TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
THE BRIGHTON BOYS SERIES
BY
LIEUTENANT JAMES R. DRISCOLL
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
WITH THE FLYING CORPS
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
IN THE TRENCHES
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
WITH THE BATTLE FLEET
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
IN THE RADIO SERVICE
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
WITH THE SUBMARINE
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
WITH THE ENGINEERS AT CANTIGNY
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
AT CHATEAU-THIERRY
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
AT ST. MIHIEL
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
IN THE ARGONNE
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
IN TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT
THE BRIGHTON BOYS
IN THE SUBMARINE TREASURE SHIP
[Illustration: IT WAS A RACE FOR A FEW SECONDS]
The BRIGHTON BOYS at
CHATEAU-THIERRY
BY
LIEUTENANT JAMES R. DRISCOLL
ILLUSTRATED
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1919, by
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. OVERHEARD 9
II. TRACED 15
III. “BANG” 22
IV. CAPTURED 29
V. REWARDED 40
VI. DISSENSION 49
VII. GETTING IN 58
VIII. IN IT 66
IX. REPRISALS 76
X. ZEALOUS BILLY 86
XI. “GONE WEST” 98
XII. TIM 110
XIII. WASH 125
XIV. SHIFTED 138
XV. ON THE WAY 150
XVI. YANKS 162
XVII. VICTORY 175
XVIII. BUSHWHACKING 189
XIX. BOURESCHES 204
XX. FRIENDS 221
XXI. DISTINGUISHED 229
ILLUSTRATIONS
IT WAS A RACE FOR A FEW SECONDS _Frontispiece_
PAGE
THE AMBULANCE WAS STOPPED AS THOUGH IT
HAD BUTTED INTO A STONE WALL 74
DON CAUGHT HIM BY THE SHOULDER AND
WHIRLED HIM AROUND 152
THEY WENT RIGHT TO WORK DISLODGING THE
HUNS FROM THE HOUSES 213
The Brighton Boys at Château-Thierry
CHAPTER I
OVERHEARD
“You’re just plain scared, I guess.”
“You’re just plain wrong. Anyway, people in glass shanties shouldn’t
throw rocks. I don’t see you trying to play soldier.” The last
speaker, a tall lad who sat nearest the window in the rear seat of
a crowded railroad car seemed exasperated by the uncomplimentary
suggestion of the boy beside him, a short, heavy-set, curly-headed
fellow, who looked even more youthful than his sixteen years. His
handsome face lighted up with a smile when he spoke; evidently there
was but little enmity back of his teasing.
“If I were a telegraph pole and had your gray hairs, Stapley, you can
bet your number nines I’d be in camp. But they won’t take kids.”
“That’s right, Richards; they won’t, unless a fellow’s dad signs his
consent. My dad won’t do it. So kindly apologize, will you? My gray
hairs deserve it; I’m a year older than you are, you know. Go on; I’m
listening.”
“Come off! Anybody can coax his governor not to sign. Honest, now;
don’t you like the idea of getting a bullet--?”
“Now cut that out. You think you’re some kidder, but it takes an
expert to kid me. Of course I know you’re sore over the lambasting we
gave your team at basket ball. All Brighton is laughing about it yet.”
“Never get cross over accidents. Couldn’t help it if Terry wasn’t
fit. How about the game before that and the score? Eh?” Richards’
smile broadened.
“Well, was I sore?” Stapley challenged.
“Like a hen after a bath. You couldn’t see anything but red. The same
at the class relay runs and--”
“I’d hate to say that you and the truth are total strangers,” Stapley
said, quickly.
“Oh, let her go. I consider the source, as the man said when the
donkey kicked him, ‘The critter didn’t know any bet--.’ Now, what’s
the matter?”
The boy by the window had suddenly made a sudden downward motion with
one hand and held a finger of the other to his lips, looking most
mysterious. He had previously chanced to lean far forward, a position
which he now maintained for a moment; then he flopped down against
the seat back, quickly taking a pencil and a scrap of paper from
his pocket and beginning to write. In another minute Richards was
scanning what had been written:
“You know German. So do I--a little, but Dad made me take
Spanish this term. I just caught a word or two from those dubs
ahead that sounded funny. You cock your ear over the back of
the seat and listen some. If you let on you’re mad as blazes at
me and now and then give me a bawling out, I’ll play dumb and
then when you wait for me to reply maybe you can hear a thing
or two they’re saying. We’ve got to bury the hatchet now, for
we are both Americans, first.”
The younger lad at once did as requested, glancing at the two men
in the seat ahead, who were in earnest conversation, one, evidently
under some excitement, talking quite loudly. He seemed not to think
his voice carried so far above the rumble of a railroad train, or
else they both considered as naught the chance that anyone might
understand the language they were speaking. That the two were
foreigners there could be no doubt; the full whiskered face of one,
and the bent, thin lips of the other denoted, beyond power of words,
the egotistical, would-be-dominating Prussian blood. It was an
argument over ways and means that caused the bearded fellow to become
so vehement.
The lad, understanding conversational German fairly well because of
his persistent practice at school and the influence of a nurse he
had when small, caught at first but a few words from the whiskered
foreigner; then, when the smooth-faced man began speaking at length
in a voice that could not be plainly heard the boy quickly carried
out the suggestion of his companion.
Donald Richards took real enjoyment in doing this, and to Clement
Stapley it was an ordeal to accept it without showing more than a
grimace of protest. The two lads had long been far from friendly.
They hailed from the same town, Lofton, perched well up in the
foothills of the Red Deer Mountains, and they had ever been rivals,
since early boyhood, in games, contests of skill, popularity among
their fellows. Clement was the only child of the great man of the
town, the senior Stapley being president of mills that made the place
a spot of some importance on the map. Donald was one of five sons
of the leading physician in the town and, having to paddle his own
canoe against a more active competition, he had naturally become more
self-reliant and shrewd than the half-spoiled son of the rich man.
When the two entered Brighton they were not admitted to the same
classes, for Don had advanced beyond Clem in learning, even though
younger, but they engaged in contests of skill and strength, and both
become partial leaders of _cliques_ such as naturally form within
classes, and possessed the _esprit de corps_ that is always uppermost
among youths. Clem, tall and manly, with a dignity of manner and
the prestige of his father’s wealth and standing back of him, drew
a certain crowd of followers in the institution, while Don, active
in both brain and muscle far beyond his years and possessing a born
air of leadership, had admirers everywhere. Naturally, as with the
analytical minds of youths being trained to compare and classify,
the relative merits of the two boys were weighed and counted in such
a manner as to wave still harder the red flag of bitter competition
until never a kind word passed between them, but always _repartee_,
often with rancor, once or twice in such anger that they almost came
to blows.
Now, in the Christmas holidays of 1917-18, the students of old
Brighton, one and all, were departing for their homes. Chancing to go
a little late, Don and Clem found themselves in the same train with
but one unoccupied seat and at once the old-time banter began, with a
question from Don relative to a subject uppermost in the minds of the
youth of the United States: Was Clem going to enlist, and if not, why
not? If the interruption occasioned by the two men in front of the
boys had not occurred, there might have been another serious quarrel.