HE WHO HAS EYES TO SEE
It was quite dark when Tom scrambled down and, with his heart beating
rapidly, stole cautiously across the hubbly ground toward the
dilapidated brush fence which enclosed the place. The disturbing thought
occurred to him that where there were sheep there was likely to be a
dog, but he would not turn back.
He realized that he was gambling with those hard-won days of freedom,
that any minute he might be discovered and seized. But the courage which
his training as a scout had given him did not forsake him, and he
crossed the fence and stealthily approached the house, which was hardly
more than a whitewashed cabin with two small windows, one door and a
disheveled roof, entirely too big for it as it seemed to Tom. The odd
conceit occurred to him that it ought to be brushed and combed like a
shocky head of hair. Within there was a dim light, and protecting each
window was a rough board shutter, hinged at the top and held open at an
angle by a stick.
He crept cautiously up and examined these shutters with minutest care.
He even felt of one of them and found it to be old and rotten. Then he
felt to see if his precious button was safe in his pocket.
Evidently the dilapidated shutter suggested something to him, for he
glanced about as if looking for something else, and seemed encouraged.
Now he stole a quick look this way or that to anticipate the approach of
any one, and then looked carefully about again.
At last his eyes lit upon the flagpole which was projected diagonally
from the house, with the flag, which he knew must be the German flag,
depending from it. The distant sight of this flag had quite discouraged
Archer's hopes, but Tom knew that the compulsory display of the Teuton
colors was no indication of the sentiment of the people.
He was more interested in the rough, home-made flagpole which he
ventured to bend a little so as to bring its end within reach. This he
examined with a care entirely disproportionate to the importance of the
crude, whittled handiwork. He pushed the drooping flag aside rather
impatiently as it fell over his face, and felt of the end of the pole
and scrutinized it as best he could in the darkness.
It was roughly carved and intended to be ornamental, swelling into a
kind of curved ridge surmounted by a dull, dome-like point. He felt it
all over, then cautiously bending the pole down within reach of his
mouth, he bit into the wood and deposited the two or three loose
splinters in his pocket.
Then he hurried back up the hill to rejoin Archer.
"Let me have the flashlight," he said with rather more excitement than
he often showed. And he would say no more till he had examined the
little splinter of wood in its glare.
"It's all right," he said; "we're safe in going there. See this? It's a
splinter from the flagpole----"
"A souveneerr!" Archer interrupted.
"There you go again," said Tom. "Who's talking about souvenirs? See how
white and fresh the wood is--look. That's off the end of the pole where
it's carved into kind of a fancy topknot. And it was whittled inside of
a year."
"_I_ could whittle it inside of an hour," said Archer.
"I mean it was whittled not longer than a year ago, 'cause even the
weather hasn't got into it yet. And it's whittled like a
fleur-de-lis--kind of," Tom added triumphantly.
"Why didn't you bring the whole of it?"
"When they were building the shacks at Temple Camp," said Tom, "there
was a carpenter who was a Frenchman. I was good friends with him and he
told me a lot of stuff. He always had some wine in his dinner pail. He
showed me how French carpenters nail shingles. Instead of keeping the
nails in their mouths like other carpenters do, they keep them up their
sleeves and they can drop them down into their hands one by one as fast
as they need them. They hit 'em four times instead of two--do you know
why?"
"To drive 'em in," suggested Archer.
"'Cause in France they don't have cedar shingles, like we do; they have
shingles made out of hard wood. And they get so used to hitting the nail
four raps that they can't stop it--that's what he said."
"Here's another one," said Archer. "You can't drive a nail with a
sponge--no matter how you soak it."
"He told me some other things, too," said Tom, ignoring Archer's
flippancy. "He used to talk to me while he was eating his lunch. The way
he got started telling me about the different way they do things in
Europe was when he put the shutters on the big shack. He put the hinges
at the top 'cause that's always the way they do in France. He said in
Italy they put 'em on the left side. In America they put them on the
right side--except when they have two.
"So when I saw the shutters on that old house I happened to notice that
the hinges were at the top and that made me think it was probably a
Frenchman's home."
"Maybe it isn't now even if it was when the shutterrs werre made," said
Archer skeptically.
"Then I happened to remember something else that man told me. Maybe you
think the fleur-de-lis is only a fancy kind of an emblem, but it ain't.
He told me the old monks that used to carve things--no matter what they
carved you could always find a cross, or something like a cross in it.
'Cause they _think_ that way, see? The same as sailors always tattoo
fishes and ships and things on their arms. He said some places in the
Black Forest the toymakers are French peasants and you can always tell
if a fancy thing is carved by them on account of the shape of the
fleur-de-lis. It ain't that they do it on purpose," he added; "it's
because it's in their heads, like. They don't always make regular
fleur-de-lis, but they make that kind of curves. He told me a lot about
Napoleon, too," he added irrelevantly.
"So when I happened to think about that, I looked around to see if I
could find anything to prove it, kind of. It don't make any difference
if the German flag _is_ on that pole; they've _got_ to do that. When I
saw the topknot was carved kind of like a fleur-de-lis I knew French
people must have made it. And it was only carved lately, too," he added
simply, "'cause the wood is fresh."
"Gee whillicums, but you're a peach, Slady!" said Archer ecstatically.
"Shall we take a chance?"
"Of course I don't know for sure," Tom added, "but we've got to go by
signs--just like Indian signs along a trail. If you pick up an old flint
arrowhead you know you're on an Indian trail."
"Christopherr _Columbus!_ But I'd like to find one of those arrowheads
now!" said Archer.