Part 12 (1/2)

”Mr. Conne, who's in the Secret Service, got me mine,” Tom said.

”Who did he recommend you to?” asked the detective.

Tom hesitated a moment. ”To Mr. Wessel, the steward,” he said.

”Humph! Too bad Mr. Wessel died. You'll both have to go to the guardhouse.”

Tom saw there was no hope for him. For a moment he struggled, drawing a long breath in pitiful little gulps. If he had followed Mr. Conne's advice he would not be in this predicament. But where then might the great transport be? Who but he, captain's mess boy, had saved the s.h.i.+p and showed these people how the light----

”It makes me feel like----” he began. ”Can't I--please--can't I not be arrested--please?”

Neither man answered him. Presently the door opened and four soldiers entered. One of them was ”Pickles,” who had nicknamed Tom ”Tombstone,”

because he was so sober. But he was not Pickles now; he was just one of a squad of four, and though he looked surprised he neither smiled nor spoke.

”Pickles,” said Tom. ”I ain't--_You_ don't believe----”

But Pickles had been too long in training camp to forget duty and discipline so readily and the only answer Tom got was the dull thud of Pickles' rifle b.u.t.t on the floor as the officer uttered some word or other.

That thud was a good thing for Tom. It seemed to settle him into his old stolid composure, which had so amused the boys in khaki.

Side by side with his brother, whom so long ago he could not bear to see ”licked,” he marched out and along the pa.s.sage, a soldier in front, one behind and one at either side. How strange the whole thing seemed!

His brother who had gone out to Arizona when Tom was just a bad, troublesome little hoodlum! And here they were now, marching silently side by side, on one of Uncle Sam's big transports, with four soldiers escorting them! Both, the nephews of Uncle Job Slade who had died in the Soldiers' Home and had been buried with the Stars and Stripes draped over his coffin.

Two things stood out in Tom Slade's memory, clearest of all, showing how unreasonable and contrary he was. Two lickings. One that made him mad and one that made him glad--and that he was proud of. The licking that his brother had got, when he could, as he had told honest Pete Connigan, ”feel the madness way down in his fingers.” And the licking his father had given _him_ for not hanging out the flag.

”_Zey must be all fine people to haf' such a boy_,” Frenchy had said.

He hoped he would not see Frenchy now.

But he was to be spared nothing. The second cabin saloon was filled with soldiers and they stared in amazement as the little group marched through, the steady thud, thud, of the guards' heavy shoes emphasized by the wondering stillness. Tom shuffled along with his usual clumsy gait, looking neither to right nor left. Up the main saloon stairway they went, and here, upon the top carpeted step sat Frenchy chatting with another soldier. He was such a hand to get off into odd corners for little chats! He stared, uttered an exclamation, then remembered that he was a soldier and caught himself. But he turned and following the little procession with astonished eyes until they disappeared.

The guardhouse was the little smoking-room where Tom and Frenchy had sat upon the sill and talked and Frenchy had given him the iron b.u.t.ton. Into the blank darkness of this place he and his brother were marched, and all through that long, dreadful night Tom could hear a soldier pacing back and forth, back and forth, on the deck just outside the door.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] The custom of putting arrested persons in the ”brig” on liners and transports was discontinued by reason of the danger of their losing their lives without chance of rescue, in the event of torpedoing. The present rule is that the guardhouse must be above decks and a living guard must always be at hand.

CHAPTER XV

HE DOES MOST OF THE TALKING AND TAKES ALL THE BLAME

Tramp, tramp, tramp--all through the endless, wakeful hours he heard that soldier marching back and forth, back and forth, outside the door.

Every sound of those steady footfalls was like a blow, stinging afresh the cruel wound which had been opened in his impa.s.sive nature. He was under arrest and under guard. If he should try to get out that soldier would order him to halt, and if he didn't halt the soldier would shoot him. He wondered if the guard were Pickles.

He did not think at all about his deductive triumph now. And he did not care much about what they would do with him. He wondered a little what the soldiers would say--particularly Frenchy. But if only his brother would talk to him and ask about their mother he could bear everything else--the das.h.i.+ng of his triumph, the danger he was in, the shame. The shame, most of all.