"That is your handwriting, is it not, Captain Prescott?" demanded the regimental commander.
"It looks just like my handwriting, sir, but I'll swear that I never wrote it," declared astonished Dick, still staring at the little piece of paper.
"Yet it resembles your handwriting?"
"Yes, sir. If I didn't know positively that I didn't write any such message then I'd be about ready to admit that it is my handwriting. But I didn't write it, sir."
"Pass it to Captain Holmes. I will ask him if he has seen this note before."
"No, sir," declared Greg, very positively, though he, too, was startled, for it was hard to persuade himself that he was not looking down at his chum's familiar handwriting.
The note read:
"Dear H. Stick to what we agreed upon, and we can cook C's goose without trouble. P."
"May I speak, sir?" asked Dick.
"Yes, Captain."
"Then I desire to say, sir, that I have not the least desire to see Captain Cartwright in any trouble. Hence, it would have been impossible for me to think of writing such a note. More, sir, it would have been stupid of me to risk writing such a note, for Captain Holmes and I sat in my quarters until it was time for us to leave on our way to our respective company offices."
"And while in your quarters did you discuss this affair of your trouble with Captain Cartwright?"
"To the best of my recollection, sir, we did not mention it," Dick declared.
"Is that your recollection, Captain Holmes?"
"Yes, sir."
"And this is not your handwriting, Captain Prescott?"
"I give you my word of honor, sir, that I did not write it, and did not even discuss the matter with Captain Holmes."
"I do not understand this note in the least," Colonel Cleaves went on. "Of course, Captain Prescott, I am bound to accept your assurance that you did not write this. I do not know how the note came here; all I know about it is that I found it on my desk, under a paper weight, about fifteen minutes ago, when I came in."
"It is the work of some trouble-maker, sir," Greg ventured.
"Do you know anything about this note, Captain Cartwright?"
"No, sir," replied that officer, flushing at the intimation that he could have had anything to do with it, for Greg had passed the paper to him.
"I will keep that note, then," said Colonel Cleaves, taking it, "in the hope that I may later find out how it came to be here. Captain Cartwright, do you deny that Captain Prescott did no more than to parry your blows and thrust you back off your balance?"
"That was all he did, sir."
"And you made two distinct efforts to hit him?"
"Y-y-yes, sir."
"Was anything said that, in your opinion, justified you in attempting to strike a brother officer?"
"At the time I thought Captain Holmes had justified my attempt to \ strike him."
"Do you still think so?"
"N-no, sir. I was undoubtedly too impetuous."
"And you attempted to strike Captain Prescott only because he tried to restrain you from striking a brother officer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is there anything more to be said or explained by any of you gentlemen?"
"Nothing, sir," came from three pairs of lips.
"Then, since none of you wishes to prefer charges," pursued Colonel Cleaves, "I will say that the whole affair, as far as it has been explained to me, looks like a childish quarrel to have taken place between officers and gentlemen. On the statements made to me, I will say that I believe that Captain Cartwright was most to blame. I therefore take this opportunity to rebuke him. Captain Prescott, of course, you understand that I accept your assurance that you did not write the note I showed you. Keep the peace after this, gentlemen, and make an honest effort to promote brotherliness of spirit with all the officers of the service, and especially of this regiment. That is all."
Saluting, the three captains stepped out into the sunlight. The sentry pacing on headquarters post swung his rifle from shoulder arms down to port arms, then came to present arms before the officers, who acknowledged his formal courtesy by bringing their hands up smartly to the brims of their campaign hats.
"Well, that's over!" announced Cartwright, in a tone of relief.
"And will never be repeated," said Greg.
"But you will admit, Holmes, that you've picked a good deal on me, from time to time," Cartwright pressed, in a half-aggrieved tone.
"I will admit, for you both," smiled Dick, "that you're in danger of starting something all over again unless you shut up and make a fresh, better start. So we won't refer to personal matters again, but we come to your company's barracks first, Cartwright, and when we get there we will shake hands and agree to remember that we're all engaged in a fierce effort to make the Ninety-ninth the best American regiment."
In silence the three pursued their way to C company's building.Here they halted.
"To the Ninety-ninth, best of 'em all," proposed Prescott, holding out his hand to Cartwright, who took and pressed it.
"To the best officers' crowd in the service," quoth Greg.
"Amen to that!" assented Cartwright, though he strode away with a dull red flush burning on either cheek.
Half an hour later Dick's business took him past the regiment's guard-house. As carpenters were everywhere busy in camp putting up more necessary buildings the place officially known as the guard-house was more of a bullpen. Posts had been driven deeply in the form of a rectangle, and on these barbed wire had been laid to a height of nine feet. Within the rectangle guard-house prisoners could take the air, retiring to either of two tents inside the enclosure whenever they wished.
As he passed Dick noted, vaguely, that four or five men stood by the nearer line of barbed wire fence. He held up his left hand to glance at his wrist watch. Just as he turned the hand, to let it fall at his side, something dropped out of the air, falling squarely in his hand. Instinctively Prescott's fingers closed over the missile. He glanced, quickly, at the enclosure, but not one of the men on the other side of the wire was looking his way.
Then the young captain, keeping briskly on his way, opened his hand to glance down at his unexpected catch. It was a piece of manila paper, wrapped around a stone.
Waiting only until he was some distance from the bull-pen, Dick unwrapped the paper.
In printed characters, used undoubtedly to disguise handwriting, was this message:
"Watch for all you're worth the carpenter who talks with Mock!"
"Now, why on earth should I interest myself in the affairs of Greg's busted sergeant?" Dick wondered. "And what possible interest can I have in any carpenter unless he's a friend of mine, or has business with me?"
On the whole Prescott felt that he was lowering his own dignity to attach any importance to an anonymous message, plainly from a guardhouse prisoner. Yet he dropped the small stone and thrust the scrap of paper into a pocket for future consideration should he deem it worth while.
After a week of exacting office work and all but endless drill, Dick had the rare good fortune to find himself with an evening of leisure.
"Going to be busy to-night?" Dick asked Greg at the evening meal at mess.
"Confound it, yes," returned Captain Holmes. "I must put in the time until midnight with Sergeant Lund going over clothing requisitions for my new draft of men."
"My requisitions are all in, and I expect the clothing supplies to-morrow morning," Dick continued.
"That is because you got your draft of new men two days earlier than I did," grumbled Greg. "You're always the lucky one. But what are you going to do to-night that you want company?"
"I thought I'd like to take a walk in the moonlight," Dick responded.
"Great Scott! Do you mean to tell me you don't get enough walk in the daytime in the broiling sunlight?"
"Not the same kind of walking," Prescott smiled. "I want to stroll to-night and talk. But if I must go alone, then I shall have to think."
"Don't attempt hard work after hours," advised Holmes.
"Such as walking?"
"No; thinking."
Dick finished his meal and stepped outside in the air. The first to join him was Lieutenant Morris.
"Feel like taking a walk in the moonlight?" Dick asked.
"I'd be delighted, Captain, but to-night I'm officer in charge at the company barracks."
"True; I had forgotten."
Other officers Dick invited to join him, but all had duty of one kind or another, or else home letters to write.
"Did I hear you say you were going to take a walk, Prescott?" asked Major Wells.
"Yes, sir. By any great good luck are you willing to go with me?"
"I'd like to, Prescott, but as it happens there is the school for battalion commanders to-night. A talk on trench orders by the brigadier is listed, I believe."
"I'm afraid I shall have to go alone," sighed Dick "Yet I've half a mind to stroll over to company office and invent some new paper work. With every one else busy I feel like the only slacker in the regiment."
"If you really go alone," suggested the major, "perhaps you could combine pleasure with doing me a favor."
"How, sir?"
"My horse hasn't had any exercise for three days. I'd be glad if you'd take him out tonight, if it suits you."
"Nothing could please me better, sir," Dick cried eagerly, for he dearly loved a horse.
"How soon will you be ready?"
"At once, Major."
"Then I'll send around now for the horse." Just a few minutes later an orderly rode up, dismounted, saluted and turned the saddled animal over to A company's commander.
"This is luck, indeed!" Dick told himself, as he felt the horse's flanks between his knees and moved off at a slow canter. "I wonder why I never tried to transfer into the cavalry."
While waiting for the horse he had telephoned the adjutant, stating that for the next three hours he would be either in camp or in the near vicinity.
After being halted by three outlying sentries Prescott rode clear of the camp bounds, riding at a trot down a moonlit country road. Vinton was the nearest town, where soldiers on a few hours' pass went for their recreation out of camp. The road to Vinton was usually well sprinkled with jitney busses conveying soldiers to or from camp, so Prescott had chosen another road which, at night, was likely to be almost free of traffic of any kind.
"As this is the first evening I've had off in three weeks I don't believe I need feel that I'm loafing," Dick reflected. "It's gorgeous outdoors to-night. There will undoubtedly be plenty of moonlight in France, but there won't be many opportunities like this one."
Finding that his horse was sweating, Dick slowed the animal down to a walk. He had ridden along another mile when, near a farmhouse he espied a soldier in the road, strolling with a young woman.
As the horse gained upon the young couple the soldier glanced backward, then swung the girl to the side of the road and halted beside her, drawing himself up to attention and saluting smartly. The man was Private Lawrence of his own company.
"Good evening," Dick nodded, pleasantly.
"Good evening, sir," replied the private.
Dick didn't ask, as some officers would have done, whether the soldier had pass to be out of camp. He could ascertain that on his return to camp. Instead, he said:
"You must have this road pretty nearly to yourself, Lawrence, as far as soldiers go."
"There's at least one other, sir," the soldier replied, in a matter of fact way. "I saw one slip by in the field, close to the road. I won't be sure, but I think it was Private Mock, sir."
"He has friends down this way?" Dick asked casually.
"Not that I ever heard of, sir. There aren't many houses on this road. My friend, Miss Williams, lives in the house up yonder."
At the implied introduction Prescott raised his campaign hat, then rode on.
The instant that Mock's name had been mentioned it had flashed through Dick's mind that, when in Greg's office that afternoon, he had seen Mock's name on Top Sergeant Lund's list of men for pass, and Greg, he knew, had drawn a pen line through that name.
"Of course it may not have been Mock that Lawrence saw; Lawrence himself wasn't sure," Dick reflected. "Yet, if Mock is out of camp to-night he is out without leave. Private Lawrence didn't realize that, or he wouldn't tell tales."
Soon the horse began to move along an up grade road between two lines of trees. Finding that the animal, instead of drying off, was sweating more freely, Dick drew rein and dismounted.
"It's hard work on a hot night, so you and I will walk together for a while, old pal," Dick confided to the borrowed mount. "There, you find it easier, don't you?"
As if to express gratitude the horse bent its head forward, rubbing against Dick's shoulder.
"Who says horses can't talk plainly, hey, old fellow?" Dick demanded. On together they walked, until Prescott felt himself perspiring, while the horse's coat grew dry.
"There, now, friend," said Dick, running a hand over the creature's flanks, "you're cool and dry, and this is one of the prettiest spots in Georgia, so I reckon I'll tie you and rest until I, too, am dry again."
Having tied the horse by the bridle reins, Dick strolled about, enjoying the dark and quiet after the bright electric lights and the bustle of camp. Presently he strolled down the road until he came to a break in the trees on his right. Though the moon had gone partly behind a cloud Dick found himself gazing down a clearing. He would not have been interested, had it not been that he caught sight of the unmistakable silhouette of a soldier, and, beside him, a somewhat stoop-shouldered man in darker garb.
"Why, I wonder if that can be Mock, and his carpenter?" reflected Prescott, recalling the note that had dropped so mysteriously into his extended palm.
Screened behind a bush Dick watched the pair until he saw them coming toward the road. Then Prescott drew back, finding better shelter, but he did not seek complete concealment. It occurred to him to wait there, in silence, and see if Private Mock displayed any uneasiness on coming face to face with his captain's chum.
"That will be a good way, perhaps, to test out the note," Prescott decided.
Though the two men appeared to be talking earnestly, only a mumble of voices reached Dick's ears when the men were no more than thirty feet away. Then they stepped into the road, where they halted hardly more than a dozen feet away from the screened captain.
"It's a pity you wouldn't have your nerve," said the stranger, to Mock. "You tell me you hate your captain."
"Wouldn't you, if he had treated you like he treated me?" demandedMock heatedly.
"Surely I would," agreed the stranger.
"And there's Holmes's friend, that fellow Prescott, who, he, you say, would spend all his time looking into anything that happened to Holmes. You could settle with them both, and then there'd be no one left to worry about."
"Say, just what are you thinking of doing to 'em?" demanded Mock, in a tone of uneasy suspicion.
"There are two things that could be done to them," continued the civilian. "One would be to put them out of the way altogether, and the other would be to bring disgrace upon them so that they'd be kicked out of the Army. That would break their hearts, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," muttered Mock, "but you're talking dreams, neighbor. I'm no black-hander, to creep up behind them with a knife, or take a pot shot at them. I'm not quite that kind, neighbor, and it couldn't be done, anyway."
"You could put 'em out of the way, and no one would be the wiser," hinted the stranger.
"How?"
"I'll show you, when I'm sure enough that you're game," declared the civilian. "I'd have to be sure you had the nerve."
"I haven't," admitted Private Mock.
"Do you know, I began to think that before you admitted it?" sneered the other.
"Not the way you mean," flared up the ex-sergeant. "I can be mean in order to get square with a mean officer. But I can get along without putting him under the sod. I'm a good hater, but my mother didn't raise me to be a real crook."
"You're a quitter, I guess," jeered the other. "Anyway, if you claim to be a man of sand you'll have to show me."
"And I guess it's about time that you showed me something, too," challenged Mock, looking furtively at the stoop-shouldered man.
"I'm ready enough to show you a whole lot of things, when I find out that you're man enough to stand up for yourself and pay back those who treat you like dirt," retorted the other.
"There's one thing you can show me, first of all," challenged Mock.
"Yes? What?"
"Show me why you're so anxious to have harm happen to CaptainHolmes and Captain Prescott."
"Because I like you; because I'm a friend of yours," returned the stoop-shouldered one.
"You're a pretty new friend," Mock went on. "I never saw you until that day when the captain caught me shirking and told off two men to prod me back into camp."
"That was the time for you to know me," declared the other brazenly. "That was the time when you needed a friend to show you how to get square like a man instead of like a coward and a quitter."
"Be careful with your names!" commanded Mock harshly. "Say, Mr.Man, who are you, and what are you?"
"Private Mock, I believe I can answer that question for you!" broke in Captain Dick Prescott, stepping out from behind his leafy screen.
"Captain Prescott!" uttered Mock, starting back in dismay.
"Donner und blitzen!" (thunder and lightning) ejaculated the stoop-shouldered one.
"The fellow has just answered your question for you," Dick went on, pointing an accusing finger at the stranger. "You know what language he was betrayed into using just now."
"German, sir," said Mock.
"That's right," nodded Prescott.
"Is he one of them Kaiser-hound spies, sir?" demanded Mock, stung to wrath and throwing grammar to the winds. "Why, I've dreamed of catching one and tearing him to pieces. With your permission, sir——-!"
Not stopping to finish Mock threw himself upon the stoop-shouldered one, But that worthy had foreseen it, and adroitly stopped the ex-sergeant with a blow on the end of the nose that dazed him for an instant.
"I'll take care of him, Mock!" cried Captain Dick, leaping forward. As he did so the stranger turned and fled. No longer stoop-shouldered, but bearing himself like an athlete, the unknown turned and darted away, Prescott racing after him.
"Get back!" warned the fugitive, drawing an automatic revolver and flourishing it over his head.
Though unarmed, save for his fists, Prescott continued to pursue with all speed. After both of them raced Private Mock.
Dick was gaining when he stepped on a round stone, slipped and fell. Mock dashed after him. The fleeing German halted long enough to hurl the automatic pistol at Mock's face, then turned and ran on. Naturally the soldier dodged the missile, which struck the ground behind him. Thinking the weapon might be useful, Mock halted, then ran back and secured the pistol, after which he started to give chase. But the fugitive had vanished in the darkness.
"Come back here and surrender, before I shoot," bluffed Mock, but the German did not answer.
To Mock's intense astonishment Dick reached over, snatching the pistol from his hand.
"That will be about all, Private Mock," said Prescott sternly. "You've bluffed your part well, and helped your friend to escape, but at all events I've got you!"
"Do you—-" began the soldier, but stopped, further words failing him. Dick gripped the man's arm, giving a significant pressure before he said:
"You'll come along with me, Mock, and it will be worse for you if you try any further monkey-shines with me."
He gave another pressure on Mock's arm as he finished. Without a word Mock walked with him to where the horse was tied.
"Untie that bridle and buckle the ends together," Dick ordered.
This done, the captain mounted, taking the bridle in his left hand, retaining the automatic pistol in his right.
"March ahead, Mock. Don't try to bolt unless you want me to shoot."
In this manner they proceeded back over the road. Mile after mile they covered, meeting no one until they had come in sight of the camp, nestling in the broad valley below.
At this point such an extensive view could be had that Dick felt sure there was no eavesdropper. So he dismounted, calling the soldier to him and asking in a whisper:
"Mock, you were simply a poor, shirking soldier, weren't you?You are, at heart, loyal to your country's Flag, aren't you?"
"I'd die for the Stars and Stripes, sir!" Mock declared, in a voice choked with emotion.
"But I felt tired, the other day, and I got a notion Captain Holmes was down on me. So I went bad and got busted. Then I hated Captain Holmes, sir, and ached for a chance to get square with him. Then that accursed carpenter fellow hunted me out, talked with me, and made me think he was my friend. If I had known he was a Kaiser-hound I'd have split his head open at the first crack out of the box."
"I didn't doubt you as a loyal man, Mock," Dick continued, in a whisper. "I spoke to you the way I did back on the road because I was sure the fellow was near and listening. I didn't care much about catching him to-night because I hope to catch him later on, and get him even more red-handed. Mock, you're loyal, and I'm going to put your loyalty, if you consent, to a hard, bitter test."
Dick went on in an even lower tone, Mock listening in growing astonishment, without replying a word, though he nodded understandingly.
"So, now," Prescott wound up, "I'm going to continue into camp with you still a prisoner and be mighty hard on you. However, I won't hold the pistol on you any longer."
Into camp Dick marched the soldier, then over toward the buildings of the Ninety-ninth, and thence along to the bull-pen.
"Sergeant of the guard!" Prescott called briskly, and that non-commissioned officer appeared.
"Take charge of Private Mock as a prisoner, charged with being absent from camp without leave or pass," Dick ordered. "I will report my action to Captain Holmes, who will dispose of his case."
From there Dick led the horse back to B company barracks, turned the animal over to an orderly and went into the company office, where, as he had expected, he found Greg immersed in a grind of paper work. For a few minutes Dick talked earnestly with his chum in low tones, Captain Holmes frequently nodding.
"And now, I think I had better go down to the adjutant's office, to see if he's still at his desk," Dick finished, "and, if so, make my report."
"You'll stagger him," Greg predicted.
One of Greg's orderlies had already ridden the major's horse to the stable, so Prescott walked briskly along the street until he came to regimental headquarters. As he entered the adjutant's office he found Colonel Cleaves seated on the corner of his subordinate's desk, in low-toned conversation with his subordinate.
"Am I intruding, sir?" Dick inquired, saluting the colonel.
"No," said Colonel Cleaves. "In fact, Captain, you may as well know the subject-matter of our conversation. Captain Prescott, this camp would appear to be infested with German spies! This evening sixteen men in F company were taken ill after supper. They are now in hospital and some of them are expected to die. The surgeons have examined some of the food left over from that supper and report finding ground glass in some pieces of the apple pie served as dessert. Later the captain of our machine-gun company, which has only one machine gun so far, had the piece taken into the company mess-room to demonstrate the mechanism to his lieutenants so that they might instruct the men. He found the mechanism of the piece so badly jammed that the machine gun refused to work. I have inspected that piece, and in my opinion the gun is ruined. As if that were not enough sixteen rifles belonging to G company have been found with their bolts broken off. It is very plain that German spies and sympathizers are at work in Camp Berry, and the scoundrels must be found, Captain."
Colonel Cleaves spoke under the stress of great excitement, his eyes flashing, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Dick went to the door, then to the doors opening into the rooms on either side. Then he came back, saying in a low voice:
"Colonel, I met one of the German spies tonight. Perhaps the ring-leader. If I see him again I shall recognize him and arrest him instantly. Do you see what this is, sir?"
Dick held up the weapon that the carpenter had hurled at PrivateMock.
"It is a 45-caliber, United States Government automatic pistol," said Colonel Cleaves.
"Exactly, sir; and the spy I have mentioned had it in his possession. How he obtained it, I do not yet know, but I hope to find out. And now, sir, I will tell you what happened and what action I took."
Thereupon Captain Dick Prescott narrated the amazing adventure of the evening, winding up with:
"So, sir, I have placed Private Mock in arrest at the guard-house, and through his detention there I hope to gain the clues that shall lead us to the ferreting out and arrest of the whole crew of German spies at Camp Berry!"
New barracks buildings continued to spring up at Camp Berry. Drafts of men for a National Army division began to arrive, besides a brigade of infantry, a regiment of field artillery and a machine-gun battalion of regulars.
Brigadier-General Bates arrived to take command of the regulars, while Major-general Timmins assumed command of the National Army division and became commanding general of the camp as well.
New batches of recruits, constantly arriving for the regulars, soon gave the Ninety-ninth an average of a hundred and eighty men to the company, or forty-five men to each platoon. Drill went on as nearly incessantly during daylight as the men could endure.
"In my opinion it won't be very long before the Ninety-ninth goes over and reports to General Pershing," Dick told his chum. "At the rate our ranks are being filled up we'll soon have a full-strength regiment."
"But most of our men are still recruits," Holmes objected. The regiment really isn't anywhere near fit for foreign service."
"It won't be so many weeks before we're ordered abroad," Dick insisted. "Wait and see whether I'm right."
Wonderful indeed was the speed with which buildings were erected. The record time for constructing a two-story building with an office, supply room, mess-room and sleeping quarters for two hundred and fifty men was ninety minutes!
Fast, too, was the work done by the Regular Army regiments, which had this advantage over the National Army regiments, that most of their officers were trained regulars and a large proportion of them West Point graduates.
Of the sixteen men made ill by eating powdered glass not one died, for the glass had been ground too fine to do the utmost mischief. However, the camp was alarmed, and all food was kept under close guard and was regularly examined with care before being served.
Soldiers bearing German names were in some instances suspected, and unjustly. Officers tried to undo this harm by talking among the men. Yet all wondered what would be the next outbreak of spy work in camp.
Private Mock, sentenced to two weeks' arrest for being off the reservation without leave, served his sentence moodily, usually refusing to talk with his fellow-prisoners.
One Private Wilhelm was also serving a term in arrest at the bull-pen. His name was held against him Wilhelm as a brand-new man in the regiment, and one of the few with whom Mock would talk.
One morning the latter was overheard to say:
"I'm sick of this war already. I hope the Germans win. If I'm sent over to France I'll watch my chance to desert and get over to the Germans."
"Oh, ye will, will ye?" demanded Private Riley, another prisoner in the bull-pen. "Ye dir-rty blackguard!"
Buff! The Irish soldier's fist caught Mock squarely on the jaw, sending him squarely to earth, though not knocking him out. After a moment Mock was on his feet again, quivering with rage. He flew at Riley, who was a smaller man, hammering him hard. Other soldier-prisoners interfered on behalf of Riley, whereupon Private Wilhelm, a heavily built fellow, rushed to Mock's aid.
"A German and a German sympathizer!"
With that yell a dozen or so of time prisoners set upon the pair. Some lively and perhaps nearly deadly punishment would have been handed out, had not several men of the guard rushed in, thrusting with their rifle butts and breaking up the unequal fight.
But Mock was reported for his utterance, and Wilhelm for his sympathies. Both were brought up before Captain Greg Holmes, and Dick was sent for to join in questioning the men, which was done behind closed doors. At the end of the hearing Mock and Wilhelm were returned to the guard-house looking much crestfallen.
"Did you hear what they said to me?" Mock was overheard to demand of Wilhelm. "Said they'd have me tried for saying I'd desert, and that I'd be likely to get several years in prison for talking too much. Oh, I'm sure sick of being in this man's army!"
"Sure!" nodded Wilhelm, understandingly. "It's tough!"
"It'll be tougher, I warrant ye, if we hear ye two blackguards using any more of your line of talk around here," Riley broke in. "The guar-rd won't be forever stopping our pounding ye!"
After that Mock and Wilhelm were left severely alone by their fellow-prisoners in the bull-pen. Most of these men were serving merely sentences of a day to a week for minor infractions of discipline.
The next morning Private Riley managed to get word to Greg that Private Brown, of the guard, had been talking with Mock at the barbed wire of the pen enclosure.
"Private Brown is supposed to be an all right soldier, but he'll bear watching," was Dick's comment when he heard the report.
That afternoon it was reported that both Mock and Wilhelm had been talking with Private Brown at the barbed wire fence. Dick smiled grimly when he heard it.
The next morning orders were read releasing Mock, Wilhelm, Riley and some of the other soldier prisoners ahead of time that they might not be deprived of too much instruction. The released ones were cautioned to be extremely careful, in the future, not to fall under the disciplinary ban.
"Sure, I can understand some of us getting out, but not Mock," declared Riley to a bunkie (chum). "Him an' his talk about deserting to the enemy!"
In the meantime Dick had given an accurate description of the carpenter who had tried to enlist Mock in some dangerous scheme of revenge. The fellow had disappeared from among the gang of carpenters, and that was all that was known. Secret Service men had been put on the trail, but had failed to find the fellow.
"Now, maybe a soldier sometimes says more than he means," broke in Sergeant Kelly, who had come up behind the pair on the nearly deserted drill ground. "Soldiers are like other people in that respect."
"But not Mock," Riley objected. "He's a bad egg."
"I don't say he isn't," Kelly rejoined. "What I'm advising you is not to conclude that a man is worthless just because he talks. For that matter, Riley, I believe that the men we have most to fear are spies who manage to get in the Army, talk straight and do their work well, and all the time they're plotting all kinds of mischief. Like the fellow or the chaps who put that powdered glass in the chow of F company not long ago."
"Here's hoping I live to see Mock hanged!" grumbled Private Riley, as Sergeant Kelly moved away.
Kelly, who had served as sergeant with Dick in other regiments, had followed him into the Ninety-ninth. Prescott rejoiced that he had this excellent fellow with him, as capable first sergeants are always looked upon in the light of prizes.
Yet, in a—-to him—-new man Greg Holmes had an almost equally good top in Lund, a Swede who had put in ten years in the Army.
When Greg dropped into the company office that forenoon, Lund handed him a list of men who had put in application for pass that afternoon. It was to be a visitors' afternoon, and there would be no drills.
"Nineteen, and all good conduct men, Sergeant Lund," commented Greg, glancing over the list and reaching for a pencil with which to O.K. the list.
"And two more put in application, but I didn't put their names down, sir," Lund explained, as he stood at the side of the young captain at the desk.
"Who were they?"
"Mock and Wilhelm."
"Have they behaved themselves since they got out of arrest?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Then we'll let them off this afternoon," proposed Holmes amiably, as he wrote time two names down on the list. "Perhaps they'll turn out better for a bit of considerate treatment."
Though Lund frowned as he received the list back in his own hand he made no comment.
Immediately after the noon meal Mock and Wilhelm exhibited their passes to the guard and walked briskly out of camp.
"Look at that now—-the pair of traitors!" muttered Private Riley, as he spat vengefully on the ground. "Me, I knew better than to ask for it, and me so lately out of the pen. But those bir-rds with dir-rty feathers get their chance to go off the reservation and plot more mischief."
Had Private Riley been able to follow the pair unseen he would have been even angrier. Mock and Wilhelm, stepping briskly along the road over which Dick had ridden that eventful evening, kept on for some three miles, then turned abruptly off into the forest.
For another half mile they kept on, going further and further from the road.
"Here's the spot," said Mock, after some hunting under the trees. "It must be the place, for it has the nail driven into the tree trunk."
"Sure, it's the place all right," Wilhelm agreed.
Mock emitted a shrill whistle that would not, however, carry very far. Instantly there came an answering whistle.
"And here we are!" spoke up the stoop-shouldered stranger, coming out of a. jungle of bushes. "I'm glad to see that you're on time. And to-day I hope you've more sand than you had that night."
"Forget it," said Mock shortly.
"You're ready now?"
"To do anything," Mock agreed.
"Sure! He's all right!" Private Wilhelm nodded. "I've attended to that."
"Come here, Carl!" called the stoop-shouldered one, in a low voice.
From another clump of bushes came another man, bearded and bespectacled. If there's anything in a face, Carl was unmistakably German.
"Carl will tell you what to do," said time stoop-shouldered one.
"You men are in two different companies?" asked the man behind spectacles.
"I'm in B company," nodded Mock. "Wilhelm is in E company."
"Then you can take care of two companies of men," Carl went on."Do to-morrow morning what I'm going to tell you. See these?"
The bespectacled one held up two vials that he had taken from a pocket.
"Each one of you takes one of these," he went on. "Hide them to-night where you please. In the morning, when the men in your barracks hang their bedding out of the windows and go down to breakfast, stay behind. Uncork a vial, each of you, and sprinkle the liquid in here on the bedding of at least half a dozen soldiers. You understand? Then slip down to your breakfasts."
"What's in these vials?" asked Mock, taking the one offered him and curiously inspecting the liquid in it.
"Germs!" said the bespectacled one. "Measles. Do as I tell you, and in a few days measles will begin to run through the two companies like wildfire. In a few days more it ought to be well through the regiment. Tomorrow night slip out of camp and come here. Under those bushes over there you'll find civilian clothing. Understand? Yes? In the pockets of each suit you'll find the money to pay for your work. Take off your uniforms and put on the other clothes. Then go where you please, but be sure to keep out of time Army after this, for American soldiers are going to die fast! The money you'll find will take care of you. Yes?"
"Yes!" nodded Mock. "Sure!"
Then, suddenly, Mock turned and whistled.
"You two men will throw up your hands!" came in the sharp tones of Captain Dick Prescott, as he, Sergeant Kelly and four privates stepped into view.
"You sneak!" yelled the stoop-shouldered one, making a rush at Mock and trying to seize the vial. But Mock dodged. In the same instant the bespectacled German tried to snatch the other vial away from Wilhelm, but that soldier, too, dodged and saved the vial.
"On the ground is a good place for you!" growled Sergeant Kelly, knocking the stoop-shouldered stranger flat. Then, before the fellow could rise Kelly had snapped handcuffs his wrists.
Two of the soldiers seized the bespectacled German just as he started to run. He, too, felt the clasp of steel around his wrists. Though Kelly and the four privates were armed with automatic pistols no weapon had been drawn.
"Twice you've played the sneak, you!" hissed the stoop-shouldered one, glaring at Private Mock.
"Twice more I'll do it to help Uncle Sam," retorted Mock, with a short laugh. "I owed it to you to see you caught!"
"But you're a German!" hissed the bespectacled one at Wilhelm."Why did you turn on us, who are also German?"
"My father was a German; he's an American now," said Wilhelm, coolly. "Me, I've always been an American, and I'm one now, and will be as long as I live."
"Let me have those vials," Dick ordered. "Sergeant, take these, and mark them as soon as you get back to company office. Then we'll turn them over to the medical department. Sergeant, march your prisoners."
Heading toward the road Sergeant Kelly and his four soldiers led the German captives away.
Captain Dick, with Mock and Wilhelm, followed, but did not attempt to keep up with the sergeant's party,
When Kelly showed up in camp again he did not have his prisoners with him. He had taken them elsewhere, and they were soon on their way to an internment camp, where, like "good" Germans in America, they would live until the close of the war, cut off from all further chance to plot against Uncle Sam's soldiers.
Halting at a farm-house on the way, Dick telephoned to regimental headquarters. Two minutes after his message had been received Private Brown, white-faced and haggard, was placed under arrest. Under grilling, he confessed what Secret Service men had already learned—-that his name was really spelled B-r-a-u-n; that both he and his father were German subjects, and that the young man had enlisted for the sole purpose of playing the spy and the plotter in the Army.
It had been Mock's talk of deserting in France that had caused Braun to talk to Mock, who had been told by Captain Prescott to talk in that vein while in the bull-pen. Braun had fallen into the trap.
As for Wilhelm—-which wasn't the young an's real name—-he was the son of a German-born father, but a young man of known loyalty to the United States. He wasn't a soldier, but a War Department agent who had donned the uniform for a purpose, and had come to Camp Berry with a draft of real soldiers.
And this was the plan that Dick had worked out following his pretended arrest of Mock that night up the road. Mock, resolved to become a good soldier again, had undergone his humiliation in the bull-pen, and the scorn of his fellow-prisoners, in order to trap the stoop-shouldered German, a pretended carpenter, but really August Biederfeld, a German spy. The bespectacled one, Dr. Carl Ebers, was another spy. The two had delivered their messages in camp through Braun.
While the pair Ebers and Biederfeld were interned, Braun, as one who had enlisted in the Army and had taken the oath of service, was court-martialed on a charge of high treason, and shot for his crimes. Before his death he confessed that it was he who had shaken the powdered glass in the food of F company, the stuff having been supplied by Dr. Ebers. It was Braun, also, who had damaged the machine gun and worked havoc with infantry rifles, he, too, had forged and placed the pretended Prescott note about "Cooking Cartwright's goose."
"Wilhelm" soon vanished, undoubtedly to do other work as an allegedGerman sympathizer elsewhere. As for Mock:
"Private James Mock, B company, having suffered humiliation and scorn that he might better fulfil his oath and serve his country, is hereby restored to his former rank of sergeant in B company, and with full honor, he will be obeyed and respected accordingly."
So ran the official order published to the regiment.
The liquid in the two vials was found to be swarming with measles germs that would have started a veritable epidemic at Camp Berry.
Captain Dick Prescott's quick thinking and steady action had resulted in the capture of the German spies who were seeking to destroy the Ninety-ninth.
No quiet days, however, were in store for the regiment.
"No other business, Sergeant?" asked Dick, one October morning, as he looked up from the desk in company office at his "top."
"Among the nineteen National Army men drafted into this regiment, sir, are three conscientious objectors who ask to be transferred to some non-fighting branch of the service."
"Send for them," ordered Dick briefly, a frown settling on his brow.
Privates Ellis, Rindle and Pitson speedily reported in the office, saluting, then standing at attention.
"You men are all conscientious objectors?" Prescott asked coldly.
"Yes, sir," said the three together.
"You all have conscientious objections to being hurt?" Prescott went on.
"I have conscientious scruples against killing a human being, sir," replied Private Ellis.
"And you also have scruples against giving him a chance to kill you," Dick went on mercilessly. "You believe in a police force for preserving order in a community, do you?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"If you found a burglar in your home, and had an opportunity, you would send for a policeman?"
"Yes, sir," Ellis admitted.
"Even though you knew the policeman might find it necessary to kill the burglar in attempting to arrest him?" Prescott quizzed.
"Yes, sir."
"Then, while you presumably would not kill a burglar yourself you would not object to calling a policeman who might do it?"
Private Ellis began to suspect the trap into which he was falling.
"I could not bear to kill the burglar myself, sir," he replied.
"And you would not want the burglar to kill you, so you would summon a policeman to do whatever killing might be necessary. In that case, are you a moral objector to killing, or are you merely a coward who relies on another to do the killing for you?"
Private Ellis appeared much confused.
"Answer me," Dick commanded.
"The case doesn't seem the same to me, sir, as serving as a fighting man in the war."
"The case is exactly the same, except in the matter of magnitude," Prescott retorted. "Germany is the burglar, trying to break into the house of the world. You haven't time necessary courage to fight a German yourself, but you will be glad to see a braver man serve on the firing line in your stead. And you are a conscientious objector, too, are you, Rindle?"
"I—-I thought I was, sir," confessed the soldier. "Your questions, sir, and your way of putting the case confuse me."
"And you, Pitson?" Dick demanded, eyeing the third man. "Knowing that, if you are sent to some non-combatant work, some other man will have to be sent to this company to do your killing work for you, you wish to dodge fighting duty?"
"Yes, sir; I do," Pitson answered unhesitatingly.
"Pitson, consider the matter seriously and try to decide whether you're a moral hero or a physical coward!"
"Sir, I am no mor——-"
Here the man hesitated, growing red in the face.
"Out with it," Dick smiled coolly.
"I am a conscientious objector, sir," Pitson rejoined. "No matter what punishment may await me for refusing, Imustdecline to accept any duty that may call upon me to kill another human being."
"Yet you would call a policeman, in the case of finding a burglar in your house?"
"Not if I thought the policeman would have to kill the burglar, sir," Pitson protested.
"I'll wager the fellow is lying, at that," Prescott reflected, as he rose. "Take off your hat, Pitson."
The soldier obeyed. His forehead sloped up and back. The back of his head sloped up and forward, so that the top of his head was pointshaped.
"I've been interested in seeing what the head of a real conscientious objector looked like," Dick remarked slowly. "I've seen your head and from its shape I believe you to be a real conscientious objector. I am going to approve your transfer to a non-combatant branch, Pitson. You may step outside until you are sent for again."
After Pitson had gone Dick ordered the two remaining men to remove their campaign hats. He studied the shapes of their heads so attentively that both young men winced plainly under the inspection.
"Your heads are shaped differently from Pitson's," Prescott went on. "The top of his head goes up to a point. If a mule had a head shaped like that our veterinary surgeons would call it a fool mule and reject it. But you men have heads expressing more intelligence.
"What is the matter with you two? Have you been listening to socialistic or other freak talk? Do you realize that the German Kaiser and his nation threaten the freedom of the world? Do you realize that the Germans want to rule this world, and do you know how they would rule it, and what a miserable, impossible world it would be for free men to live in?
"Do you realize that the only way we can stop the Germans from ruling the world in their own brutal way is for the free men of all good nations to fight? Do you fully understand that we cannot fight such a beastly enemy in any other way than by killing him? Do you so thoroughly object to fighting that you would see a free world ground under the heel of the despotic Kaiser sooner than help kill his soldiers and thus prevent such a world-wide tragedy? Are you men, or are you dish-rags? Are your consciences so important that you would put the world in cruel bondage rather than violate your own little personal ideas of what is moral? Are you men so sure you're right that you'd dodge a slight wrong—-if wrong it be—-and allow the greatest wrong ever attempted to triumph? Do your moral principles tell you that it is better to let Shame rule the world instead of Justice?"
Ellis and Rindle were plainly non-plussed by Dick's passionate appeal to their broader sense of right and truth.
"I'm afraid you two have been patting yourselves on the back in the idea that you stood out for a great moral principle," Captain Prescott resumed. "Don't you begin to see that the fact is that, instead, you're really moral slackers who'd let the world go into the devil's keeping provided you didn't have to be made to do something that you don't want to do? I won't say you're physical cowards, for honestly I hardly think you are, but aren't you at least moral slackers?"
Private Ellis swallowed hard before he replied:
"No, sir; I'm not a moral slacker, for I've changed my mind.I'm going to fight if I'm told to. I'm going to do whatever UncleSam wants me to do. You've put the matter in a different lightto me, Captain Prescott."
"And you, Rindle?"
"I'm going to do myself the honor of asking permission to remain in your company, sir," replied the second man, his mouth twitching. "I'm a bit of a fool, sir. But I don't believe that I'm a fool all the way through. I believe that I can see at least part of a truth when it's put to me fairly, and now I believe that it's right to fight for truth and justice as against black tyranny—-and I'm ready to do it."
"Good enough!" cried Dick, his face lighting up, as he held out his hand. "If you have any further doubts, later, come to me. I don't know everything, but we can get together and perhaps between us we can get close to the truth."
Shaking hands with the soldiers who had found themselves, and dismissing them, Dick added:
"Sergeant Kelly, find out what non-combatant branch that fellow Pitson would prefer to serve in, see what unit will have him, and then bring the transfer papers to me to sign."
Passing into the corridor, and hearing the piano's notes in the mess-room he glanced inside. It was a rest period between drills, and a soldier seated at the instrument strummed his way through the air of a mournful ditty. It's an odd thing that when the average soldier is wholly cheerful he prefers the "sobful" melodies.
At one of the long mess tables near the piano sat four young men, paying no heed to the music, nor, in fact, doing anything in particular.
"How many of you men have mothers?" Prescott asked with a smile.
All admitted that they had.
"How many of you have written that mother to-day?"
None had.
"How many wrote her yesterday?" None.
"Think hard," Dick went on. "Has any of you written his mother a letter within five days?"
One soldier asserted that he had written his mother four days before.
"I wish you men would do me a favor," Dick went on. "Each one of you write his mother at least a four-page letter and mail it before supper. There is going to be time enough between drills to-day. How about it?"
Each of the four soldiers standing at attention promised promptly.
"All right, then," Prescott nodded. "Rest!" Whereupon they resumed their seats on the bench. "Remember that a promise is a promise. And I've seen enough of soldiers to know that they're likely to be careless where it hurts most."
"I'd do anything Captain Prescott asked me to do," remarked one of the soldiers when Dick had passed on out of barracks.
"If I knew anything he wanted me to do I'd do it before he asked me," declared another.
When a captain's men feel that way about him it's a cinch that he commands a real fighting unit.
During the next drill period Sergeant Kelly, hearing an angry voice, glanced out through the window.
In the last draft to the company some green recruits had come in, men who had been drafted to the National Army and sent to the Regulars to fill up. Among them were Privates Ellis and Rindle.
"About face!" rapped out the crisp tones of Corporal Barrow, as he glared at eight men in double rank.
Badly enough most of them turned. "You poor mutt-heads!" rasped the corporal. "Do you think you'll ever make soldiers?"
In a jiffy Kelly reached for his campaign hat, put it on, and stepped out into the corridor, passing out and heading for the drill ground.
"Right dress!" called out Corporal Barrow. "Front! Rotten!I wonder if you fellows think you'll ever be soldiers?"
Plainly the recruits were chafing under the lash of the corporal's tongue. But Barrow, a young man of twenty-two, who had received his chevrons after only four months of service, was in no mind to be easily pleased to-day.
"You're the most stupid squad in the regiment!" the young non-com went on. "Your place is in the bullpen, not in the ranks."
"Let the squad rest a minute or two, Corporal, and come with me,"Sergeant Kelly called placidly. "I've a message far you."
Giving the required order, and lull of curiosity, Corporal Barrow stepped quickly over to Kelly, who, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder, walked him some distance away. Suddenly the top sergeant, his back turned to the squad, grilled Barrow with a blazing gaze.
"You poor boob in uniform!" rapped the sergeant. "Whatever made you think of taking up soldiering. And what made you think yourself fit to be in a regiment of Regulars? Do you know your left foot from your right? You know as much about the manual of arms as I do about Hebrew verbs. When you salute an officer you're a standing disgrace to the service! Do you know what you ought to be doing in life?"
His face growing violently red, Barrow soon forgot to be indignant in the excess of his wonder.
"Meaning—-what?" he demanded, thickly, his lower jaw sagging in bewilderment.
"How do you like the way I'm talking to you?" asked Sergeant Kelly, his own strong jaw thrust out as though he were seeking to provoke a quarrel.
"Why do you ask?" demanded the corporal, with some show of spirit."Does any man enjoy being spoken to like a thieving dog?"
Instantly Kelly dropped back into a placid tone.
"How do you think the men of that squad like hearing you talk to them as I've just talked to you?"
"But they're such numbskulls!" declared Barrow.
"You won't improve their intelligence by turning the hot water on them all the time," Sergeant Kelly continued. "Could I make a better corporal of you by scorching you every time I saw you?"
"You know you couldn't."
"No more can you turn those rookies into soldiers by raging at them every time you speak. Take it from me, Corporal Barrow, the wise drill-master doesn't use any rough talk once a week, and not even then unless nothing else will answer. Talk to the men right along as I heard you doing, and they won't have a particle of respect for you. That being the case, you cannot teach them anything that it will be worth their while to know. If the captain had heard what I heard you saying to those men he'd put you back in the awkward squad yourself. Patience is the first thing a drill-master needs. Whom do you call the smartest corporal in the company?"
"Corporal Smedley," Barrow answered, without hesitation.
"Right, and he's going to be the next new sergeant. But Smedley is the most patient drill-master in the company. Shall I send him over to show you how to handle a green squad?"
"Don't, Sergeant!"
"All right, then; I won't—-unless you give me new reason to think it necessary," smiled Kelly. Then his hand, still resting on the younger man's shoulder, he walked back to where the squad waited.
"I'll tell you more about it any time you want to know," was Kelly's last statement before he turned away.
"Attention!" called Corporal Barrow briskly. "Saluting is one of the things a new soldier is likely to do badly at first. I'm going to put you through a few minutes of it."
This time Barrow patiently singled out the soldier giving the poorest salute.
"You don't bring your hand up smartly enough," Barrow explained patiently. "Try it again. No; don't bring it up with a jerk. Do it like this—-smartly, without jerk. No; that's not right, either. Hold your hand horizontally when it touches your hat-brim. Hold it the way I am doing. Don't be in a hurry to let hand fall, either. When saluting an officer, keep the hand at the hat-brim until he has returned the salute, or you've passed him. There, you have it right now, Rindle. Do it three times more, dropping your hand when I see you and return the salute. That's it. Good work. Try it again, all together. Squad, salute!"
"Well done, Corporal," chimed in the voice of Captain Prescott, who had come up behind the instructor, "Be sure that the squad has drill enough in the salute, for a man is never a really good soldier until he can render a salute smartly. Let the men break ranks, Corporal, and have each man pass me in turn, saluting the best he knows how."
As Captain Dick stood there, receiving and returning the salute of each rookie as he passed, the young company commander noted each man's performance with keen eyes.
"First rate for recruits, Corporal," Prescott said, as he turned away. "Give them daily drill at it, however."
Corporal Barrow gave his own most precise salute as he received his captain's orders. Then he called:
"In double rank, fall in! Mark time, march! Step more smartly,Pelham. Hip, hip, hip! Squad halt! One, two!"
From the corner of the building Dick had paused an instant to glance back. Then he went into the company office.
"I've just been watching Corporal Barrow and his new recruit squad, Sergeant," Dick announced. "The men are doing first-rate for new men. Corporal Barrow is a patient and competent drill-master."
"Yes, sir," Kelly replied, without trace of a smile.
"The patient instructor is the only one who can teach a recruit, Sergeant. If you ever see a non-com in this company losing his temper set him straight at the first chance."
"Yes, sir."
"But don't make the correction in hearing of the squad unless the case is a flagrant one."
"No, sir," Sergeant Kelly promised, his eyes smileless.
"How near is the company to full strength this morning?"
"Only twelve men short, sir. A new draft, coining in on the 4.10 train this afternoon is expected to fill all companies to strength, sir."
Dick Prescott felt a sudden thrill. Filling up the companies of the Ninety-ninth appeared to promise that the regiment would soon be on its way overseas!
"If we get our full strength this afternoon, Sergeant, be sure to have the clothing requisitions for them all in shape by this evening. Then we'll try to draw to-morrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
"And—-sergeant!"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm mighty glad that you applied for transfer to this regiment when I was ordered to it. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Thank you, sir!"
Kelly had sprung to his feet. He now stood at salute as Prescott left the office.
The train due at 4.10 arrived after 8.30 that evening. Twelve new men, assigned to A company, were marched to barracks after ten. No man in the detachment had eaten since early morning. The mess sergeant had coffee and sandwiches ready.
It was midnight when Kelly, with the aid of other non-coms, had the measurements of the new men on paper and his clothing requisition ready. Dick Prescott was on hand to sign as company commander.
At six in the morning first call to reveille sounded from the bugles.
Like the other companies in the regiment A company tumbled out of its cots. Men dressed, seized soap, towels, brushes and combs, and hurried to the wash-room at the rear of barracks. Then back again, the final touches being administered. Outside a bugle blew, calling the men to first formation. Then mess-call caused two hundred and fifty hungry soldiers to file into the mess-room, kits in hand, and line up at the further end for food and hot drink.
At 7.46 Dick Prescott stepped briskly into the company office.
"Sergeant Kelly, have each man carry out his mattress to the incinerator and empty out the straw. Detail men to burn the straw. Have the cots piled at the end of each squad room. At 8.25 turn the company out with barracks bags and dismiss after the bags have been placed. At 8.40 turn out the company in full marching order, with arms and pack, for inspection. As soon as practicable thereafter the men will be turned out again for issue of razors."