Part 21 (1/2)

”He's chirrping in Gerrman,” suggested Archer.

The more Tom listened, the more puzzled he became, for he had the scout's familiarity with bird voices and this was a new one to him.

”Therre's a house,” Archer said.

And sure enough there, nestling among the firs some distance ahead, was the quaintest little house the boys had ever seen. It was almost like a toy house with a picturesque roof ten sizes too big for it, and a funny little man in a smock sitting in the doorway. Hanging outside was a large cuckoo clock and it was the wooden cuckoo which Tom had heard.

Shavings littered the ground about this tiny, wilderness manufactory, and upon a rough board, like a scout messboard, were a number of little handmade windmills revolving furiously. Wooden soldiers and stolid-looking horses with conventional tails, all fresh from the deft and cunning hands which wielded the harmless jack-knife, were piled helter-skelter in a big basket waiting, waiting, waiting, for the end of the war, to go forth in peace and goodwill to the ends of the earth and nestle snugly in the bottom of Christmas stockings.

This quaint old man could speak scarcely any English, but when the boys made out that he was Swiss, and apparently kindly disposed, they sprawled on the ground and rested, succeeding by dint of motions and a few words of German in establis.h.i.+ng a kind of intercourse with him. He was apparently as far removed from the war as if he had lived in the Fiji Islands, and the fugitives felt quite as safe at his rustic abode as if they had been on the planet Mars. His nationality, too, gave them the cheering a.s.surance that they were approaching the frontier.

”Vagons--noh,” he said; ”no mohr.” Then he pointed to his br.i.m.m.i.n.g basket and said more which they could not understand.

Like most persons who live in the forest, he seemed neither surprised at their coming nor curious. They gathered that in former days wagons had wound through these forest ways gathering the handiwork of the people, but that they came no more. To Tom it seemed a pathetic thing that Kaiser Bill should reach out his b.l.o.o.d.y hand and blight the peaceful occupation of this quaint little old man of the forest. Perhaps he would die, far away there in his tree-embowered cottage, before the wagons ever came again, and the overflowing basket would rot away and the windmills blow themselves to pieces....

CHAPTER XXVI

MAGIC

Leaving the home of the Swiss toymaker, who had shared his simple fare with them, they started southward through the deep wilderness.

Tom's idea was to keep well within the forest, but within access to its western edge, so that they might scan the country across the river at intervals. They were so refreshed and encouraged as they tramped through the deep, unpeopled wilderness which they knew must bring them to the border, and so eager to bring their long journey to an end, that they kept on for a while in the darkness until, to their great surprise, they came upon a sheet of water the bank of which extended as far east and west as they could see. Tom fancied he could just distinguish the dark trees outlined on the opposite sh.o.r.e.

”Let's follow the sh.o.r.e a ways and see if we can get round it,” he said.

But a tramp along the edge, first east, then west, brought no general turn in the sh.o.r.e-line and they began to wonder if the Schwarzwald could be bisected by some majestic river.

”I don't think a river so high up would be so wide,” Tom said. ”If I was sure about that being the other sh.o.r.e over there, we could swim across.”

”It would be betterr to get around if we could,” said Archer, ”because if we'rre goin' wherre people arre we don't want our uniforms all soaked.”

”I'm not going to try to find _her_, if that's what you mean,” said Tom; ”not unless you say so too, anyway.”

”What d'you s'pose I dived forr that gla.s.s forr?” Archer retorted.

”We're goin' to find that girrl--or perish in the attempt--like old What's-his-name. You've got the right idea, Slady.”

”It ain't an idea,” said Tom soberly, ”and if you think it's--kind of--that I--that I--like her----”

”Surre it ain't, it's 'cause you hate herr,” said Archer readily.

”You make me tired,” said Tom, flus.h.i.+ng.

Since they had to sleep somewhere, they decided to bivouac on the sh.o.r.e of this water and take their bearings in the morning. As the night was warm, they took off their coats and hanging them to a spreading branch above them they sprawled upon the cus.h.i.+ony ground, abandoning for once their rule of continuous watch, and were soon fast asleep. You do not need any sleeping powders in the Black Forest, for the soft magic of its resiny air will lull you to repose.

When they awakened in the morning they squirmed with complicated gymnastic yawns, and lay gazing in lazy half slumber into the branches above them. Suddenly Archer jumped to his feet.

”Wherre arre ourr coats?” he cried.