TOM HEARS OF THE BLOND BEAST
The young fellow was of about Tom's own age, and the most conspicuous
thing about him, aside from has smile and his freckles, was the
collection of badge-buttons which decorated the lapels of his coat and
the front of his hat. They almost rivalled his freckles in number. Some
of them were familiar enough to Tom, showing flags and patriotic
phrases, but others puzzled him, one or two bearing words which were
evidently French. There was an English _Win the War Loan_ button, and a
Red Cross button which read _I have given two shillings_.
"Here, I'll show you something else," said the stranger, noticing Tom's
interest in the buttons. He opened his bag and took out a couple of
apples, giving one to Tom. "You see that," he observed, holding up a
small crumpled piece of brass. "Know where I got that?" He rolled his
R's very noticeably in the manner peculiar to the country people of New
York State.
"What is it?" Tom asked.
"It's the cover of an ink-stand. You know what made it like that? A
Zeppelin! That was in a raid, that was. It came flying plunk out through
the front window--and it stuck right into a tree like a dagger. It might
have stuck in my head, only it didn't. I'm lucky--that's what our gun
crew says." He breathed on the crumpled souvenir and rubbed it on his
trousers to polish it. "See, it's got a kind of--initials, like--on it!
Everybody has their initials on things in England."
Tom took the little twisted ornamental cover in his hand and gazed at
it, fascinated.
"See? M. E. M.," continued the stranger. "That was near Whitehall, it
was; a little girl was sitting at a table writing her lessons; she was
just in the middle of a word--that's what I heard people in the crowd
say--when, kerflunk! down comes, the bomb through the roof and goes
right through the floor of the top room and hits right on the table!
_Go-o-d-night_ for that little girl!"
"Kill her?" Tom asked.
"Blew her all to pieces," said his companion, as he took the poor
little trinket and continued to polish it on his knee.
Of all that Tom Slade had read about the war, its grim cruelties, its
thousands slain and maimed, its victims struggling frantically in the
rough ocean, the poor starving wretches in Belgium, nothing had
impressed him so deeply nor seemed to bring the war so close to him as
this little crumpled piece of brass--the sad memorial of a little girl
who had been blown into eternity while she was studying her lessons. A
lump came up in his throat, and he stood watching his companion, and
saying nothing.
"That was the blond beast, that was," said the stranger. "I saw him
stickin' his old head out of the ocean, too, and we got a pop at him
last trip. Here, I'll show you something else."
Out of the bag he drew a photograph. "There; that's our gun crew; that's
Tommy Walters--he's the one says I'm a mascot. I'm taking him some
apples now. That feller there is Hobart. And that's old Billy Sunday
himself, right in the middle," he added, pointing to a long, horizontal
object concealed by a canvas cover; "that's him, the bully old boy!"
"A gun, is it?"
"You'd say so if you heard it pop and saw it jump--that's how it got its
name."
In the photograph three young men in khaki, one with his sleeves rolled
up, were leaning against a steamer's rail.
"Are they Americans?" Tom asked, for he was puzzled about his new
friend's nationality.
"You said it."
One of the gun crew was smiling straight at Tom so that he almost smiled
back, and the lump came up higher in his throat and his eyes glistened.
"Do you live around here?" he asked. "I'd like to know what your name is
and what--and how you----" he broke off.
"You see that house over the hill? I live there. And I'm going back on
the job now. What d'ye say we move along?"
They lifted the valise and started along the road.
"This is the last day of my leave," said the youth. "Here, see?" And he
exhibited a steamship card with the name of a steamer upon it and the
name of Archibald Archer written in the blank space underneath.
"That's my ship, and I go aboard her to-day, thank goodness! This'll be
my third trip across, and the second time I've been home. This bag is
half full of apples. Tommy Walters is crazy about 'em. The last trip,
when I was home, I took him some russets. He wouldn't let me pop the
gun, but he said if the dirty beast came near enough I could let him
have the core of an apple plunk in his old periscope. If you were there,
we'd sit on the main hatch eatin' apples and watchin' for periscopes. I
don't have much to do after I get my berths made up."
"Do you work on the ship?" Tom asked.
"You bet! I'm one of the steward's boys. Gee, if you had to make
fifty-seven beds with a life preserver on, you'd know what it is to be
tired! Carrying this old suitcase is a cinch compared to that!--Say, if
there's a Zep raid in London while I'm there I'll get you a souvenir.
But the trouble is they never come when you want 'em to. Do you live in
Leeds?"
"I live in Bridgeboro, New Jersey," said Tom, "and my name is Slade. I'd
tell you to call me Tom, only I won't know you more than half an hour or
so, so what's the use?"
"Half an hour's better than nothing," said Archibald Archer. "Are you
on your way home?"
"I just came from the camp," said Tom, side-stepping the real object of
his trip. "You know Temple Camp, don't you? I work for Temple Camp."
He was glad that his companion did not pursue his inquiries.
"That's where all the scouts come in the summer, isn't it?" he queried.
"I'm all alone," said Tom. "You're lucky to have a home up in the
country to come to. And you're lucky to have a job like that too."
"I told you I was lucky," said Archibald Archer.
They walked on in silence for a little while, carrying the bag between
them.
"You've seen something of the war, all right," commented Tom, "and I'll
bet you're not eighteen yet. You sure are lucky! I don't blame you for
calling Germany the blond beast. I wish _I_ could be in it like you."
"Why don't you enlist?"
"I promised I wouldn't--not till I'm eighteen. I got to talk to my
scoutmaster about it, 'cause I said I would. I wouldn't lie about how
old I am, because he says if a feller lies about one thing he'll lie
about another.... I wonder if you'd call it being with the Colors,
working like you do?" he added.
"If you saw Old Glory flying from the stern and did your work with a
life preserver wrapped around you and spent most of your time piking for
subs and practicing emergency drills, just to let old Blondy know he
can't stop us from coming across--you'd say you were with the Colors! If
you stood where I did and saw that little old periscope topple over like
a ninepin and heard Tommy say, 'Go get me another apple, Archie--we'll
hit 'em again for good luck!'--you'd say you were with the Colors, all
right! You might be in the third-line trenches a whole year an' have
nothing to do with yourself but carry buckets and dig in the dirt. _I_
know."
Tom was fascinated.
"All you got to do is say the word," his companion went on, reading his
thoughts. "The steward'll put you on. They only sign you up for one trip
at a time. If you're over sixteen, it's all right. They're taking up the
shore passes to-day. Nobody knows when we'll sail, or even where we're
going--except the captain. If I say I know you, it'll be all right. You
get a hundred and sixty dollars for the trip, and you'll have about two
weeks shore leave on the other side. The principal thing they'll tell
you is about keepin' your mouth shut. Are you good at that?"
"There's nobody can get anything out of me if I don't want to tell,"
said Tom doggedly; "and I think you _are_ with the Colors. _I_ call it
being in the war, and it's what I'd like to do, that's one sure thing!"
"I could tell you a lot of things," said Archer, "only I'm not supposed
to tell 'em to anybody."
"I got to go home," said Tom; "I'm glad I met you, though. We can go in
on the train together, can't we? I have to go to New York to get home. I
got to go to scout meeting to-night. I'm going to stop in the postoffice
when we get to Leeds; then we'll go down to Catskill Landing together,
hey? I'm glad I had company, 'cause I was feeling kind of lonely and
queer, like. When you talk it makes me feel as if I'd like to do that,
only I see I can't."
Archibald Archer gave a curious look at Tom as they plodded along.
"What you tell me about that little girl makes me want to get into it
all the more," Tom said.