without any trace of resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd have
thought it proved you were right. It was marked, crazy like, by that
feller I told you about. I knew all the time we were coming to
Cantigny."
There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe, his voice full of feeling,
said simply,
"Tom Slade, you're a wonder."
"Hear that, Paul Revere?" one of the soldiers said jokingly. "Praise
from the Jersey Snipe means something."
"No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-distrust. "You've saved
me from a Hun prison camp and while you were doing it you had to listen
to me--Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he broke off.
"I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his expressionless way. "If I'd had
my way we'd have made a detour when I saw those broken branches, 'cause
I knew it meant people were there, and then we wouldn't have got those
fellers as prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more than me."
This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was Tom Slade all over.
"Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom, you're the same old hickory
nut. Forgive me, old man, if you can."
"I don't have to," said Tom.
Roscoe stood there staring at him, thrilled with honest admiration and
stung by humiliation.
And as the little group, augmented by other soldiers who strolled over
to hear of this extraordinary affair first hand, grew into something of
a crowd, Tom, alias Thatchy, alias Paul Revere, alias Towhead, sat upon
the fence, answering questions and telling of his great coup with a dull
unconcern which left them all gaping.
"As soon as I made up my mind they didn't belong there," he said, "I
decided they weren't sure of their own way, kind of. If the big man
hadn't taken the compass away from me, I'd have given it to him anyway.
It had the N changed into an S and the S into an N. I think he kind of
thought the other way was right, but when he saw the compass, that
settled him. All the time I was looking at the Big Dipper, 'cause I knew
nobody ever tampered with that. I noticed he never even looked up, but
once, and then I was scared. When we got to the marsh, I was scared,
too, 'cause I thought maybe he'd know about the low land being south of
the woods. I was scared all the time, as you might say, but mostly when
he turned his head and seemed kind of uncertain-like. It ain't so much
any credit to me as it is to Archer--the feller that changed the
letters. Anyway, I ain't mad, that's sure," he added, evidently
intending this for Roscoe. "Everybody gets mistaken sometimes."
"You're one bully old trump, Tom," said Roscoe shamefacedly.
"So now you see how it was," Tom concluded. "I couldn't get rattled as
long as I could see the Big Dipper up there in the sky."
For a few moments there was silence, save for the low whistling of one
of the soldiers.
"You're all right, kiddo," he broke off to say.
Then one of the others turned suddenly, giving Tom a cordial rap on the
shoulder which almost made him lose his balance. "Well, as long as we've
got the Big Dipper," said he, "and as long as the water's pure, what
d'you say we all go and have a drink--in honor of Paul Revere?"
So it was that presently Tom and Roscoe found themselves sitting alone
upon the fence in the darkness. Neither spoke. In the distance they
could hear the muffled boom of some isolated field-piece, belching forth
its challenge in the night. High overhead there was a whirring, buzzing
sound as a shadow glided through the sky where the stars shone
peacefully. A company of boys in khaki, carrying intrenching implements,
passed by, greeting them cheerily as they trudged back from doing their
turn in digging the new trench line which would embrace Cantigny.
Cantigny!
"I'm glad we took the town, that's one sure thing," Tom said.
"It's the first good whack we've given them," agreed Roscoe.
Again there was silence. In the little house across the road a light
burned. Little did Tom Slade know what was going on there, and what it
would mean to him. And still the American boys guarding this approach
down into the town, moved to and fro, to and fro, in the darkness.
"Tom," said Roscoe, "I was a fool again, just like I was before, back
home in America. Will you try to forget it, old man?" he added.
"There ain't anything to forget," said Tom, "I got to be thankful I
found you; that's the only thing I'm thinking about and--and--that we
didn't let the Germans get us. If you like a feller you don't mind about
what he says. Do you think I forget you named that rifle after me? Just
because--because you didn't know about trusting to the stars,--I
wouldn't be mad at you----"
Roscoe did not answer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TOM IS QUESTIONED
When it became known in the captured village (as it did immediately)
that the tall prisoner whom Tom Slade had brought in, was none other
than the famous Major Johann Slauberstrauffn von Piffinhoeffer,
excitement ran high in the neighborhood, and the towheaded young
dispatch-rider from the Toul sector was hardly less of a celebrity than
the terrible Prussian himself. "Paul Revere" and his compass became the
subjects of much mirth, touched, as usual, with a kind of bantering
evidence of genuine liking.
In face of all this, Tom bestowed all the credit on Roscoe (it would be
hard to say why), and on Archibald Archer and the Big Dipper.
"Now that we've got the Big Dipper with us we ought to be able to push
right through to Berlin," observed one young corporal. "They say
Edison's got some new kind of a wrinkle up his sleeve, but believe me,
if he's got anything to beat Paul Revere's compass, he's a winner!"
"Old Piff nearly threw a fit, I heard, when he found out that he was
captured by a kid in the messenger service," another added.
"They may pull a big stroke with Mars, the god of war," still another
said, "but we've got the Big Dipper on our side."
Indeed, some of them nicknamed Tom the Big Dipper, but he did not mind
for, as he said soberly, he had "always liked the Big Dipper, anyway."
As the next day passed the importance of Tom's coup became known among
the troops stationed in the village and was the prime topic with those
who were digging the new trench line northeast of the town. Indeed,
aside from the particular reasons which were presently to appear, the
capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer was a "stunt" of the first order
which proved particularly humiliating to German dignity. That he should
have been captured at all was remarkable. That he should have been
hoodwinked and brought in by a young dispatch-rider was a matter of
crushing mortification to him, and must have been no less so to the
German high command.
Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested the use of the
poisoned bandage in the treatment of English prisoners' wounds? Who but
Major von Piffinhoeffer had devised the very scheme of contaminating
streams, which Tom and Roscoe had discovered? Who but Major von
Piffinhoeffer had invented the famous "circle code" which had so long
puzzled and baffled Uncle Sam's Secret Service agents? Who but Major von
Piffinhoeffer had first suggested putting cholera germs in rifle
bullets, and tuberculosis germs in American cigarettes?
A soldier of the highest distinction was Major von Piffinhoeffer, of
Heidelberg University, whose decorative junk had come direct from the
grateful junkers, and whose famous eight-volume work on "Principles of
Modern Torture" was a text-book in the realm. A warrior of mettle was
Major von Piffinhoeffer, who deserved a more glorious fate than to be
captured by an American dispatch-rider!
But Tom Slade was not vain and it is doubtful if his stolid face,
crowned by his shock of rebellious hair, would have shown the slightest
symptom of excitement if he had captured Hindenburg, or the Kaiser
himself.
In the morning he rode down to Chepoix with some dispatches and in the
afternoon to St. Justen-Chaussee. He was kept busy all day. When he
returned to Cantigny, a little before dark, he was told to remain at
headquarters, and for a while he feared that he was going to be
court-martialled for overstaying his leave.
When he was at last admitted into the presence of the commanding
officer, he shifted from one foot to the other, feeling ill at ease as
he always did in the presence of officialdom. The officer sat at a heavy
table which had evidently been the kitchen table of the French peasant
people who had originally occupied the poor cottage. Signs of petty
German devastation were all about the humble, low-ceiled place, and they
seemed to evidence a more loathsome brutality even than did the blighted
country which Tom had ridden through.
Apparently everything which could show an arrogant contempt of the
simple family life which had reigned there had been done. There was a
kind of childish spitefulness in the sword thrusts through the few
pictures which hung on the walls. The German genius for destruction and
wanton vandalism was evident in broken knick-knacks and mottoes of hate
and bloody vengeance scrawled upon floor and wall.
It did Tom's heart good to see the resolute, capable American officers
sitting there attending to their business in quiet disregard of all
these silly, vulgar signs of impotent hate and baffled power.
"When you first met these Germans," the officer asked, "did the big
fellow have anything to say?"
"He asked us some questions," said Tom.
"Yes? Now what did he ask you?" the officer encouraged, as he reached
out and took a couple of papers pinned together, which lay among others
on the table.
"He seemed to be interested in transports, kind of, and the number of
Americans there are here."
"Hmm. Did he mention any particular ship--do you remember?" the officer
asked, glancing at the paper.
"Yes, he did. _Texas Pioneer_. I don't remember whether it was Texan or
Texas."
"Oh, yes," said the officer.
"We didn't tell him anything," said Tom.
"No, of course not."
The officer sat whistling for a few seconds, and scrutinizing the
papers.
"Do you remember the color of the officer's eyes?" he suddenly asked.
"It was only in the dark we saw him."
"Yes, surely. So you didn't get a very good look at him."
"I saw he had a nose shaped like a carrot, kind of," said Tom
ingenuously.
Both of the officers smiled.
"I mean the big end of it," said Tom soberly.
The two men glanced at each other and laughed outright. Tom did not
quite appreciate what they were laughing at but it encouraged him to
greater boldness, and shifting from one foot to the other, he said,
"The thing I noticed specially was how his mouth went sideways when he
talked, so one side of it seemed to slant the same as his moustache,
like, and the other didn't."
The officers smiled at each other again, but the one quizzing Tom looked
at him shrewdly and seemed interested.
"I mean the two ends of his moustache that stuck up like the
Kaiser's----"
"Oh, yes."
"I mean they didn't slant the same when he talked. One was crooked."
Again the officers smiled and the one who had been speaking said
thoughtfully,
"I see."
Tom shifted back to his other foot while the officer seemed to ruminate.
"He had a breed mark, too," Tom volunteered.
"A what?"
"Breed mark--it's different from a species mark," he added naively.
The officer looked at him rather curiously. "And what do you call a
breed mark?" he asked.
Tom looked at the other man who seemed also to be watching him closely.
He shifted from one foot to the other and said,
"It's a scout sign. A man named Jeb Rushmore told me about it. All
trappers know about it. It was his ear, how it stuck out, like."
He shifted to the other foot.
"Yes, go on."
"Nothing, only that's what a breed sign is. If Jeb Rushmore saw a bear
and afterwards way off he saw another bear he could tell if the first
bear was its grandmother--most always he could.
"Hmm. I see," said the officer, plainly interested and watching Tom
curiously. "And that's what a breed sign is, eh?"
"Yes, sir. Eyes ain't breed signs, but ears are. Feet are, too, and
different ways of walking are, but ears are the best of all--that's one
sure thing."
"And you mean that relationships can be determined by these breed
signs?"
"I don't mean people just looking like each other," Tom explained,
"'cause any way animals don't look like each other in the face. But you
got to go by breed signs. Knuckles are good signs, too."
"Well, well," said the officer, "that's very fine, and news to me."
"Maybe you were never a scout," said Tom naively.
"So that if you saw your Prussian major's brother or son somewhere,
where you had reason to think he would be, you'd know him--you'd
recognize him?"
Tom hesitated and shifted again. It was getting pretty deep for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE MAJOR'S PAPERS
It was perfectly evident that the officer's purpose in sending for Tom,
whatever that was, was considerably affected by the boy's own remarks,
and he now, after pondering a few moments, handed Tom the two papers
which he had been holding.
"Just glance that over and then I'll talk to you," he said.
Tom felt very important, indeed, and somewhat perturbed as well, for
though he had carried many dispatches it had never been his lot to know
their purport.
"If you know the importance and seriousness of what I am thinking of
letting you do," the officer said, "perhaps it will help you to be very
careful and thorough."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, awkwardly.
"All right, just glance that over."
The two papers were clipped together, and as Tom looked at the one on
top he saw that it was soiled and creased and written in German. The
other was evidently a translation of it. It seemed to be a letter the
first part of which was missing, and this is what Tom read:
"but, as you say, everything for the Fatherland. If you receive this
let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful
before they shoot. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my
chance. The other way isn't worth trying. As for the code key, that
will be safe enough--they'll never find it. If it wasn't for the ----
English service ---- (worn and undecipherable) ---- as far as that's
concerned. As far as I can ascertain we'll go on the T.P. There was
some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing
serious. All you have to do is cheer when they play the S.S.B. over
here. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they
caught him because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned
to be on the safe side. I have notice from H. not to use it after
sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands
before ---- (text undecipherable) ---- in time so it can be used
through Mexico.
"I'll have much information to communicate verbally in T. and A.
matters, but will bring nothing in ---- ---- form but key and
credentials. The idea is L.'s--you remember him at Heidelberg, I
dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through
Handel, the fellow who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished
funds. So don't fail to have them watch out.
"To the day,
"A. P."
"So you see some one is probably coming over on the _Texas Pioneer_,"
said the officer, as he took the papers from bewildered Tom, "and we'd
like to get hold of that fellow. The only trouble is we don't know who
he is."
It was quite half a minute before Tom could get a grip on himself, so
dark and mysterious had seemed this extraordinary communication. And it
was not until afterward, when he was alone and not handicapped by his
present embarrassment, that certain puzzling things about it became
clear to him. At present he depended wholly upon what his superior told
him and thought of nothing else.
"That was taken from your tall friend," said the officer, "and it means,
if it means anything, that somebody or other closely related to him is
coming over to France on the _Texas Pioneer_. From his mention of the
name to you I take it that is what T. P. means.
"Now, my boy, we want to get hold of this fellow--he's a spy.
Apparently, he won't have anything incriminating about him. My
impression is that he's in the army and hopes to get himself captured by
his friends. Yet he may desert and take a chance of getting into Germany
through Holland. About the only clew there is, is the intimation that
he's related to the prisoner. He may look like him. We've been trying to
get in communication with Dieppe, where this transport is expected to
dock to-morrow, but the wires seem to be shot into a tangle again.
"Do you think you could make Dieppe before morning--eighty to ninety
miles?"
"Yes, sir. The first twenty or so will be bad on account of shell holes,
I heard they threw as far as Forges."
"Hmm," said the officer, drumming with his fingers. "We'll leave all
that to you. The thing is to get there before morning."
"I know they never let anybody ashore before daylight," said Tom,
"because I worked on a transport."
"Very well. Now we'll see if the general and others hereabouts have been
overrating you. You've two things to do. One is to get to Dieppe before
to-morrow morning. That's imperative. The other is to assist the
authorities there to identify the writer of this letter if you can. Of
course, you'll not concern yourself with anything else in the letter. I
let you read it partly because of your very commendable bringing in of
this important captive and partly because I want you to know how serious
and important are the matters involved. I was rather impressed with what
you said about--er--breed marks."
"Yes, sir."
"And I believe you're thoughtful and careful. You've ridden by night a
good deal, I understand."
"Yes, sir."
"So. Now you are to ride at once to Breteuil, a little east of here,
where they're holding this prisoner. You'll deliver a note I shall give
you to Colonel Wallace, and he'll see to it that you have a look at the
man, in a sufficiently good light. Don't be afraid to observe him
closely. And whatever acuteness you may have in this way, let your
country have the benefit of it."
"Yes, sir."
"It may be that some striking likeness will enable you to recognize this
stranger. Possibly your special knowledge will be helpful. In any case,
when you reach Dieppe, present these papers, with the letter which I
shall give you, to the quartermaster there, and he will turn you over to
the Secret Service men. Do whatever they tell you and help them in every
way you can. I shall mention that you've seen the prisoner and observed
him closely. They may have means of discovery and identification which I
know nothing of, but don't be afraid to offer your help. Too much won't
be expected of you in that way, but it's imperative that you reach
Dieppe before morning. The roads are pretty bad, I know that. Think you
can do it?"
"What you got to do, you can do," said Tom simply.
It was a favorite saying of the same Jeb Rushmore, scout and woodsman,
who had told Tom about breed marks, and how they differed from mere
points of resemblance. And it made him think about Jeb Rushmore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE
Swiftly and silently along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had
come out of the East, from the far-off Toul sector, _for service as
required_. All the way across bleeding, devastated France he had
travelled, and having paused, as it were, to help in the little job at
Cantigny, he was now speeding through the darkness toward the coast with
as important a message as he had ever carried.
A little while before, as time is reckoned, he had been a Boy Scout in
America and had thought it was something to hike from New York to the
Catskills. Since then, he had been on a torpedoed transport, had been
carried in a submarine to Germany, had escaped through that war-mad land
and made his way to France, whose scarred and disordered territory he
had crossed almost from one end to the other, and was now headed for
almost the very point where he had first landed. Yet he was only
eighteen, and no one whom he met seemed to think that his experiences
had been remarkable. For in a world where all are having extraordinary
experiences, those of one particular person are hardly matter for
comment.
At Breteuil Tom had another look at "Major Piff," who bent his terrible,
scornful gaze upon him, making poor Tom feel like an insignificant worm.
But the imperious Prussian's stare netted him not half so much in the
matter of valuable data as Tom derived from his rather timid scrutiny.
Yet he would almost have preferred to face the muzzle of a field-piece
rather than wither beneath that arrogant, contemptuous glare.
It was close on to midnight when he reached Hardivillers, passing beyond
the point of the Huns' farthest advance, and sped along the straight
road for Marseille-en-Froissy, where he was to leave a relay packet for
Paris. From there he intended to run down to Gournay and then northwest
along the highway to the coast. He thought he had plenty of time.
At Gournay they told him that some American engineers were repairing the
bridge at Saumont, which had been damaged by floods, but that he might
gain the north road to the coast by going back as far as Songeons and
following the path along the upper Therain River, which would take him
to Aumale, and bring him into the Neufchatel road.
He lost perhaps two hours in doing this, partly by reason of the extra
distance and partly by reason of the muddy, and in some places
submerged, path along the Therain. The stream, ordinarily hardly more
than a creek, was so swollen that he had to run his machine through a
veritable swamp in places, and anything approaching speed was out of the
question. So difficult was his progress, what with running off the
flooded road and into the stream bed, and also from his wheels sticking
in the mud, that he began to fear that he was losing too much time in
this discouraging business.
But there was nothing to do but go forward, and he struggled on,
sometimes wheeling his machine, sometimes riding it, until at last it
sank almost wheel deep in muddy water and he had to lose another half
hour in cleaning out his carbureter. He feared that it might give
trouble even then, but the machine labored along when the mud was not
too deep, and at last, after almost superhuman effort, he and _Uncle
Sam_ emerged, dirty and dripping, out of a region where he could almost
have made as good progress with a boat, into Aumale, where he stopped
long enough to clean the grit out of his engine parts.
It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning, and his instructions were
to reach Dieppe not later than five. He knew, from his own experience,
that transports always discharge their thronging human cargoes early in
the morning, and that every minute after five o'clock would increase the
likelihood of his finding the soldiers already gone ashore and separated
for the journeys to their various destinations. To reach Dieppe after
the departure of the soldiers was simply unthinkable to Tom. Whatever
excuse there might have been to the authorities for his failure, that
also he could not allow to enter his thoughts. He had been trusted to do
something and he was going to do it.
Perhaps it was this dogged resolve which deterred him from doing
something which he had thought of doing; that is, acquainting the
authorities at Aumale with his plight and letting them wire on to
Dieppe. Surely the wires between Aumale and the coast must be working,
but suppose----
Suppose the Germans should demolish those wires with a random shot from
some great gun such as the monster which had bombarded Paris at a
distance of seventy miles. Such a random shot might demolish Tom Slade,
too, but he did not think of that. What he thought of chiefly was the
inglorious rôle he would play if, after shifting his responsibility, he
should go riding into Dieppe only to find that the faithful dots and
dashes had done his work for him. Then again, suppose the wires should
be tapped--there were spies everywhere, he knew that.
Whatever might have been the part of wisdom and caution, he was well
past Aumale before he allowed himself to realize that he was taking
rather a big chance. If there were floods in one place there might be
floods in another, but----