CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP
Call to mess followed at 5:30. It was not until the four Khaki Boys had
performed their usual stunt of climbing over several tables with their
portions of food, and were seated in a row along a wall bench, that Bob
reopened the subject of Bixton.
"The next time that Bixton smarty tries to jump you, Iggy, don't act as
though he was alive," was his wrathful advice. "He's a talker and a
trouble maker. Don't let him get your goat. That's what he's trying hard
to do. He thinks you are easy."
"I give him the good lick," threatened Ignace, still ruffled.
"I don't doubt you could wipe up the squad-room floor with him. But
what's the use of spoiling the floor?" Bob demanded whimsically. "Let
him babble. He likes it."
"I no like," came the sullen protest.
"Neither do I," sputtered Jimmy. "He was trying to make a show of Iggy.
I'll hand him one myself some of these fine days."
"Ruddy and I'll come to see both our brothers when they land in the
'jug' for scrapping," offered Bob, affably sarcastic. "Won't we, Rud?"
"No, _I_ won't." Roger looked severe. "If you two are going to let that
Bixton fellow rattle you, then I can't say much for your good sense.
Give him the icy stare a few times and he'll stay in his own corner.
Just as long as he sees he can bother you, he'll do it. When he finds he
can't, he'll quit and start on somebody else. But that won't be your
lookout."
"I try't," promised Ignace. His scowling features clearing, he proceeded
to devote himself sedulously to the savory portion of stew in the meat
can before him. Nor were his companions loath to drop the unpleasant
subject of Bixton for a hungry appreciation of their food.
The meal finished, the four dutifully cleansed their mess-kits,
returning with them to their barrack. The evening meal over, the
pleasantest relaxation period of their camp day lay before them. Until
the 9:45 call to quarters they were free to follow their own bent, so
long as it did not take them beyond camp limits.
After putting away his mess-kit, Bob's first move was to reach under his
cot for the suitcase in which he had deposited his precious papers. A
respectful audience of three stood watching him, mildly curious as to
what he intended to do next.
"Does the great stunt come off now?" smiled Roger.
"Not yet, my boy. I'm going out on the trail of a typewriter first. It
breaks my heart to leave you, but it must be did. Half an hour's
clickety-clicking and you'll see me back here in all my glory. If the
machine downstairs isn't working overtime, maybe I can grab it for a
while."
"Let's go over to the 'Y' and write letters," proposed Jimmy. "Our
room's better than our company with old Mysterious Myra here. If I don't
answer mine bang-up quick, I'll never write 'em. Here's enough paper and
envelopes for the bunch." Reaching under his cot he held up a good-sized
box of stationery.
"I would to poor my mother a letter in American write, but she can no
read that write," offered Ignace sadly. "I can the American read and
write but no my family. My mother un'erstan' American little but no
read."
"Write it in Polish, then," suggested Jimmy. "You don't have to write it
in English, do you?"
"But I want show poor my mother how that I am smart it to do." Ignace
was bent on distinguishing himself. "She it would much please."
"Couldn't someone read it to her, then?" asked Bob. "One of her
neighbors; or maybe your groceryman." Familiar with the Polish section
of the city from whence Ignace had come, Bob was somewhat acquainted
with the ways of the clannish Poles. He knew that they were prone to
gravitate to the grocery store in their neighborhood for everything from
merchandise to general information.
"S-o-o! I have no think to that." Ignace brightened. "I write him
American anyhow!"
"Drop in about eighty-thirty and watch _Mysterious Myra_ conduct a
seance." Bob cast a withering glance at Jimmy. "You ought to be ashamed
to ticket a bunkie with such a handle," he added severely. "Now get out
of here quick before I smite you." He made a playful pass at Jimmy.
Equally in fun, the latter raised an arm as though to return it.
A sudden cry of, "Fight! Fight!" echoed through the room, and caused
both Jimmy and Bob to whirl. Directly across from them Bixton had been
morosely watching the quartette. Aware that the bit of by-play was
merely fun, he had called out "Fight!" with malicious intent. Knowing
the acting first sergeant to be at one end of the room, he had shouted
with a view toward creating trouble. His essay succeeded so far as to
bring the officer to the group on the run.
"What's this?" he questioned, sternly surveying four very calm but very
injured young men. "What's the trouble here?"
"None that we know of," answered Roger respectfully.
"Then who called out 'Fight!'?" snapped the non-com.
"It was not one of us." Roger evaded a direct reply.
"Humph!" The sergeant shot a quick glance about the almost empty room.
His keen eyes coming to rest on Bixton he made directly for him. "Did
you call out 'Fight!'?" he queried sharply.
Caught in his own trap, the color mounted to Bixton's freckled face.
"Yes." The reply was grudgingly made.
"Why did you do it? Did you _see_ anyone fighting?" demanded the
sergeant satirically.
"I thought I did," mumbled the man.
"You _thought_ you did," emphasized the non-com. He thereupon launched
into a tirade of sarcastic rebuke that fell like verbal hailstones on
the would-be trouble-maker's ears.
"Come on, let's beat it," muttered Jimmy. "I'm so happy I could hug that
sergeant."
Leaving Bob to smile seraphically as he busied himself with his papers,
the three made a discreet exit, the voice of the nettled non-com still
beating upon their ears as they scampered down the stairs.
"That's the time he got his," exulted Jimmy as they emerged from the
barrack.
"He must have been watching us," commented Roger. "When he saw Bob and
you making passes at each other he thought he'd start something."
"He get the fool," chuckled Ignace.
"He certainly did," agreed Jimmy joyfully. "If he gets off with a
call-down, he'll do well. I'll bet that sergeant has him spotted for a
talker. Hope he has. Then Smarty Bixton'll get the worst of it if he
tries to queer us again. Maybe he's learned something by this time that
wasn't down in his books."
"He's heading for the rocks," Roger said soberly. "Somebody ought to try
to set him straight. I wish he hadn't started on Iggy the way he has. We
couldn't say a word to him now. It would only make things worse. We'll
just have to do as we agreed and not notice him."
The looming up of a second lieutenant in their path brought three hands
up in smart salute and temporarily closed further discussion of Bixton.
Reaching the Y. M. C. A., Jimmy distributed note-paper with a lavish
hand and soon the trio had settled themselves on hard benches before the
primitive-looking desks to write their letters.
Provided with an extra fountain pen of Jimmy's, Ignace stared blankly at
the wall, sighed profoundly, gingerly tried the pen, and finally gave
himself up to the painful throes of composition. Jimmy dashed into his
letter-writing with his usual reckless impetuosity, his pen tearing over
the paper at a rapid rate. In consequence he was triumphantly signing
"Jimmy" to his second letter before Roger had half finished his
carefully worded note to Mrs. Blaise.
"Hurry up, slow-pokes. It's eight-ten," adjured Jimmy, as he scrawled an
address across an envelope.
"Him is done," proudly announced Ignace, holding up his epistolary
effort. Undated and unpunctuated, it began at the very top of the sheet
and ended halfway from the bottom of the first page. "Now you read." He
proffered it to Jimmy.
The latter took it and with difficulty kept a sober face as he read:
"poor mi mothar so am i the bad son wen i run away but i can no stan the
bete my fathar giv all tim now am i the solder an he can no get mor i
sen you the monee wen i get som tim i hav the 3 brothar now i hapee but
no wen think you poor mi mothar from you son Ignace."
"That's a good letter, Iggy." Jimmy had lost his desire to laugh as he
handed it back. It had begun to strike him as pathetic. He was wondering
how it had happened that before meeting the poor Polish boy he had never
credited that humbler half of the world, in which Ignace had lived,
with human emotions.
"I can the read better the write," assured Ignace grandly, well pleased
with the other's praise. "I write the name, the street my mother, you
write again this?" he asked, holding up an envelope.
Much amused, Jimmy complied. Ignace surveyed the envelope with
admiration. "How gran' is the write my brother," he commented.
"Some compliment. Here's a stamp, Iggy. Stick it on and away we go.
Finished yet, old top?" This to Roger.
"Yes." Methodically Roger sealed and stamped the envelope he had just
addressed.
"Look who's here!" exclaimed Jimmy. His gaze roving idly down the big
room, he had spied Bob Dalton just entering it.
Discovering his chums in the same instant, Bob steered straight for
them, his black eyes twinkling with mischief. "Three whoops for
Mysterious Myra," he hailed, waving a little sheaf of papers above his
head. "Got through typing sooner than I expected, so I beat it over here
in a hurry. This is an exclusive stunt. It calls for an exclusive place.
Too much publicity at the barrack. Come on over in that corner and help
yourself to a front seat while I read you Dalton's Marvelous Military
Maneuvers in Rhyme, respectfully dedicated to the daily use of Ignace So
Pulinski."