HE BECOMES VERY PROUD, AND ALSO VERY MUCH FRIGHTENED
Tom's talk with Frenchy left him feeling very proud that he was American
born. He had that advantage over the Frenchman, he thought, even though
Frenchy had escaped through a pass in the Alsatian mountains and made
such an adventurous flight.
When Frenchy had spoken of the American soldiers Tom felt especially
proud. He was glad that all his people so far as he knew anything about
them, were good out-and-out Yankees. Even his poor worthless father had
been a great patriot, and played the _Star-Spangled Banner_ on his old
accordion when he ought to have been at work.
Then there was poor old one-armed Uncle Job Slade who used to get drunk,
but he had told Tom about "them confounded rebels and traitors" of
Lincoln's time, and when he had died in the Soldiers' Home they had
buried him with the Stars and Stripes draped over his coffin.
He was sorry now that he had not mentioned these things when gruff,
well-meaning Pete Connigan had spoken disparagingly of the Slades.
He was glad he was not an adopted American like Frenchy, but that all
his family had been Americans as far back as he knew. He was proud to
"belong" to a country that other people wanted to "join"--that _he_ had
never had to join. And as he stood at the rail when his duties were
finished that same night and gazed off across the black, rough ocean, he
made up his mind that after this when he heard slurs cast upon his
father and his uncle, instead of feeling ashamed he would defend them,
and tell of the good things which he knew about them.
He stood there at the rail, quite alone, thinking. The night was very
dark and the sea was rough. Not a light was to be seen upon the ship.
It occurred to him that it might be better for him not to stand there
with his white steward's jacket on. He recalled how, up at Temple Camp,
one could see the white tents very clearly all the way across the lake.
There was no rule about it, apparently, but sometimes, when people
forgot to make a good rule, Tom made it for them. So now he went down to
his little stateroom (the captain's mess boy had a tiny stateroom to
himself) and put on a dark coat.
The second cabin dining saloon and dining room, which were below decks
and had no outside ports, were crowded with soldiers, playing cards and
checkers, and they did not fail to "josh" Whitey as he passed through.
Frenchy was there and he waved pleasantly to Tom.
"Going to get out and walk, Whitey?" a soldier called. "I see you've got
your street clothes on."
"I thought maybe the white would be too easy to see," Tom answered.
"Wise guy!" someone commented.
Reaching the main deck he edged his way along between the narrow
passageway and the washroom to a secluded spot astern. He liked this
place because it was so lonesome and unfrequented and because he could
hear the whir and splash of the great propellers directly beneath him as
each big roller lifted the after part of the vessel out of the water.
Here he could think about Bridgeboro and Temple Camp, and Roy Blakeley
and the other scouts, and of how proud he was that he was an American
through and through, and of what he was going to say to people after
this when they called his father a "no good" and Uncle Job a "rummy." He
was glad he had thought about that, for back in Bridgeboro people were
always saying something.
Suddenly a stern, authoritative voice spoke just behind him. "What are
you doing here?"
In the heavy darkness Tom could just make out that the figure was in
khaki and he thought it was the uniform of an officer.
"I ain't doing anything," he said.
"What did you come here for?" the voice demanded sternly.
"I--I don' know," stammered Tom, thoroughly frightened.
Quickly, deftly, the man slapped his clothing in the vicinity of his
pockets.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I'm captain's mess boy."
Laying his hand on Tom's shoulder, he marched him into the saloon and to
the head of the companionway where the dim light from the passageway
below enabled him to get a better sight of the boy. Tom was all of a
tremor as the officer scrutinized him.
"You're the fellow that read the semaphore message, aren't you?" the
officer demanded.
"Y-yes, sir, but I didn't notice them any more since I found out I
shouldn't." Then he mustered courage to add, "I only went back there
because it was dark and lonely, kind of. I was thinking about where I
live and things----"
The officer scrutinized him curiously for a moment and apparently was
satisfied, for he only added, speaking rather harshly, "You'd better be
careful where you go at night and keep away from the ropes." With this
he wheeled about and strode away.
For a minute or two Tom stood rooted to the spot where he stood, his
heart pounding in his breast. He would not have been afraid of a whole
regiment of Germans and he would probably have retained his stolid
demeanor if the vessel had been sinking, but this little encounter
frightened him. He wished that he had had the presence of mind to tell
the officer why he had doffed his white jacket, and he wished that he
had had the courage to mention how his Uncle Job had fought at
Gettysburg and been buried with the flag over his coffin. Those things
might have impressed the officer.
As he lay in his berth that night, his feeling of fright passed away
and he was overcome with a feeling of humiliation. That _he_, Tom Slade,
who had been a scout of the scouts, who had worked for the Colors, whose
whole family history had been one of loyalty and patriotism, should be
even---- No, of course, he had not been actually _suspected_ of anything,
and he knew that the government had to be very watchful and careful,
but---- Well, he felt ashamed and humiliated, that's all.
He made up his mind that if he should see that officer again, and he did
not look too forbidding, he would mention how his mother had taught him
to sing _America_, how his father had played the _Star-Spangled Banner_
on his old accordion and how Uncle Job had died in the Soldiers' Home.
Those were about the only good things he could remember about his father
and Uncle Job, but weren't they enough?
And since the government was so very particular, Tom got up and hung his
coat across the porthole, though no clink of light could possibly have
escaped, for his little stateroom was as dark as pitch and even when he
opened his door there was only the dim light from the inner passage.