CHAPTER XXIIIHE MAKES A HIGH RESOLVE AND LOSES A FAVORITE WORD
Miss Margaret Ellison, the stenographer in the Temple Camp office, had once pronounced judgment on Tom. It was that if he made up his mind to do a thing he would do it. There was something about his big mouth and his dogged scowl which made this prophecy seem likely of fulfilment.
And now, silently, he threw his challenge down before Fate, before Germany, before barbed wire entanglements—before everything and everybody. He did not know whether they ever paroled ordinary prisoners, but he hoped they would not parole him, because then he would be bound by honor. And he did not want to be bound by honor. He kept his hand in his pocket, grasping his precious button, and it was well that the German officials did not know what was in his mind.
“I ain’t goin’ to be cheated out of it now,” he said to himself; “I don’t care what.”
All day long they journeyed in the box car, but Tom could see nothing of Germany save an occasional glimpse now and then when the sliding door was opened at the stations, usually to admit more prisoners. Whatever became of the men from the British trawler he never knew, but his jack-tar companions were with him still and helped to keep up his spirits. He never knew them by any other names than Freddie and Tennert—the first name of one and the last name of the other—but so great was his liking for them that it included the whole of sturdy, plodding, indomitable old England into the bargain. They never talked patriotism, and seemed to regard the war merely as a sort of a job that had to be done—just like any other job. Early in the day before the car filled up, Tom talked a good deal with them and as there was no guard inside, the conversation was free.
“When you said, ‘Shh’,” said Tom at one time, “I knew what you was thinkin’ about. I was never in a war,” he added innocently, “so I don’t know much about it. But if I was sent to jail for—say,for stealing—I wouldn’t think I had a right to escape.”
“You’d be a pretty honorable sort of a thief,” said Freddie.
“But, anyway,” said Tom, “I was going to ask you about escapin’ from a military prison. That ain’t dishonorable, is it?”
“No, strike me blind, it ain’t! But it’s jolly ’ard!” said Tennert.
“It’s fer them to keep yer and fer you to grease off, if you can,” said Freddie. “If you give your parole, it’s like a treaty——”
“A bloomin’ scrap o’ piper,” interrupted Tennert. “They wouldn’t put you on yer honor because they don’t know what honor is. It ain’t in Fritzie’s old dictionary.”
Tom was glad to think of it in this way.It’s for them to keep you and for you to grease off(which evidently meant “get away”). He had great respect for the opinions of these two Britishers and his mind dwelt upon this only hope even before he had so much as a glimpse of his prison.
He meant to fight with the American forces, in spite of Fate and in spite of Germany. Germany had armed guards and barbed wire entanglements.Tom, on his side, had an iron button, a big mouth, a look of dogged determination, a sense of having been grossly cheated after he had made a considerable investment in time and a good deal of scout pluck and Yankee resource. The only thing that had stood in the way was the question of honor, and that was now settled on the high authority of the British navy! Who but sturdy old John Bull had come forward when Belgium was being violated? And now a couple of John Bull’s jack-tars had told him that it was for Germany to keep him and for him to get away if he could.
He was on the point of telling them of his double reason for wanting to escape; that he had to fight for two—himself and his brother. Then he thought he wouldn’t for fear they might not understand.
But he made up his mind that henceforth all his efforts and activities should be of double strength—to make up. He would think twice as hard, work twice as hard, fight twice as hard. Above all he would try twice as hard as he otherwise would have done, to get out of this predicament and get to the battlefront. He was glad of his scout training which he thought might helphim a great deal now. And he would put every quality he had to the supreme test.
“Do you believe,” he asked, after a considerable silence, “that a feller can do more, kind of, if he’s doing his own work and—I mean if he thinks he’s got to do two people’s work—for a special reason?”
Freddie did not seem quite to “get” him, but Tennert answered readily, “You jolly well can! Look at Kippers wot cime ’ome fer orspital treatment arfter Verdoon. ’E lived in Chelsea. ’Is pal got sniped an’ Fritzie took ’is shoes. They’re awrful short o’ shoes. Kippers, ’e s’ys, ‘I’ll not l’y down me rifle till I plunk[4]a German and get ’is shoes.’ Two d’ys arfter ’e comes crawlin’ back through No Man’s Land and the color sergeant arsks ’im did ’e carry out ’is resolootion. ‘Yes,’ s’ys ’e, ‘but blimy, I ’ad to plunk seven Germans before I could get a pair o’ clods to fit me.’ ’E was usin’ ’is pal’s strength too besides ’is own. Any Tommy’ll tell yer a lad wot’s dyin’ on the field can leave ’is fightin’ spunk to anyone ’e pleases.”Tom stared open-eyed. He found it easy to believe this superstition of Tommy Atkins’. And he made up his mind anew that he would square matters with Uncle Sam by doing the work of two.
In the afternoon this pleasant chatting was made impossible by the numbers of military prisoners who were herded into the rough box car. They had come far enough south to be abreast of Belgium now and there must lately have been a successful German raid along the Flanders front, for both British and Belgian soldiers were driven aboard by the score. All of the British seemed exactly like Tennert and Freddie, cheerful, philosophical, chatting about Fritzie and the war as if the whole thing were a huge cricket game. Some of these were taken off farther down the line, to be sent to different camps, Tom supposed.
At last, after an all day’s ride, they reached their destination. But alas, there was no such place as Slopsgotten! Tom was sorry for this for he liked the name. It sounded funny when his English friends said it. Schlaabgaurtn, was the way he read it on the railroad station. He felt disappointed and aggrieved. He was by no means sure of the letters, and pronunciation wasout of the question. He liked Slopsgotten. In Tennert’s mouth he had almost come to love it.
It was the only thing about Germany that he liked, and now he had to give it up!
Slopsgotten!
[4]Kill.
[4]Kill.
CHAPTER XXIVHE GOES TO THE CIVILIAN CAMP AND DOESN’T LIKE IT
“’Ere we are in bloomin’ old Slops! Not ’arf bad, wot? Another inch and we’d bunk our noses plunk into Alsice! Wot d’ye s’y, Freddie?”
“I s’y it’s the back o’ the old front. The only thing in the w’y is the mountains. Hi, Yankee! You see ’em? It’s the ole mountains out of the song.”
Tom looked at a distant range of blue-gray heights. Crossing those somewhere was the battle line—the long, sweeping line which began far off at the Belgian coast. How lonesome and romantic it must be for the soldiers up in those wild hills. Somewhere through there years ago Frenchy had fled from German tyranny and pursuit, away from his beloved ancestral home. Funny, thought Tom, that he should see both the eastern and western extremities of France without ever crossing it.
He was much nearer the front than he hadbeen when he talked with Mr. Conne in the little French cemetery. Yet how much farther away! A prisoner in Germany, with a glowering, sullen Prussian guard at his very elbow!
“We used to sing about them when I went to school,” he said. “‘The Blue Alsatian Mountains.’”
“I’d jolly well like to be on the other side o’ them,” said Freddie.
Tom clutched the little iron button in his pocket. Something prompted him to pull a button off his trousers and to work his little talisman into the torn place so that it would look like a suspender button. Then he turned again to gaze at the fair country which he supposed to be one of France’s lost provinces—the home of Frenchy.
“There ain’t much trouble crossing mountains,” said he; “all you need is a compass. I don’t know if they have tree-toads here, but I could find out which is north and south that way if they have.”
“Blimy, if we don’t listen and see if we can ’ear ’em s’ying ‘polly voo Fransay’ in the trees!” said Tennert.
“But a feller could never get into France that way,” said Tom. “’Cause he’d have to cross thebattle line. The only way would be to go down around through Switzerland—around the end of the line, kind of.”
“Down through Alsice,” grunted Tennert.
“’E’d ’ave a ’underd miles of it,” said Freddie.
“Unless Fritzie offered ’im a carriage. Hi, Fritzie, w’en do we have tea?”
They made no secret of this dangerous topic—perhaps because they knew the idea of escape from the clutches of Germany was so preposterous. In any event, “Fritzie” did not seem greatly interested.
They were grouped at the station, a woebegone looking lot, despite their blithe demeanor. There were a dozen or more of them, in every variety of military and naval rags and tatters. Tom was coatless and the rest of his clothing was very much the worse for salt water. The sailor suits of his two companions were faded and torn, and Freddie suffered the handicap of a lost shoe. The rest were all young. Tom thought they might be drummer boys or despatch riders, or something like that. Several of them were slightly wounded, but none seriously, for Germany does not bother with prisoners who require much care. They were the residue of many who had come and gone inthat long monotonous trip. Some had been taken off for the big camps at Wittenberg and Göttingen. As well as he could judge, he had to thank his non-combatant character as well as his youth for the advantages of “Slopsgotten.”
When the hapless prisoners had been examined and searched and relieved of their few possessions, they were marched to the neighboring camp—a civilian camp it was called, although it was hardly limited to that. They made a sad little procession as they passed through the street of the quaint old town. Some jeered at them, but for the most part the people watched silently as they went by. Either they had not the spirit for ridicule, or they were too accustomed to such sights to be moved to comment.
Tom thought he had never in his life seen so many cripples; and instead of feeling sorry for himself his pity was aroused for these maimed young fellows, hanging on crutches and with armless coat sleeves, hollow-eyed and sallow, who braved the law to see the little cavalcade go by. For later he learned that a heavy fine was imposed on these poor wretches if they showed themselves before enemy prisoners, and he wondered where they got the money to pay the fines.
The prison camp was in the form of a great oval and looked as if it might formerly have been a “rice track,” as the all-knowing Tennert had said. It was entirely surrounded by a high barbed wire fence, the vicious wire interwoven this way and that into a mesh, the very sight of which must have been forbidding to the ambitious fugitive. It was not, however, electrified as in the strictly military prisons and on the frontiers. Tom was told that this was because it was chiefly a civilian camp, but he later learned that it was because of a shortage of coal.
The buildings which had formerly been stables and open stalls had been converted into living quarters, and odds and ends of lumber gathered from the neighboring town had been used to throw up rough shacks for additional quarters.
Straw was the only bedding and such food as the authorities supplied was dumped onto rusty tin dishes held out by the hungry prisoners. Some of these dishes had big holes in them and when such a plate became unusable it behooved its possessor to make friends with someone whose dish was not so far gone and share it with him. Some of the men carved wooden dishes, for there was nothing much to do with one’s time, until theirknives were taken from them. The life was one of grinding monotony and utter squalor, and the time which Tom spent there was the nightmare of his life.
Occasionally someone from the Spanish Embassy in Berlin would visit the camp in the interest of the Americans, the effect of these visits usually being to greatly anger the retired old German officer who was commandant. He had a face like the sun at noon-day, a voice like a cannon, and the mere asking of a question set him into a rage.
Many of the prisoners, of whom not a few were young Americans, received packages from home, through neutral sources—food, games, tobacco—which were always shared with their comrades. But Tom was slow in getting acquainted and before he had reached the stage of intimacy with anyone, something happened. He still retained his companionable status with Tennert and Freddie, but they fell in with their own set from good old “Blighty” and Tom saw little of them.
There was absolutely no rule of life in the prison camp. They were simply kept from getting away. Besides conferring this favor uponthem, about the only thing which the German government did was to send a doctor around occasionally to look down their throats and inspect their tongues. If a prisoner became ill, it behooved him to find another prisoner who had studied medicine and then wait until old General Griffenhaus was in a sufficiently good humor to give him medicines. General Griffenhaus was not cruel; perhaps he would have been pleasant if he had known how.
As fast as Tom learned the custom, he adapted himself to the lazy, go-as-you-please kind of life. He scared up a rusty tin plate, made himself a straw bed in a boarded-in box stall, got hold of an old burlap bag which he wore as a kind of tunic while washing his clothes, and idled about listening to the war experiences of others. He had thought his own experiences rather remarkable, but now they seemed so tame that he did not venture to tell them. Fights with German raiders, rescues after days spent on the ocean, chats about the drive for Paris, the “try” at Verdun, the adventures of captured aviators—these things and many more, were familiarly discussed in the little sprawling groups among which he came to be a silent listener. In a way, it reminded him ofcamping and campfire yarns, except for the squalor and disorder.
Of course, there was general work to be done, but the officials did not concern themselves about this until it became absolutely necessary. No one could say that the German discipline was strict. When the prisoners discovered that one or other of their number was good at this or that sort of work they elected him to attend to those matters—whether it was sweeping, settling quarrels, cooking, writing letters, petitioning “Old Griff,” shaving, pulling teeth, or what not. Each prisoner contributed his knowledge and experience to make life bearable for all. The camp was ademocracy, but Germany didn’t seem to object. If the prisoners wished to dig a drain trench or a refuse pit, they asked for shovels. And sometimes they got them. Prisoners, ragged and forlorn, came to be known by the most dignified titles. There was the “consulting architect,” the “sanitary inspector,” the “secretary of state,” the “chairman of the committee on kicks,” etc.
And one momentous day Tom met the “chief engineer.”
CHAPTER XXVHE VISITS THE OLD PUMP AND RECEIVES A SHOCK
“It’s all happy-go-lucky here,” said a young American from somewhere in Kansas, who had been raked in with a haul of prisoners from a torpedoed liner. “We used the water at the pump as long as the engines worked; then we shouldered our buckets and began going down to the brook. When the buckets went to pieces, we made a few out of canvas and they’re not half bad.”
Tom had inquired why they went down to the end of the oval to get water when there was a pump up in the middle of the grounds.
“So there you are,” concluded his informer.
“Is the engine supposed to pump water up from the brook?” Tom asked.
“It isn’t supposed to do anything,” said the other, “it used to be supposed to, but it’s retired.”
“I thought Germany was so efficient,” saidTom. “I should think they’d fix it. Can’t it be fixed?”
“Not by anyone here, it seems. You see, they won’t let us have any tools—wrenches, or files or anything. If you mention a file to Old Griff, he throws a couple of fits. Thinks you want to cut the barbed wire.”
“Then why don’ttheyfix it?”
“Ah, a question. I suppose they think the exercise of trotting down to the brook will do us good. I dare say if the chief engineer could get hold of a file he could fix it; seems to think he could, anyway. But gas engines are funny things.”
“You’re right they are,” said Tom, thinking of the troop’s motor boat away home in Bridgeboro. “Of course,Idon’t mind the walk down there,” he added, “only it seemed kind of funny——”
“It’s tragic for some of these lame fellows.”
“Whoisthe chief engineer,” Tom asked.
“Oh, he’s a kid that was a despatch rider, I think. Anyway, he’s wise to motorcycles. He’s had several consulting engineers on the job—Belgian, French, and British talent—but nothin’ doing. He’s gradually losing his head.”
“You couldn’t exactly blame them for not letting him have a file,” Tom said, reasonably enough, “or a wrench either for that matter, unless they watched him all the time.”
“Nah!” laughed his companion. “Nobody could file through that fence wire without the sentries hearing him; it’s as thick as a slate pencil, almost.”
“Just the same you can’t blame General Griffenhaus for not being willing to give files to prisoners. That’s the way prisoners always get away—in stories.”
About dusk of the same day Tom wandered to the pump, which was not far from the center of the vast oval. On the earth beside it a ragged figure sat, its back toward Tom, evidently investigating the obstreperous engine. Tom had never taken particular notice of this disused pump or of the little engine which, in happy days of yore, had brought the water up from the brook and made it available for the pump in a well below.
“Trying to dope it out?” he asked, by way of being sociable.
The “chief engineer,” who had half turned before Tom spoke, jumped to his feet as if frightenedand stared blankly at Tom, who stood stark still gaping at him.
“Well—I’ll—be——” began the “chief engineer.”
Tom was grinning all over his face.
“Hello, Archer!”
“Chrr-is-to-pherrCrrinkums!” said Archer, with that familiar up-state roll to his R’s. “Where in allget-outdidyoublow in from? I thought you was dead!”
“You didn’t think I was any deader than I thought you was,” said Tom, with something of his old dull manner.
“Cr-a-ab apples and custarrd pies!” Archer exclaimed, still hardly able to believe his eyes. “I sure did think you was at the bottom of the ocean!”
“I didn’t ever think I’d seeyouagain, either,” said Tom.
So the “chief engineer” proved to be none other than Archibald Archer—whose far-off home in the good old Catskills was almost within a stone’s throw of Temple Camp—Archibald Archer, steward’s boy on the poor old liner on which he had gotten Tom a job the year before.
“I might of known nothing would killyou,”Tom said. “Mr. Conne always said you’d land right side up. Do you eat apples as much as you used to?”
“More,” said Archer, “when I can get ’em.”
The poor old gas engine had to wait now while the two boys who had been such close friends sat down beside the disused pump in this German prison camp, and told each other of their escape from that torpedoed liner and of all that had befallen them since. And Tom felt that the war was not so bad, nor the squalid prison community either, since it had brought himself and Archibald Archer together again.
But Archer’s tale alone would have filled a book. He was just finishing an apple, so he said, and was about to shy the core at the second purser when the torpedo hit the ship. He was sorry he hadn’t thrown the core a little quicker.
He jumped for a life boat, missed it, swam to another, drifted with its famished occupants to the coast of Ireland, made his way to London, got a job on a channel steamer carrying troops, guyed the troops and became a torment and a nuisance generally, collected souvenirs with his old tenacity, and wound up in France, where, on thestrength of being able to shrug his shoulders and say,Oui,oui, he got along famously.
He had managed to wriggle into military service without the customary delays, and in the capacity of messenger he had ridden a motorcycle between various headquarters and the front until he had been caught by the Germans in a raid while he was engaged in giving an imitation of Charlie Chaplin in the French trenches. He spoke of General Haig as “Haigy;” of General Byng as “Bing Bang;” and his French was a circus all by itself. According to his account, he had been a prime favorite with all the high dignitaries of the war, and he attributed this to the fact that he was not afraid of them. In short, it was the same old flippant, boastful, R-rolling Archibald Archer who had won many a laugh from sober Tom Slade. And here he was again as large as life—larger, in fact.
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 thenoise 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 XXVIHE 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. Mebbeit’s poison gas, for allIknow. 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 wouldbat.”
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,Isay.”
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.Wepoor guys got to goway 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.”
“Awhat? Believeme, 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 seasonof 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 itand 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 togo 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——”
“Youdon’thaveto 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. Igotto. 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.
“Believeme, 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 sayI—saywe.”
“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 thatyou 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 XXVIIHE 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 aregularrchief 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.
“Someboys,” 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 whetherit 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 orderand 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 placeswhere, 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.