AS FROM THE DEAD
It was a good-sized city into which the army marched, and the streets
were full of people. There were other thousands who peered from behind
window curtains at the hated newcomers, these Americans, who, they had
been told by their lying government, could never get to France, and
who, if they did get there, would run at the sight of German uniforms.
They _had_ run, but they had run after the Germans instead of away from
them, and that trifling fact had made all the difference in the world.
There was no demonstration of any kind. The people looked on in sullen
silence. Only the children showed interest. They were too young to
understand what the coming of the Americans meant to their elders, and
the flying flags and stirring music appealed to them as a spectacle and
delighted them.
The American authorities took charge of the town and issued
proclamations telling the people just how they were to conduct
themselves under the American occupation. The ordinary business of
the town was to go on as usual, and the civil authorities would not be
interfered with as long as good order was maintained. After a certain
hour at night, no citizen was to be allowed on the streets. American
officers were to be saluted when they passed. Hats were to be lifted
when the American flag appeared and when the American national air
was played. The people were warned that the rules were to be strictly
obeyed and that any disorder would be sharply and instantly repressed.
“And they’re getting off mighty easy at that,” grumbled Tom. “What we
ought to do is to give them a taste of their own medicine. We ought to
post up the same regulations here that the Germans did in the towns of
France and Belgium.”
“We couldn’t do that,” objected Frank. “They were brutes and those
things came natural to them. But we’re Americans.”
“Of course, you’re right,” admitted Tom. “Just the same it makes my
blood boil at the contrast between what they deserve and what they’re
getting. Look at these streets and houses, not showing a mark of war,
and then picture the towns of France and Belgium, where only heaps of
rubbish mark the passage of the Hun.”
“Speaking of that,” broke in Billy, “here’s a picture post-card that
I picked up in the street a little while ago. It shows a group of
Germans destroying the machinery in a French mill, smashing delicate
and costly machinery to bits. The Germans had stopped working for a few
minutes, so that they could be photographed and the pictures could be
published in Germany. That’s what it is that makes the case of the Huns
so hopeless. If any other nation did such things, it wouldn’t at least
brag of it. But the Huns are actually proud of it. The dirtier the deed
the greater the pride.”
“Yes,” replied Frank, “and I heard of a case where they sank lower
still. After they had taken a picture of a mill they had broken up,
very similar to this, they sent one of the pictures to the former
French owner of the mill, and the picture had written on it: ‘This is
the way your mill looks now.’”
“Oh, well, what’s the use,” growled Billy. “We’ve licked them and
licked them good and proper. We’ll have to let it go at that, though I
think as Tom does, that they ought to get a stiffer dose.”
“One thing is certain,” grunted Tom, “and that is if I’m a member of
the provost-marshal’s guard in this town, I’ll make these fellows walk
Spanish if they look cross-eyed at me.”
But Tom had no chance for this, for in another day or two the regiment
went on, while other units of the division remained to garrison the
town.
In the meantime, the boys had seen Dick, but to their disappointment
he had no definite news for them. Only once more had he caught sight
of the lonely figure, but while he was manœuvring his machine to make
a descent the man had disappeared. He landed and made a search, but
without result. Since that time he had kept a sharp lookout, but had
seen no further trace of him.
“But I’ll keep on looking,” promised Dick. “I’m getting just as much
excited about this mystery as you fellows are yourselves.”
“Here’s hoping,” replied Frank. “But it wrings my heart to think of
poor Bart, if it is he, wandering around in that forlorn way. I only
wish that we could get off to look for him.”
They were passing through the country districts now and the villages
at which they stopped at night could not accommodate the men in their
houses. These were occupied by the officers, while the men stayed in
their tents.
The weather was getting colder, and the men had extra blankets served
out to them. These were ample to keep them warm, but one morning Frank
awoke shivering. Reveille had not yet sounded, and he turned over for
another “forty winks” and drew his blankets closer. But he was still
chilly, and on investigation he found that one of his blankets had
disappeared.
At first he thought that either Tom or Billy must have played a joke on
him. He went over to where they lay, but they only had their regular
quota, and they protested so vigorously against being disturbed that he
let them alone. Later when he questioned them about the matter, they
denied knowing anything about it.
“It must have been one of the fellows from another tent,” suggested
Billy. “He’s felt cold in the night and has come in and swiped yours.
Pretty small potatoes, I call it.”
“I’d like to catch him doing it,” growled Frank. “I’d make it so warm
for him that he wouldn’t feel any need of blankets.”
“He’s got his nerve with him to swipe things from the best boxer in the
regiment,” remarked Tom.
“You’d better bone the quartermaster for another blanket,” counseled
Billy.
Frank got another blanket in the course of the day and that night he
tucked it in around him with unusual care. It would take some tugging
to get that away from him.
It must have been considerably after midnight when he was conscious
of something that disturbed him. But he was very tired, and after a
moment he turned over to go to sleep again. Then came a distinct tug at
the blanket that had him awake in an instant.
It was very dark in the tent, but he could discern dimly the figure of
a man standing beside him.
“Now,” thought Frank grimly to himself, “my fine fellow, here’s where
you get the shock of your young life.”
He gathered himself for a spring, leaped to his feet and grappled with
the intruder. The latter tried to escape, but Frank launched himself
into him with such impetus that they both went down together.
The head of the unknown struck the ground hard and he lay still. Frank
was alarmed.
“Quick!” he called, as Tom and Billy, aroused by the fracas, rushed
toward him. “Strike a match, one of you.”
Billy did so, and as the light flashed upon the face of the prostrate
man they gave a shout.
“Bart!”