HE HEARS SOME NEWS AND IS CONFIDENTIAL WITH FRENCHY
The next morning there was a rumor. Somebody told somebody who told
somebody else who told a deck steward who told Tom that a couple of men
had gone very stealthily along the dimly lighted passageway outside the
forward staterooms below, looking for a lighted stateroom.
"There was never so much as a glint," the deck steward volunteered.
Instantly Tom thought of his experience of the previous night and there
arose in his mind also certain passages from one of the letters he had
turned over to Mr. Conne.
Acting on his benefactor's very sensible advice, he had not allowed his
mind to dwell upon those mysterious things which were altogether outside
his humble sphere. But now he could not help recalling that this ship
had been the _Christopher Colon_ on which somebody or other had thought
he might be able to sail. Well, in any event, the ship's people had
those things in hand, and after his disturbing experience of the night
before, he would not dare speak to one of his superiors about what was
in his mind. But he was greatly interested in this whispered news.
"The electric lights are turned off in the staterooms, anyway," he said.
"Yes, but that bunch is always smoking--them engineers," said the deck
steward, "and a chap would naturally stick his head out of the port so
as not to get the room full of smoke. All he'd have to do is drop his
smoke in the ocean if anyone happened along. It's been done more'n
once."
"Then you don't think it was spies they suspected or--anything like
that?"
The deck steward, who was an old hand, hunched his shoulders. "Maybe,
and maybe not. You can't drum it into some men that a cigarette is like
a searchlight on the ocean."
"Yet the destroyers signal at night--even here in the zone," Tom said.
"Not much--only when it's necessary. And the transports don't answer.
It's just a little brown kind of light, too. They say the tin fish[1]
can't make it out at all."
"Is that where the engineers sleep--down there?" Tom asked.
"The chief and the first assistants up on deck; third and fourth and
head fireman are down there, and two electricians. The carpenter's
there, too."
"Well, they didn't find anything, anyway," said Tom. "Is that all they
did?"
"Did? They opened every room on their way back and searched every nook
and corner. Not so much as a pipe or a cigarette or a cigar could they
find--nor a whiff of smoke neither. Besides, the port windows were
locked shut and the steward had the keys! They're takin' no chances in
the zone, you can bet."
"I was thinking, if it was a spy or anyone like that, he might have had
a flashlight," said Tom, "and thrown it out if he heard anyone coming."
"With the glass locked shut?"
"No, that spoils it," said Tom.
"They searched every bloomin' one of 'em," said the deck steward.
"Charlie was two hours making up the berths again after the way they
threw things around. But nothing doing. They found a mess plate with a
little black spot on it and he said they thought it might have been
from a match-end being laid there, but I heard they told the captain
there was nothing wrong down there."
"What made them think there was?" asked Tom.
The deck steward shrugged his shoulders. "You can search _me_. But
they're mighty particular, huh?"
He went about his duties, leaving Tom to ponder on this interesting
news, and though admittedly nothing had come of that stealthy raid which
had exposed neither rule breakers nor spies, still Tom thought about it
all day, more or less, and he was glad that Uncle Sam was so watchful
and thorough. It made him realize, all the more, how absurd and
preposterous it would be for him, the captain's mess boy, to concern
himself or ask questions or say anything about serious matters which
were none of his business.
All day long they ran a zigzag course, taking a long cut to France, as
Pete Connigan would have said, the general tension relieved by the
emergency drills, manning the boats and so forth.
In the afternoon hours of respite from his duties he met Frenchy, whose
patience had been a little tried by some of Uncle Sam's crack jolliers,
and they sat down on the top step of a companionway and talked.
"Zis I cannot bear!" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "To be called ze
Hun! Ugh!"
"They're only kidding you," said Tom; "fooling with you."
"I do not like it--no!"
"But if you hadn't become an American before the war," said Tom, "you
couldn't have enlisted on our side because you really were a German--a
German citizen--weren't you?"
"Subject, yess! Citizen, no! All will be changed. Alsace will be France
again! We go to win her back! Yess?"
"Yes," said Tom. "I only meant you belonged to Germany because you
couldn't help it."
"You are a lucky boy," Frenchy said earnestly. "Zare is no--what you
say?--Mix-up; Zhermany, France, America--no. You are all _American_!"
"I got to remember that," said Tom simply. "I know some rich fellers
home where I live. They let me join their scout troop, so I got to know
'em. One feller's name is Van Arlen. His father was born in Holland.
They got two automobiles and a lot of servants and things. But anyway my
father was born in the United States--that's one thing."
"Ah," said Frenchy, enthusiastically, "zat is ever'ting! You are fine
boy."
His expression was so generous, so pleasant, that Tom could not help
saying, "I like France, too."
"Listen, I will tell you," said Frenchy, laughing. "It is ze old saying,
'Ever' man hass two countries; hees own and France!' You see?"
In the warmth of Frenchy's generous admiration Tom opened up and said
more than he had meant to say--more than he ever had said to anyone.
"So I got to be proud of it, anyway," he said, in his honest, blunt
fashion. "Maybe you won't understand, but one thing makes me like to go
away from Bridgeboro, kind of, is the way people say things about my
folks. They don't do it on purpose--mostly. But anyway, all the fathers
of the fellows I know, they call them Mr. Blakeley and Mr. Harris, and
like that. But they always called my father Bill Slade. I didn't ever
hear anybody call him Mister. But anyway, he was born in the United
States--that's one sure thing. And so was my grandfather and my
grandmother, too. Once my father licked me because I forgot to hang out
the flag on Decoration Day. That shows he was patriotic, doesn't it? The
other day I was going to tell you about my uncle but I forgot to. He was
in the Civil War--he got his arm shot off. So I got a lot to be proud
about, anyway. Just because my father didn't get a job most--most of the
time----"
"Ah!" vociferated Frenchy, clapping him on the shoulder. "You are
ze--how you say--_one_ fine boy!"
Tom remained stolid, under this enthusiastic approval. He was thinking
how glad and proud he was that his father had licked him for forgetting
to hang out the flag. It had not been a licking exactly, but a beating
and kicking, but this part of it he did not remember. He was very proud
of his father for it. It was something to boast about. It showed that
the Slades----
"Yess, you are a fine boy!" said Frenchy again, clapping him on the
shoulder with such vehemence as to interrupt his train of thought. "Zey
must be fine people--all ze way back--to haf' such a boy. You see?"
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Submarines.