A FRUITFUL RUBBISH CAN
December heralded many comings and goings at Camp Sterling. With almost
every day, a detachment of soldiers marched to the station to return no
more. Traveling seaward by circuitous routes, the waiting transports
claimed them and bore them away to "Over There." The draft now in full
swing, hundreds of men constantly arrived to replace them. Soldiering
went on with a rush. Across the water had come the Allies' cry, "More
Men!" and Uncle Sam did not propose to be behindhand in furnishing his
trench quota.
On the Saturday before Christmas our four Khaki Boys departed in high
glee on a four-days' furlough, to be spent with the Blaise family. Only
one regret lurked beneath their exuberant joy. It had to do with a
forlorn comrade, shut in the guard house, and apart from all Christmas
cheer. Schnitzel was still awaiting trial, due to numerous halts in the
machinery of military law, occasioned by the thoroughness of the
investigation. Once definitely established that Company E's men had been
the victim of arsenic poisoning, instead of powdered glass, it became
less easy to establish Schnitzel's guilt.
Grilled over and over again as to where he had obtained the arsenic, his
undaunted protest of innocence was not without effect. Undoubtedly he
could not hope to escape trial. He was the only man in camp against whom
anything incriminating had been discovered. Rigid testings of supplies
in the commissary departments had yielded no further traces of poison.
This did away with the theory of outside agency, and fastened the
opprobrium more strongly on the German-American.
"A friend in need is a friend indeed." Shut off from any possible
opportunity to see Schnitzel, the four Khaki Boys did not forget him.
Many verbal battles were fought by them in his behalf. Few others beside
themselves believed him innocent.
Each of the quartette, including Iggy, had written to Schnitzel
cheerful, hopeful letters, breathing firm belief in his innocence. All
had planned to buy him some token of remembrance as soon as they went on
their furlough.
Bob's secret campaign to gain information concerning Bixton, Eldridge
and the kitchen men on duty with Schnitzel at the time of the poisoning
had not been specially fruitful. He gathered considerable data
concerning Bixton, not specially useful to his purpose, in that it had
no bearing on the mystery. What Bob burned to know was the origin of the
tabulated list of poisons. He was now certain that Bixton had not
compiled it. He suspected Eldridge, but of the latter he could find out
little. He was considerably older than Bixton, fairly well-educated, but
most uncommunicative except to his bunkie. He claimed Buffalo as his
home town, but Bob believed him to be from the middle West. His walk,
voice and mannerisms smacked faintly of the Hoosier.
On the Wednesday after Christmas, the noon train into Camp Sterling
unloaded its freight of returned soldier boys, the four Brothers a part
of the throng that passed through the big gates, and tramped the snowy
roads to their various barracks.
Much to his disgust, Bob found himself "settling down" a good deal
sooner than suited him. According to the cold information of Sergeant
Dexter, a quantity of discarded wrapping paper, together with numerous
ends of string, had been found under his cot on the previous Saturday
evening. Rebuked for untidiness, he was condemned to a detail of
policing barracks that filled him with righteous wrath.
"I can guess who was to blame for that," he sputtered angrily to Jimmy.
"Eldridge put up that job on me. Bix went away on the same train we
did. The other sneak didn't. It's up to him. I know it."
"Funny he didn't do the same to the rest of us," commented Jimmy.
"Oh, he wasn't particular as to which of us got it," snapped Bob.
"Probably he just dumped those papers and beat it in a hurry. Makes me
sick. It's the first time I've got it in the neck since I came to
Sterling. I don't mind the detail. It's being dished that makes me sore.
The worst of it is, I couldn't say a word. Just had to stand and take it
from the Sarge."
"Oh, well, it's no great disgrace," comforted Jimmy. "Think of poor
Schnitz."
"I am and I have. Do you realize that his trial is bound to come off
before long? According to our manual, thirty days, with an additional
ten added if approved by military authorities, is the longest a case can
hang fire. I don't know whether that holds good in Schnitz's case. I
should think so, though. Anyhow, we've not done a thing for him. We've
got to get busy and do something."
"What?" Jimmy made a gesture of despair.
"I don't know yet, but I do know that it's got to be done mighty soon."
Bob shot a baleful glance across the squad room toward Eldridge, who was
seated cross-legged on his cot, undoing a small package. "Look at him!"
muttered Bob, as the man proceeded to tear the outside wrapper into
strips. "More rubbish for Bobby to cart away."
Jimmy's eyes followed Bob's. Suddenly he gripped the latter's arm.
"Maybe he got that package in the mail. Maybe it's from his home.
Maybe----"
"Great guns!" exclaimed Bob softly, and swung round, his back toward
Eldridge. "Don't let him see you rubbering, Blazes. You've given me a
jolt, though. I'm going to watch what he does with those strips of paper
and nab 'em. Oh, boy! Why is Bobby on police duty?"
The paper presently went into a receptacle at one end of the squad room,
provided for that purpose. When supper call sounded, Bob declined to
answer it. "You fellows go ahead," he directed. "I don't want any
supper. Later on I'll go down to the canteen, and fill up on cakes and
milk. This is my chance, and I'm going to take it."
The moment the squad room had emptied itself, Bob sped to the rubbish
can. Fortunately for him, the scraps of paper he sought were of a dull
grayish green, and thus easily distinguished from the rest of the can's
contents. Quickly, but thoroughly, he searched, making sure that he had
every scrap of the paper he sought in his possession. Too shrewd to
attempt to piece them together in the squad room, he wrapped them in a
handkerchief, and hurried off to the Y. M. C. A.
It was over an hour later when he returned to barracks, his black eyes
snapping with triumph.
"I know what I know," he exulted, dropping down beside Jimmy, who was
seated on his cot. "Come on outside and I'll show you something. Where
are the fellows?"
"They just went over to the canteen. Rodge wanted to buy some soap to do
his family washing with. I told 'em I'd wait here for you."
"Let's find 'em. I'm going canteenwards myself to feed. We'll probably
meet 'em there."
"Now show me," demanded Jimmy, the moment they were out in the company
street.
Bob took a small flashlight and something else from a trouser's pocket.
The "something else" was a half-sheet of paper. Training the flashlight
upon it, he read, "'Alice E. Eldridge, 1205 N. Clark St., Chicago,
Illinois.' That's a return address. I copied it, then got rid of the
papers. Had a great time piecing them together. Regular Chinese puzzle.
Now this is what I'm going to do. I've a friend on the _Chicago
American_. As soon as I feed, I'm going back to barracks and write to
him. I'll send him this address, and ask him to get me all the data he
can about the Eldridge family."