Part 9 (2/2)

”I'd like to know just what's going on over there,” Tom said as he gazed at the blue heights. ”Maybe those wagons down there on the road have something to do with it. If there's a big battle going on they may be bringing back wounded and prisoners.--Some of our own fellers might be in 'em.”

They tried to determine about where, along that far-flung line, the sounds arose, but they could only guess at it.

”All I know is what I hearrd 'em say in the prison camp,” said Archer; ”that our fellers are just the otherr side of the mountains.”

”That would be Nancy,” said Tom thoughtfully.

”That Loquet feller that got capturred in a raid,” Archer said, ”told me the Americans were all around therre, just the otherr side of the mountains--in a lot of differrent villages: When they get through training they send 'em ahead to the trenches. Some of 'em have been in raids already, he said.”

”You have to run like everything in a raid,” said Tom. ”I'd like to be in one, wouldn't you?”

”Depends on which way I was running.--Let's have a look at these paperrs before it gets too darrk, hey?” he added, hauling from his pocket the papers which he had taken from the dead Boche. ”I neverr thought about 'em till just now?”

”I thought about it,” said Tom, who indeed seldom forgot anything, ”but I didn't say anything about it 'cause it kind of makes me think about what happened--I mean how they took her away,” he added, in his dull way.

For a minute they sat silently gazing down at the vineyard which was now touched with the first crimson rays of sunset.

”You can just see the chimney,” Tom said; ”see, just left of that big tree.--I hope I don't see Frenchy any more now 'cause I wouldn't like to have to tell him----”

”We don't know what happened,” said Archer. ”Maybe therre werren't any otherr soldierrs; she may have escaped--and her motherr, too.”

”It's more likely there _were_ others, though,” said Tom. ”I keep thinking all the time how scared she was and it kind of----”

”Let's look at the papers,” said Archer.

The German soldier must have been a typical Boche, for he carried with him the customary baggage of written and statistical matter with which these warriors sally forth to battle.

”He must o' been a walking correspondence school,” said Archer, unfolding the contents of the parchment envelope. ”Herre's a list--all in German. Herre's some poetry--or I s'pose it's poetry, 'cause it's printed all in and out.”

”Maybe it's a hymn of hate,” said Tom.

”Herre's a map, and herre's a letter. All in Gerrman--even the map.

Anyway, I can't understand it.”

”Looks like a scout astronomy chart,” said Tom. ”It's all dots like the big dipper.”

”Do you s'pose it means they're going to conquer the sky and all the starrs and everything?” Archer asked. ”Here's a letter, it's dated about two weeks ago--I can make out the numbers all right.”

The letter was in German, of course, and Archer, who during his long incarceration in the prison camp had picked up a few sc.r.a.ps of the language, fell to trying to decipher it. The only reward he had for his pains was a familiar word which he was able to distinguish here and there and which greatly increased their desire to know the full purport of the letter.

”Herre's President Wilson's name.--See!” said Archer excitedly. ”And herre's _America_----”

”Yes, and there it is again,” said Tom. ”That must be _Yankees_, see?

Something or other Yankees. It's about a mile long.”

”Jim-min-nitty!” said Archer, staring at the word (presumably a disparaging adjective) which preceded the word _Yankees_. ”It's got one--two--three--wait a minute--it's got thirty-seven letters to it.

_Go-o-od night_!”

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