receive this, let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be
careful before they shoot_. I wish he'd cross his arms when he comes
ashore. He's evidently planning to get himself captured. _If you don't
get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth
trying._ Hmm! Probably thought of deserting at the wharf and getting
into Holland or Belgium. No, that wouldn't be worth trying. _As for the
code key, that'll be safe enough--they'll never find it._ Hmm! _If it
wasn't for the_--what's all this--_the English swine_. Humph! They fight
pretty good for swine, don't they, Tommy? _As far as I can ascertain,
we'll go on the T. P._ We know that much, anyway, thanks to you, Tommy."
(Tom felt highly elated.) "_There was some inquiry about my close
relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is to cheer
when they play the S. S. B. over here_. Humph! That's worth knowing. _It
isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him_----
"He didn't," said Mr. Conne dryly; "I was the one who caught
him.--_because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be
on the safe side_. Safety first, hey? _I have notice from H. not to use
it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands
before_--Seems to be blotted out--_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_. He means actual, concealed or disguised form, I s'pose.
_The idea is L.'s._ I suppose he means the manner of concealing the key
and credentials."
"Yes," said Tom rather excitedly.
Mr. Conne glanced at him, joggled his cigar, and went on,
"_You remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once
for holiday. Met him through Handel, who was troubled with cataract. V.
has furnished funds. So don't fall to have them watch out._"
"Hmm!" concluded Mr. Conne ruminatively. "You see what they're up to. We
caught Schmitter in Philadelphia. They think maybe Schmitter had the key
of a code with him. So they're changing the code and sending the key to
it across with this somebody or other. That's about the size of it. He's
got a lot of information, too, in his head, where we can't get at it."
"But his credentials will have to be something that can be seen, won't
they?" Tom ventured to ask.
"Prob'ly. You see, he means to desert or get captured. It's a long way
round, but about the best one--for him. Think of that snake wearing
Uncle Sam's uniform!"
"It makes me mad, too--kind of," said Tom.
"So he's probably got some secret means of identification about him, and
probably the new code key in actual form--somewhere else than just in
his head. Then there'd be a chance of getting it across even if he fell.
We'll give him an acid bath and look in his shoes if we can find him.
The whole thing hangs on a pretty thin thread. They used to have
invisible writing on their backs till we started the acid bath."
He whistled reflectively for a few moments, while Tom struggled to
muster the courage to say something that he wished to say.
"Could I tell you about that other idea of mine?" he blurted finally.
"You sure can, Tommy. That's about all we're likely to get--ideas." And
he glanced at Tom again with that funny, sideways look. "Shoot, my boy."
"It's only this," said Tom, still not without some trepidation, "and
maybe you'll say it's no good. You told me once not to be thinking of
things that's none of my business."
"Uncle Sam's business is our business now, Tommy boy."
"Well, then, it's just this, and I was thinking about it while I was
riding just after I started away from Cantigny. Mostly I was thinking
about it after I took that last special look at old Piff----"
Mr. Conne chuckled. "I see," he said encouragingly.
"Whoever that feller is," said Tom, "there's one thing sure. If he's
comin' as a soldier he won't get to the front very soon, 'cause they're
mostly the drafted fellers that are comin' now and they have to go in
training over here. I know, 'cause I've seen lots of 'em in billets."
"Hmm," said Mr. Conne.
"So if the feller expects to go to the front and get captured pretty
soon, prob'ly he's in a special unit. Maybe I might be all wrong about
it--some fellers used to call me Bullhead," he added by way of shaving
his boldness down a little.
But Mr. Conne, with hat tilted far down over his forehead and cigar at
an outrageously rakish angle, was looking straight ahead of him, at a
French flag across the way.
"Go on," he said crisply.
"Anyway, I'm sure the feller wouldn't be an engineer, 'cause mostly
they're behind the lines. So I thought maybe he'd be a surgeon----"
Mr. Conne was whistling, almost inaudibly, his eyes fixed upon the
flagpole opposite. "He was educated at Heidelberg," said he.
"I didn't think of that," said Tom.
"It's where he met L."
Tom said nothing. His line of reasoning seemed to be lifted quietly away
from him. Mr. Conne was turning the kaleidoscope and showing him new
designs. "He took L. home for the holidays," he quietly observed. "Old
Piff and the boys."
"I--I didn't think of that," said Tom, rather crestfallen.
"You didn't ride fast enough and make enough noise," Mr. Conne said. His
eyes were still fixed on the fluttering tricolor and he whistled very
low. Then he rubbed his lip with his tongue and aimed his cigar in
another direction.
"They were studying medicine there, I guess," he mused.
"That's just what my idea's about," said Tom. "It ain't an idea exactly,
either," he added, "but it's kind of come to me sudden-like. You know
what a _hunch_ is, don't you? There's something there about somebody
having a cataract, and that's something the matter with your eyes; Mr.
Temple had one. So maybe that feller L. that he met again is an eye
doctor. Long before the war started they told Mr. Temple maybe he ought
to go to Berlin to see the eye specialists there--'cause they're so
fine. So maybe the spy is a surgeon and L. is an eye doctor. It says how
he met him again on account of somebody having a cataract. And he said
the way of bringing the code key was L.'s idea. I read about a dentist
that had a piece of paper with writing on it rolled up in his tooth. He
was a spy. So that made me think maybe L.'s idea had something to do
with eyes or glasses, as you might say."
"Hmm! Go on. Anything else?"
"But, anyway, that ain't the idea I had. In Temple Camp there was a
scout that had a little pocket looking-glass and you couldn't see
anything on it but your own reflection. But all you had to do was to
breathe on it and there was a picture--all mountains and a castle, like.
Then it would fade away again right away. Roy Blakeley wanted to swap
his scout knife for it, but the feller wouldn't do it. On the back of it
it said _Made in Germany_. It just came to me sudden-like that maybe
that was L.'s idea and they'd have it on a pair of spectacles. Maybe
it's a kind of crazy idea, but----"
He looked doubtfully at Mr. Conne, who still sat tilted back, hat almost
hiding his face, cigar sticking out from under it like a camouflaged
field-piece. He was whistling very quietly, "_Oh, boy, where do we go
from here?_" He had whistled that same tune more than a year before when
he was waiting for a glimpse of "Dr. Curry," spy and bomb plotter,
aboard the vessel on which Tom was working at that time. He had whistled
it as he escorted the "doctor" down the companionway. How well Tom
remembered!
"Come on, Tommy," he said, jumping suddenly to his feet.
Tom followed. But Mr. Conne did not speak; he was still busy with the
tune. Only now he was singing the words. There was something portentous
in the careless way he sang them. It took Tom back to the days when it
was the battle hymn of the transport:
"And when we meet a pretty girl, we whisper in her ear,
Oh, Boy! Oh, Joy! Where do we go from here?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
"NOW YOU SEE IT, NOW YOU DON'T"
The big transport _Texas Pioneer_ came slowly about in obedience to her
straining ropes and rubbed her mammoth side against the long wharf. Up
and down, this way and that, slanting-wise and curved, drab and gray and
white and red, the grotesque design upon her towering freeboard shone
like a distorted rainbow in the sunlight. Out of the night she had come,
stealing silently through the haunts where murder lurks, and the same
dancing rays which had run ahead of the dispatch-rider and turned to
mock him, had gilded her mighty prow as if to say, "Behold, I have
reached you first."
At her rail crowded hundreds of boys in khaki, demanding in English and
atrocious French to know where they were.
"Are we in France?" one called.
"Where's the Boiderberlong, anyway?" another shouted, the famous
Parisian boulevard evidently being his only means of identifying
France.
"Is that Napoleon's tomb?" another demanded, pointing to a little round
building.
"Look at the pile of hams," shouted another gazing over the rail at a
stack of that delectable. "Maybe we're in _Hamburg_!"
"This is Dippy," his neighbor corrected him.
"You mean Deppy," another said.
And so on and so on. There seemed to be hundreds of them, thousands of
them, and all on a gigantic picnic.
"Which is the quickest way to Berlin?" one called, addressing the throng
impartially.
"Second turn to your left."
Some of these boys would settle down in France and make it their long,
final home, under little wooden crosses. But they did not seem to think
of that.
At the foot of the gangplank stood the dispatch-rider and the man with
the cigar. Several other men, evidently of their party, stood near by.
Mr. Conne's head was cocked sideways and he scanned the gangway with a
leisurely, self-assured look. Tom was shaking all over--the victim of
suppressed excitement. He had been less excited on that memorable
morning when he had "done his bit" at Cantigny.
It seemed to be in the air that something unusual was likely to happen.
Workers, passing with their wheelbarrows and hand trucks, slackened
their pace and dallied as long as they dared, near the gangplank. They
were quickly moved along. Tom shifted from one foot to the other,
waiting. Mr. Conne worked his cigar over to the opposite corner of his
mouth and observed to an American officer that the day was going to be
warm. Then he glanced up and smiled pleasantly at the boys crowding at
the rail. He might have been waiting on a street corner for a car.
"Not nervous, are you?" he smiled at Tom.
"Not exactly," said Tom, with his usual candor; "but it seems as if
nothing can happen at all, now that we're here. It seems different,
thinking up things when you're riding along the road--kind of."
"Uh huh."
Presently the soldiers began coming down the gangplank.
"You watch for resemblances and I'll do the rest," said Mr. Conne in a
low tone. "Give yourself the benefit of every doubt. Know what I mean?"
"Yes--I do."
"I can't help you there."
Tom felt a certain compunction at scrutinizing these fine, American
fellows as they came down with their kits--hearty, boisterous,
open-hearted. He felt that it was unworthy of him to suspect any of this
laughing, bantering army, of crime--and such a crime! Treason! In the
hope of catching one he must scrutinize them all, and in his generous
heart it seemed to put a stigma on them all. He hoped he wouldn't see
anyone who looked like Major von Piffinhoeffer. Then he hoped he would.
Then he wondered if he would dare to look at him after---- And suppose
he should be mistaken. He did not like this sort of work at all now that
he was face to face with it. He would rather be off with _Uncle Sam_,
riding along the French roads, with the French children calling to him.
For the first time in his life he was nervous and afraid--not of being
caught but of catching someone; of the danger of suspecting and being
mistaken.
Mr. Conne, who never missed anything, noticed his perturbation and
patted him on the shoulder saying,
"All kinds of work have to be done, Tommy."
Tom tried to smile back at him.
Down the long gangplank they came, one after another, pushing each
other, tripping each other--joking, laughing. Among them came a young
private, wearing glasses, who was singing,
"Good-bye, Broadway. Hello, France!"
He was startled out of his careless merriment by a tap on the shoulder
from Mr. Conne, and almost before Tom realized what had happened, he was
standing blinking at one of the other Secret Service men who was handing
him back his glasses.
"All right, my boy," said Mr. Conne pleasantly, which seemed to wipe out
any indignity the young man might have felt.
Tom looked up the gangplank as they surged down, holding the rail to
steady them on the steep incline. Nobody seemed to have noticed what had
happened.
"Keep your mind on _your_ part, Tommy," said Mr. Conne warningly.
Tom saw that of all those in sight only one wore glasses--a black-haired
youth who kept his hands on the shoulders of the man before him. Tom
made up his mind that he, in any event, would not detain this fellow on
the ground of anything in his appearance, nor any of the others now in
sight. He was drawn aside by Mr. Conne, however, and became the object
of attention of the other Secret Service men.
Tom kept his eyes riveted upon the gangplank. One, two, more, wearing
glasses, came in view, were stopped, examined, and passed on. After that
perhaps a hundred passed down and away, none of them with glasses, and
all of them he scrutinized carefully. Now another, with neatly adjusted
rimless glasses, came down. He had a clean-cut, professional look. Tom
did not take his eyes off the descending column for a second, but he
heard Mr. Conne say pleasantly,
"Just a minute."
He was glad when he was conscious of this fine-looking young American
passing on.
So it went.
There were some whom poor Tom might have been inclined to stop by way of
precaution for no better reason than that they had a rough-and-ready
look--hard fellows. He was glad--_half_ glad--when Mr. Conne, for
reasons of his own, detained one, then another, of these, though they
wore no glasses. And he felt like apologizing to them for his momentary
suspicion, as he saw them pause surprised, answer frankly and honestly
and pass on.
Then came a young officer, immaculately attired, his leather leggings
shining, his uniform fitting him as if he had been moulded into it. He
wore little rimless eye-glasses. He might lead a raiding party for all
that; but he was a bit pompous and very self-conscious. Tom was rather
gratified to see him hailed aside.
Nothing.
Down they came, holding both rails and lifting their feet to swing, like
school boys--hundreds of them, thousands of them, it seemed. Tom watched
them all keenly as they passed out like an endless ribbon from a
magician's hat. There seemed to be no end of them.
There came now a fellow whom he watched closely. He had blond hair and
blue eyes, but no glasses. He looked something like--something like--oh,
who? Fritzie Schmitt, whom he used to know in Bridgeboro. No, he
didn't--not so much.
But his blond hair and blue eyes did not escape Mr. Conne.
Nothing.
"Watching, Tommy?"
"Yes, sir."
A hundred more, two hundred, and then a young sergeant with glasses.
While this young man was undergoing his ordeal (whatever it was, for Tom
kept his eyes riveted on the gangway), there appeared the tall figure of
a lieutenant. Tom thought he was of the medical corps, but he was not
certain. He seemed to be looking down at Mr. Conne's little group, with
a fierce, piercing stare. He wore horned spectacles of goodly
circumference and as Tom's eyes followed the thick, left wing of these,
he saw that it embraced an ear which stood out prominently. Both the ear
and the piercing eagle gaze set him all agog.
Should he speak? The lieutenant was gazing steadfastly down at Mr. Conne
and coming nearer with every step. Of course, Mr. Conne would stop him
anyway, but---- To mention that piercing stare and that ear after the
man had been stopped for the more tangible reason--there would be no
triumph in that.
Tom's hand trembled like a leaf and his voice was unsteady as he turned
to Mr. Conne, and said.
"This one coming down--the one that's looking at you--he looks like--and
I notice----"
"Put your hands down, my man," called Mr. Conne peremptorily, at the
same time leaping with the agility of a panther up past the descending
throng. "I'll take those."
But Tom Slade had spoken first. He did not know whether Mr. Conne's
sudden dash had been prompted by his words or not. He saw him lift the
heavy spectacles off the man's ears and with beating heart watched him
as he came down alongside the lieutenant.
"Going to throw them away, eh?" he heard Mr. Conne say.
Evidently the man, seeing another's glasses examined, had tried to
remove his own before he reached the place of inspection. Mr. Conne, who
saw everything, had seen this. But Tom had spoken before Mr. Conne moved
and he was satisfied.
"All right, Tommy," said Mr. Conne in his easy way. "You beat me to it."
Tom hardly knew what took place in the next few moments. He saw Mr.
Conne breathe upon the glasses, was conscious of soldiers slackening
their pace to see and hear what was going on, and of their being
ordered forward. He saw the two men who were with Mr. Conne standing
beside the tall lieutenant, who seemed bewildered. He noticed (it is
funny how one notices these little things amid such great things) the
little ring of red upon the lieutenant's nose where the glasses had sat.
"There you are, see?" he heard Mr. Conne say quietly, breathing heavily
upon the glasses and holding them up to the light, for the benefit of
his colleagues. "B L--two dots--X--see--Plain as day. See there, Tommy!"
He breathed upon them again and held them quickly up so that Tom could
see.
"Yes, sir," Tom stammered, somewhat perturbed at such official
attention.
"Look in the other one, too, Tommy--now--quick!"
"Oh, yes," said Tom as the strange figures die away. He felt very proud,
and not a little uncomfortable at being drawn into the centre of things.
And he did not feel slighted as he saw Mr. Conne and the captive
lieutenant, and the other officials whom he did not know, start away
thoughtless of anything else in the stress of the extraordinary affair.
He followed because he did not know what else to do, and he supposed
they wished him to follow. Outside the wharf he got _Uncle Sam_ and
wheeled him along at a respectful distance behind these high officials.
So he had one companion. Several times Mr. Conne looked back at him and
smiled. And once he said in that funny way of his,
"All right, Tommy?"
"Yes, sir," Tom answered, trudging along. He had been greatly agitated,
but his wonted stolidness was returning now. Probably he felt more
comfortable and at home coming along behind with _Uncle Sam_ than he
would have felt in the midst of this group where the vilest treason
walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of Uncle Sam.
Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom were following. His cigar was stuck
up in the corner; of his mouth as usual and he gave Tom a whimsical
look.
"You hit the Piff family at both ends, didn't you, Tommy."
"Y-yes, sir," said Tom.
CHAPTER THIRTY
HE DISAPPEARS
Swiftly and silently along the quiet, winding road sped the
dispatch-rider. Away from the ocean he was hurrying, where the great
ships were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge; away from
scenes of debarkation where Uncle Sam was pouring his endless wealth of
courage and determination into bleeding, suffering, gallant France.
Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant villa, through village and
hamlet, and farther and farther into the East, bound for the little
corner of the big salient whence he had come.
He bore with him a packet and some letters. One was to be left at
Neufchatel; others at Breteuil. There was one in particular for
Cantigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did not know that. He
never concerned himself with the contents of his papers.
So he sped along, thinking how he would get a new headlight for _Uncle
Sam_ and a new mud-guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny would
wonder what had happened to his machine. He had no thought of telling
them. There was nothing to tell.
Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had
come from the blue hills of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated
France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon the handle-bar of _Uncle
Sam_, which the rider held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they
knew so well. Back from the coast they sped, those two, along the
winding road which lay on hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow
of the first twilight. Swiftly and silently they sped. Hills rose and
fell, the fair panorama of the lowlands with its quaint old houses here
and there opened before them. And so they journeyed on into the din and
fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy and
Flanders--for service as required.
(END)
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William Heyliger
BE PREPARED, THE BOY SCOUTS IN FLORIDA
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Frank T. Bullen
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James Barnes
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