CHAPTER XXVIIIHE DISAPPEARS—FOR THE TIME BEING
Tom was too sensible to make his trip to the bushes each night. For one thing he wanted to give the mildly corrosive process a chance to weaken the wires. It was a case for small doses. Also he could not afford to attract attention. His hardest job was keeping Archer patient and quiet.
When he did manage a second trip he was gratified to see that the spots he had “treated” were white and salty, like the bar in a battery. He gave them another dose and crawled out cautiously.
Archer, in his excitement, had supposed the whole thing would be a matter of a day or two and his impatience greatly disturbed Tom.
“Don’t you see, if I try to break the wires before they’re ready, we’ll be worse off than ever?” he said. “Leave it to me.”
At last there came a dark night when Tom announced in a whisper that he had used the last of the sal ammoniac.
“The wires are all white,” he said, “and you can scrape into them with your finger-nails. It’s good and dark to-night. If you want to back out you can. I won’t be sore about it. Only tell me again about the road to Dundgardt.”
“Didn’t I tell you I was with you strong as mustarrd? I don’t want to back out.”
A while after dark Tom went down to the bushes. It was understood that Archer should follow him, timing his coming according to the sentry’s rounds. Meanwhile Tom, not without some misgivings, bent the thick wire in one of the weakened spots and it broke. He paused and listened. Then he broke another strand, trembling lest even the breaking might cause a slight sound. The life had been eaten out of the wires and they parted easily.
By the time Archer arrived he had opened a way through the thick entanglement large enough to crawl through. His nerves were on edge as he wriggled far enough through to peer about in the dark outside.
“Anyway, your head has escaped,” said Archer.
“Shh,” whispered Tom.
Far down the side of the long fence he could see a little glint bobbing in the darkness.
“Shh,” he whispered. “I don’t know which way he’s going. Keep your feet still.”
For a few seconds more he waited, his heart in his mouth and every nerve tense.
The tiny bobbing glint disappeared.
“Is he there?” Archer whispered.
“Shh! No, he’s gone around the end.”
“He won’t go all the way round; he’ll turn back when he gets to the gate. Go on, make a break——”
“Shh!” said Tom, straining his eyes in all directions.
For one moment of awful suspense he waited, his thumping heart almost choking him. Then he moved silently out into the night, and paused again, holding a deterring hand up to keep his companion back until he knew the way was clear.
Then he moved his hand.
“Come on,” he whispered, his whole frame trembling with suspense. “Let’s get away from the fence. Don’t speak.”
There was something of the old stalking and trailing stealth about his movements now as he hurried across the field adjacent to the camp. “Follow me,” he whispered, “and do just what I do. What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“Nothin’. Where you goin’? The road ain’t over there.”
“Shhh!”
Silently Tom stole across the field.
“You’re goin’ out of your way,” whispered Archer again.
“I don’t want the road, I only want to know where it is,” Tom answered; “I know what I’m doing.”
He had never dreamed that his tracking and trailing lore would one day serve him in far-off Germany and help him in so desperate a flight. Never before had he such need of all his wit—and such an incentive.
Archer followed silently. Presently Tom paused and listened.
“Anybody comin’?”
“No, I was listenin’ for—it’s down there.”
He turned suddenly and grabbing Archer around the waist, lifted him off his feet and ran swiftly down a little slope and into the brook which in its meanderings crossed an end of the prison grounds. Then he let Archer down.
“They’ll never track us here,” he panted, and felt for his precious button to make sure that Archer’s body had not pulled it off. “They’llthink only one came this way, maybe, and they won’t know which way to go—Shh!”
Archer held his breath. There was no sound except that of the water rippling at their feet.
“Is that upstream?” Tom asked. “It ought to be shallow all the way. Keep in the water.”
“Step on that shore and you’re in Alsace,” said Archer.
“Don’t step on it,” said Tom. “Shores are tell-tales. Which is the hill?”
“That one with the windmill on it.”
“That black thing?”
“The road runs around that,” said Archer, “the other side.”
“We’ll follow the road,” said Tom, “but we’ll keep in the brook till we get about a couple of hundred feet from the road. Come on.”
“You heading for Dundgardt?” Archer whispered.
“Don’t talk so loud. Yes—I got to find some people there named Leture—I can’t pronounce it just right. That’s nothin’ but a tree——”
“I thought it was a man,” said Archer.
“We ought to be there in an hour,” and again Tom felt for his precious button. “If they’ll keep us till to-morrow night we can get a good start forthe Swiss border; I—I got some—some good ideas.”
“For traveling?”
“Yes—at night. They’ll do—anything after I tell ’em about Frenchy. Quiet. Bend your toes over the pebbles like I do.”
But did they ever reach Dundgardt—once Leteur? Did they make their way through fair Alsace, under the shadow of the Blue Alsatian Mountains, to the Swiss border? Did Tom’s “good ideas” pan out? Was the scout of the Acorn and the Indian head, to triumph still in the solitude of the Black Forest, even as he had triumphed in the rugged Catskills roundabout his beloved Temple Camp?
Was he indeed permitted to carry out his determination to fight for two?
Ah, that is another story.
But one little hint may be given now, which perhaps throws some light upon his future history. Some months after this momentous night Mrs. Silas Archer, whose husband had a farm with a big apple orchard in the vicinity of Temple Camp, received a small box containing a littlepiece of junk and a letter in a sprawling hand. And this is what the letter said:
Dear Old Mudgie:“Wish I was home to get in the fall russets. They don’t have any decent apples over here at all. Stand this piece of wire on the whatnot in the sitting room and show it to the minister when he comes. It’s part of a German barbed wire fence. I kept it for a souvenir when I escaped from Slops prison. You won’t find that name on the map, but nobody can pronounce the real name. You don’t say it—you have to sneeze it. I had a bully time in the prison camp and met a feller that used to go to Temple Camp. We escaped together.“Send your letters to the War Department for we’re with Pershing’s boys now and they’ll be forwarded. Can’t tell you much on account of the censor. But don’t worry, I’ll be home for next Christmas. Give my love to dad. And don’t use all the sour apples when you’re making cider.“Down with the Kaiser! Lots of love.“ARCHIE.”
“Wish I was home to get in the fall russets. They don’t have any decent apples over here at all. Stand this piece of wire on the whatnot in the sitting room and show it to the minister when he comes. It’s part of a German barbed wire fence. I kept it for a souvenir when I escaped from Slops prison. You won’t find that name on the map, but nobody can pronounce the real name. You don’t say it—you have to sneeze it. I had a bully time in the prison camp and met a feller that used to go to Temple Camp. We escaped together.
“Send your letters to the War Department for we’re with Pershing’s boys now and they’ll be forwarded. Can’t tell you much on account of the censor. But don’t worry, I’ll be home for next Christmas. Give my love to dad. And don’t use all the sour apples when you’re making cider.
“Down with the Kaiser! Lots of love.
“ARCHIE.”
This Isn’t All!
Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book?Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author?On thereverse sideof the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book.
Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book?
Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author?
On thereverse sideof the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book.
Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete catalog.
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of “Roy Blakeley,” “Pee-wee Harris,”“Westy Martin,” Etc.
Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors.Every Volume Complete in Itself.
“Let your boy grow up with Tom Slade,” is a suggestion which thousands of parents have followed during the past, with the result that the TOM SLADE BOOKS are the most popular boys’ books published today. They take Tom Slade through a series of typical boy adventures through his tenderfoot days as a scout, through his gallant days as an American doughboy in France, back to his old patrol and the old camp ground at Black Lake, and so on.
TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUTTOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMPTOM SLADE ON THE RIVERTOM SLADE WITH THE COLORSTOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORTTOM SLADE WITH THE BOYS OVER THERETOM SLADE, MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH BEARERTOM SLADE WITH THE FLYING CORPSTOM SLADE AT BLACK LAKETOM SLADE ON MYSTERY TRAILTOM SLADE’S DOUBLE DARETOM SLADE ON OVERLOOK MOUNTAINTOM SLADE PICKS A WINNERTOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York.
THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of “Tom Slade,” “Pee-wee Harris,” “Westy Martin,” Etc.
Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors.Every Volume Complete in Itself.
In the character and adventures of Roy Blakeley are typified the very essence of Boy life. He is a real boy, as real as Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. He is the moving spirit of the troop of Scouts of which he is a member, and the average boy has to go only a little way in the first book before Roy is the best friend he ever had, and he is willing to part with his best treasure to get the next book in the series.
ROY BLAKELEYROY BLAKELEY’S ADVENTURES IN CAMPROY BLAKELEY, PATHFINDERROY BLAKELEY’S CAMP ON WHEELSROY BLAKELEY’S SILVER FOX PATROLROY BLAKELEY’S MOTOR CARAVANROY BLAKELEY, LOST, STRAYED OR STOLENROY BLAKELEY’S BEE-LINE HIKEROY BLAKELEY AT THE HAUNTED CAMPROY BLAKELEY’S FUNNY BONE HIKEROY BLAKELEY’S TANGLED TRAILROY BLAKELEY ON THE MOHAWK TRAIL
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York.
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of “Tom Slade,” “Pee-wee Harris,” “Westy Martin,” Etc.
Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors.Every Volume Complete in Itself.
All readers of the Tom Slade and the Roy Blakeley books are acquainted with Pee-wee Harris. These stories record the true facts concerning his size (what there is of it) and his heroism (such as it is), his voice, his clothes, his appetite, his friends, his enemies, his victims. Together with the thrilling narrative of how he foiled, baffled, circumvented and triumphed over everything and everybody (except where he failed) and how even when he failed he succeeded. The whole recorded in a series of screams and told with neither muffler nor cut-out.
PEE-WEE HARRISPEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAILPEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMPPEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCKPEE-WEE HARRIS ADRIFTPEE-WEE HARRIS F. O. B. BRIDGEBOROPEE-WEE HARRIS FIXERPEE-WEE HARRIS: AS GOOD AS HIS WORD
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
[Transcriber Note: inside cover illustration]
[Transcriber Note: inside cover illustration]