Part 7 (2/2)

He felt his head and found a ragged gash running almost the length of the scalp. It must have bled freely, judging from the weakness he felt and the way his hair was matted and his face smeared. But the blood had congealed now and stopped flowing. He figured from the character of the wound that it had been made by a glancing blow from a rifle.

It was fully dark when the gloomy procession halted at a big barn where the prisoners were counted and pa.s.sed in to stay for the night.

A little later some food was pa.s.sed in to the prisoners, but Tom had no appet.i.te and even if he had been hungry it would have been hard to stomach the piece of dry bread and watery soup that was given him as his portion. So he gave it to others, and sat over in a corner immersed in the gloomy thoughts that came trooping in upon him.

He was a prisoner. And what he had heard of Hun methods, to say nothing of a former brief experience, had left him under no delusion as to what that meant.

What were his comrades Frank, Bart and Billy doing now? Had they come safely through the fight? He was glad at any rate that they were not with him now. Better dead on the field of battle, he thought bitterly, than to be in the hands of the Huns.

But Tom was too young and his vitality too great to give himself up long to despair. He was a prisoner, but what of it? He had been a prisoner before and escaped. To be sure, it was too much to expect to escape by way of the sky as he had before. Lightning seldom strikes twice in the same place. But there might be other ways--there should be other ways. While breath remained in his body he would never cease his efforts to escape. And sustained and inspired by this resolve, he at last fell asleep.

When he awoke in the morning, his strength had in large measure returned to him. His head was still a little giddy but his appet.i.te was returning. Still he looked askance at the meagre and unpalatable breakfast brought in by the guards.

”Don't be too squeamish, kid,” a fellow prisoner advised him, as he saw the look on the young soldier's face. ”Take what's given you, even if it isn't fit for Christians. You'll get weak soon enough. Keep strong as long as you can.”

There was sound sense in this even with the woeful prophecy and Tom, though with many inward protests, followed the well-meant advice.

Bad as it was, the food did him good, and he was feeling in fairly good condition when, a little later, he was summoned before a German lieutenant to be examined.

That worthy was seated before a table spread with papers, and as Tom entered or rather was pushed into his presence he compressed his beetling black brows and turned upon the prisoner with the face of a thundercloud.

But if he expected Tom to wilt before his frowning glance he was disappointed. There was no trace of swagger or bravado when Tom faced his inquisitor. But there was self-respect and quiet resolution that refused to quail before anyone to whom fate for the moment had given the upper hand.

The officer spoke English in a stiff and precise way so that an interpreter was dispensed with, and the examination proceeded.

”What is your name?” the lieutenant asked.

Tom told him.

”Your nationality?”

”American.”

The officer snorted.

”There is no such thing as American,” he said contemptuously. ”You are just a jumble of different races.”

Tom said nothing.

”What is your regiment?” the officer continued.

There was no answer.

”Did you hear me?” repeated the lieutenant impatiently. ”What is your regiment?”

”I cannot tell,” answered Tom.

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