Part 18 (1/2)

Tom thought it must be much better fun to be an English soldier than a German soldier. And he thought this good-natured prisoner would be able to hold his own even against a great Yankee drive--of jollying.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] England.

CHAPTER XXII

HE LEARNS WHERE HE IS GOING AND FINDS A RAY OF HOPE

It seemed to Tom that the two German officials who sat behind a table examining him, asked him every question which could possibly be framed in connection with himself. And when they had finished, and the answers had been written down, they made a few informal inquiries about American troops and transports, which he was thankful that he could not answer.

When he returned to the ante-room he had fastened to his b.u.t.tonhole a bra.s.s disk with a number stamped upon it and a German word which was not ”Slopsgotten,” though it looked as if it might be something like it.

”Let's see,” said the sailor; ”didn't I jolly well tell yer?

Congratulations!”

”Does it mean I go to Slopsgotten?” Tom asked.

”They'll keep us there till the war's over, too,” said the one called Freddie. ”We'll never get a good whack at Fritzie now.”

Tom's heart fell.

”We'll be wittling souveneers out o' wood,” Freddie concluded.

”We'll have plenty o' wood,” said his comrade. ”The old Black Forest's down that w'y.”

”It's just north of Alsice,” Freddie said.

”A pair o' wire nippers and a bit o' French----”

”Shh,” cautioned Freddie.

”We m'y be ible to s'y 'Owdy' to General 'Aig yet.”

”Shh! We aren't even there yet.”

Tom listened eagerly to this talk and thought much about it afterward.

For one whole year he had longed to get into the war. He had waited for his eighteenth birthday as a child waits for Christmas. He had gone on the transport with the one thought of its bringing him nearer to military service. He was going to fight like two soldiers because his brother was--was not a soldier.

And now it appeared that his part in the great war, his way of doing his bit, was to lie in a prison camp until the whole thing was over. That was worse than boring sticks in Bridgeboro and distributing badges. Tom had never quarreled with Fate, he had even been reconciled to the thought of dying as a spy; but he rebelled at this prospect.

Instinctively, as he and his two philosophical companions were placed aboard the train, he reached down into his trousers pocket and found the little iron b.u.t.ton which Frenchy had given him. He clutched it as if it were a life preserver, until his hand was warm and sweaty from holding it.

It seemed his last forlorn hope now.

CHAPTER XXIII