Part 10 (2/2)
”Here, I'll show you something else,” said the stranger, noticing Tom's interest in the b.u.t.tons. He opened his bag and took out a couple of apples, giving one to Tom. ”You see that,” he observed, holding up a small crumpled piece of bra.s.s. ”Know where I got that?” He rolled his R's very noticeably in the manner peculiar to the country people of New York State.
”What is it?” Tom asked.
”It's the cover of an ink-stand. You know what made it like that? A Zeppelin! That was in a raid, that was. It came flying plunk out through the front window--and it stuck right into a tree like a dagger. It might have stuck in my head, only it didn't. I'm lucky--that's what our gun crew says.” He breathed on the crumpled souvenir and rubbed it on his trousers to polish it. ”See, it's got a kind of--initials, like--on it!
Everybody has their initials on things in England.”
Tom took the little twisted ornamental cover in his hand and gazed at it, fascinated.
”See? M. E. M.,” continued the stranger. ”That was near Whitehall, it was; a little girl was sitting at a table writing her lessons; she was just in the middle of a word--that's what I heard people in the crowd say--when, kerflunk! down comes, the bomb through the roof and goes right through the floor of the top room and hits right on the table!
_Go-o-d-night_ for that little girl!”
”Kill her?” Tom asked.
”Blew her all to pieces,” said his companion, as he took the poor little trinket and continued to polish it on his knee.
Of all that Tom Slade had read about the war, its grim cruelties, its thousands slain and maimed, its victims struggling frantically in the rough ocean, the poor starving wretches in Belgium, nothing had impressed him so deeply nor seemed to bring the war so close to him as this little crumpled piece of bra.s.s--the sad memorial of a little girl who had been blown into eternity while she was studying her lessons. A lump came up in his throat, and he stood watching his companion, and saying nothing.
”That was the blond beast, that was,” said the stranger. ”I saw him stickin' his old head out of the ocean, too, and we got a pop at him last trip. Here, I'll show you something else.”
Out of the bag he drew a photograph. ”There; that's our gun crew; that's Tommy Walters--he's the one says I'm a mascot. I'm taking him some apples now. That feller there is Hobart. And that's old Billy Sunday himself, right in the middle,” he added, pointing to a long, horizontal object concealed by a canvas cover; ”that's him, the bully old boy!”
”A gun, is it?”
”You'd say so if you heard it pop and saw it jump--that's how it got its name.”
In the photograph three young men in khaki, one with his sleeves rolled up, were leaning against a steamer's rail.
”Are they Americans?” Tom asked, for he was puzzled about his new friend's nationality.
”You said it.”
One of the gun crew was smiling straight at Tom so that he almost smiled back, and the lump came up higher in his throat and his eyes glistened.
”Do you live around here?” he asked. ”I'd like to know what your name is and what--and how you----” he broke off.
”You see that house over the hill? I live there. And I'm going back on the job now. What d'ye say we move along?”
They lifted the valise and started along the road.
”This is the last day of my leave,” said the youth. ”Here, see?” And he exhibited a steams.h.i.+p card with the name of a steamer upon it and the name of Archibald Archer written in the blank s.p.a.ce underneath.
”That's my s.h.i.+p, and I go aboard her to-day, thank goodness! This'll be my third trip across, and the second time I've been home. This bag is half full of apples. Tommy Walters is crazy about 'em. The last trip, when I was home, I took him some russets. He wouldn't let me pop the gun, but he said if the dirty beast came near enough I could let him have the core of an apple plunk in his old periscope. If you were there, we'd sit on the main hatch eatin' apples and watchin' for periscopes. I don't have much to do after I get my berths made up.”
”Do you work on the s.h.i.+p?” Tom asked.
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