The custom of putting arrested persons in the “brig” on liners and transports was discontinued by reason of the danger of their losing their lives without chance of rescue, in the event of torpedoing. The present rule is that the guardhouse must be above decks and a living guard must always be at hand.
[2]The custom of putting arrested persons in the “brig” on liners and transports was discontinued by reason of the danger of their losing their lives without chance of rescue, in the event of torpedoing. The present rule is that the guardhouse must be above decks and a living guard must always be at hand.
CHAPTER XVHE DOES MOST OF THE TALKING AND TAKES ALL THE BLAME
Tramp, tramp, tramp—all through the endless, wakeful hours he heard that soldier marching back and forth, back and forth, outside the door. Every sound of those steady footfalls was like a blow, stinging afresh the cruel wound which had been opened in his impassive nature. He was under arrest and under guard. If he should try to get out that soldier would order him to halt, and if he didn’t halt the soldier would shoot him. He wondered if the guard were Pickles.
He did not think at all about his deductive triumph now. And he did not care much about what they would do with him. He wondered a little what the soldiers would say—particularly Frenchy. But if only his brother would talk to him and ask about their mother he could bear everything else—the dashing of his triumph, the danger he was in, the shame. The shame, most of all.
He did not care so much now about being Sherlock Nobody Holmes—he had had enough of that. And no matter what they thought of “Yankee Doodle Whitey,”heknew that he was loyal. Let them think that all his talk of Uncle Job and the flag and his father’s patriotism was just bluff—let Frenchy think he had been just deceiving him—he could stand anything, if only his brother would be like a brother to him now that they were alone together.
It was a strange, unreasonable feeling.
Once, only once, in the long night, he tried to make his brother understand.
“Maybe you won’t believe me, but I’m sorry,” he said; “if you ain’t asleep I wish you’d listen—Bill. Now that I told ’em I feel kind of different—Ihadto tell ’em. I had to decide quick—and I didn’t have nobody—anybody—to help me. Maybe you think I was crazy—— Are you listenin’?”
There was no response, but he knew his brother was not asleep.
“It ain’t because I wanted ’em to think I was smart—Bill—if you think it was that, you’re wrong. And anyway, it didn’t show I was so smart—you was smarter, anyway, if it comes tothat. I got to admit it. ’Cause you thought about it first—about using the dish. It served me right for thinking I could deduce, and all like that, anyway. You ain’t asleep, are you?”
“Aw, shut up!” his brother grunted. “You could ’a’ kept me out o’ this by keepin’ yer mouth shut. But you had to jabber it out, you——. And they’ll plug me full of lead.”
A cold shudder ran through Tom.
“I got to admit I’m a kind of a (he was going to saytraitor, but for his brother’s sake he avoided the word). I got to admit I wasn’t loyal, too. I wasn’t loyal to you, anyway. But I had to decide quick, Bill. And I saw Ihadto tell ’em. You got to be loyal to Uncle Sam first of all. But—but—— Are you listening, Bill? I ain’t mad, anyway. ’Cause Adolf Schmitt’s most to blame. It ain’t—it ain’t ’cause I want to get let off free either, it ain’t. I wouldn’t care so much now what they did to me, anyway. ’Cause everything is kind of spoiled now about all of us—our family—being so kind of patriotic——”
His brother, goaded out of his sullenness, turned upon him with a tirade of profane abuse, leaving the boy shamed and silent.
And all the rest of that night Tom Slade, whosehand had extinguished the guiding light, perhaps, to some lurking submarine; who had had to “think quick and all by himself,” and had decided for his Uncle Sam against his brother Bill, sat there upon the leather settee, feeling guilty and ashamed. He knew that he had done right, but his generous heart could not feel the black, shameless treason of his brother because his own smaller treason stood in the way. He could not see the full guilt of that wretched brother because he felt mean and contemptible himself. Truly, the soldier had hit the nail on the head when he said, “You’re all right, Whitey!”
And now, suspected, shamed, sworn at and denounced, even now, as his generous nature groped for some extenuation for this traitor whose scheme he had discovered and exposed, he found it comforting to lay the whole blame and responsibility upon the missing Adolf Schmitt.
“Anyway, he tempted you,” he said, though he knew his brother would neither listen nor respond. “Maybe you think I don’t know that. He’s worse than anybody—he is.”
You’re all right, Whitey!
CHAPTER XVIHE SEES A LITTLE AND HEARS MUCH
Toward morning, he fell asleep, and when he awoke the vibration of the engines had ceased, and he heard outside the door of his prison a most uproarious clatter which almost drowned the regular footfalls of the soldier.
He had heard linotype machines in operation—which are not exactly what you would call quiet; he had listened to the outlandish voice of a suction-dredge and the tumultuous clamor of a threshing machine. But this earsplitting clatter was like nothing he had ever heard before.
The door opened and he was thankful to see that the soldier outside was not one of his particular friends. He was silently escorted to the wash room, in the doorway of which the guard waited while Tom refreshed himself after his sleepless night with a grateful bath.
The vessel, as he could see, was moored parallel with the abrupt brick shore of a very narrowcanal, with somber, uninviting houses close on either hand. It was as if a ship were tied up along the curb of a street. Up and down the gang planks and back and forth upon the deck hurried men in blouses with great, clumsy wooden shoes upon their feet and now Tom saw the cause of that earsplitting clatter; and he knew that he had reached “over there.”
Down on the brick street below the ship, a multitude of children, all in wooden shoes, danced and clattered about, in honor of the ship’s arrival, and the windows were full of people waving the Stars and Stripes, calling “Vive l’Ameríque!” and trying, with occasional success, to throw loose flowers and little round potatoes with French and American flags stuck in them, onto the deck.
All of the houses looked very dingy and old, and the men in blouses who pushed their clods about on this or that errand upon the troopship, were old, too, and had sad, worn faces. Only the children were joyful.
As Tom went back along the deck, he glanced through a street which seemed to run almost perpendicularly up the side of a thickly built-up hill, and caught a passing glimpse of the open country beyond. France! He wondered whether the“front” were in that direction and how long it would take to get there, and what it looked like. It could not be so very far. Presently he heard a more orderly clatter of wooden shoes and he saw several of the soldiers, who had not yet gone ashore, hurry to the rail.
He did not dare to do that himself, but as he walked he ventured to verge a little toward the vessel’s side, and saw below several men in tattered, almost colorless uniforms, marching in line along the brick street, each with a wheelbarrow.
He heard a woman call something from a window in French.
“There’s discipline for you, all right,” a soldier said.
“You said it,” replied another; “it’s second nature with ’em.”
He gathered that the little procession of laborers were German prisoners, and that the long ingrained habit of marching in step had become so much a part of their natures that they did it now instinctively.
Then he realized that he himself was a prisoner and was in a worse plight than they.
He spent the morning wondering what theywould do with him and his brother. Of course they believed him to be the accomplice of his brother. They probably thought he had weakened and told in terror and in hope of clemency. He wondered if they had gone through his brother’s luggage yet and whether they had found any papers.
He realized that it seemed almost too much of a coincidence that he and his brother should have happened on the same ship—and in the same stateroom, all by accident. And he knew that his coming down from the deck just after the signal from the destroyer, looked bad. He knew that back home in America Germans had gone to Ellis Island upon less suspicious circumstances than that. But what would they do with an American? In the case of an American it was just plain treason and the punishment for treason is——
A feeling almost of nausea overcame him and he tried to put the dreadful thought away from him.
“Anyway, the whole business is a kind of a mix-up,” he told himself; “it don’t make any difference what you do—you get in trouble. But I don’t blame them so much, ’cause they judge by looks, and that’s the only way you can do. Anyway,you got to die some time. I’m glad I found it out and told ’em, ’cause anyway it don’t make any difference if they think I confessed or just found it out—as long as they know it. That’s the main thing.”
With this consoling thought he withdrew into his old stolid self, and was ready to stand up and be shot if that was what they intended to do with him. He did not blame anybody “because it was all a mix-up.” If he had chosen to save his brother he might have saved himself. The great ship, with all her brave boys, would have gone down, perhaps, and his brother would have seen to it that they two were saved.
Well, the ship hadnotgone down, the brave boys who had jollied the life out of him were on their way across country now to die if need be, and who was he, Tom Slade, that he should be concerning himself as to just how or whenheshould die, or whether he got any credit or not, so long as he had decided right and done what he ought to do?
He would rather have died honorably in the trenches, but if doing Uncle Sam a good turn meant that he must die in disgrace, why then he would die in disgrace, that was all.
The point was thegoodturn. Once a scout, always a scout.
No one spoke to him all through the day—not even his brother. He heard the hurried comings and goings on the deck, the creaking of the big winches as bag after bag of wheat, bale after bale of cotton, was swung over and lowered upon the brick quay. The little French children who made the neighborhood a bedlam with their gibberish and the outlandish clatter of their wooden shoes; the women who sat in their windows watching these good things being unloaded, as Santa Claus might unload his pack in the bosom of some poor family; the United States officers who were in authority at the port, and all the clamoring rabble which made the ship’s vicinity a picnic ground, did not know, of course, that it was because the captain’s mess boy had made a discovery and “decided right” that these precious stores were not at the bottom of the ocean.
And the captain’s mess boy, whose uncle had fought at Gettysburg, and whose brother was a traitor, could not see the things which were going to help win the war because he was locked up in a little dim room on board, called the guardhouse. He was sitting on the leather settee, hisfingers intertwined nervously, gulping painfully now and then, but for the most part, quiet and brave. He did not try to talk with his brother now. He wished he could know the worst right away—what they were going to do with him. Then he would not care so much.
Outside, upon the deck and quay, he could hear much, and he listened with a dull interest. He knew that old Uncle Sam was out there with his sleeves rolled up, making himself mightily at home, chucking wheat and wool and cotton and sugar and stuff out of the hold, slewing it, hoisting it, and letting it down plunk onto France! The boys in khaki were on trains already. He could hear the silly, piping screech of the French locomotives. His mind was half numbed, but he hoped that all this would encourage those French people and remind them that before Uncle Sam rolled down his sleeves again, he intended to bat out a home run.
Sometimes he became frightened, but he tried not to think of what lay before him. He believed that his brother would drag him down to his own shameful punishment, but he told himself that he didn’t care.
“Anyway, I did my bit. I wish—I kinderwish I could have seen Frenchy again. But I ain’t scared. I just as soon—stand—up—and be—— ’Cause I ain’t much, anyway——. And it ain’t—it ain’t for me to decide how I ought to die.”