caroled Bob. “That’s me; Bobby, the Beautiful Seamstress, or Sewing on Buttons Against Heavy Odds. You certainly learn a lot of useful trades in the Army.”
Returned to barracks, all four soon busied themselves in the going over of their effects. Saturday morning meant the weekly inspection of their cots and equipment by an officer from the regimental hospital, whose practiced eyes missed nothing in the way of defects. Thus far no one of them had failed to be in readiness for him. Nor did they intend that he should find anything to criticize.
Saturday dawned clear and sunny, with only a suspicion of frost in the bracing air. Having obtained leave of absence for the afternoon, the three bunkies started for Glenwood directly after the noon mess, Ignace accompanying them as far as the end of the company street.
Arrived at the main street of the drowsy little town, their first move was to find the building which held the Red Cross bazaar.
On entering, the three Khaki Boys found the place already well filled with Glenwood civilians and soldiers from Camp Sterling. For an hour or so they amused themselves strolling about the big room, lined on three sides with gaily decorated booths, each with its own attraction in the way of salable commodities. After conscientiously doing their bit in the way of purchasing a number of articles that caught their fancy, they left the bazaar and wandered on down the street to a bowling alley.
It was four o’clock when they emerged, each well pleased with the score he had run up. After a brief stop at a drug store soda fountain for hot chocolate, Bob was of the opinion that camp was almost as exciting as Glenwood and that they had better be beating it up the road.
Frequent side-stepping to allow the passing of jitneys to and from camp finally moved Bob to propose impatiently, “Let’s get off this turnpike and hit it up across the fields. It may be a little bit roundabout but we’ve lots of time to get back to camp.”
Roger and Jimmy agreeing, the trio left the highway, leaping a stump fence and striking off across a meadow, the withered grass of which still showed patches of green. Crossing it they went on to another field, which continued level for a little way, then sloped gradually downward. Coming to the point where the descent began, three voices were suddenly raised in a concerted shout. Their eyes had simultaneously spied at the foot of the slope that which had evoked the outcry.
“Come on!” yelled Jimmy, breaking into a run. “It’s an aeroplane. Looks as though it had flopped. Maybe someone’s hurt or killed!”
With a shout, a figure emerged from behind the fuselage of the quiescent plane and stood still, gazing straight at the rapidly advancing trio.
“One man alive!” yelled Bob. “Hope he’s the whole show! Hey there! Anybody hurt?”
“Nope,” came the cheerful hail. “Old Auntie’s just wanted to take a rest. She takes ’em once in a while. She’s all right now. We were getting ready to go up when we heard you yell.”
With this reassuring information the speaker stepped forward, halting a few paces from the newcomers. Close survey of him showed a grinning, boyish face, looking out from a close-fitting hood. It was lighted by two dancing blue eyes, bluer by reason of their heavily marked brows and thick black lashes.
“Gee!” exploded Jimmy. “We thought it was a sure-enough smash-up! Some plane you’ve got there. Mind if we take a look——”
He broke off abruptly, his gray eyes widening. From the elevator of the motionless plane a stooping figure suddenly straightened up. For an instant Jimmy was under the impression that he was seeing double. “Why—what——” he gasped, as he stared stupidly at this second youth, so identically like the first, even to his wide grin.
“Twins!” Bob’s quick brain had instantly grasped the situation. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!”
“How did you guess it?” laughed the youth they had first addressed. “You don’t think we look alike, do you?”
“Not enough so that I’d ever be able to tell you apart,” retorted Bob, his black eyes twinkling.
“Oh, that’s easy enough when you know us,” was the jesting assurance of the other twin. “We never have any trouble about it ourselves. I wouldn’t have to be a detective to spot where you fellows live. How’s Camp Sterling, anyway?”
“It’s there yet. At least, it was still there at one o’clock.” Bob’s voice quivered with amusement. His face betrayed a lively curiosity, which was plainly reflected on the features of his companions. To suddenly come upon an aeroplane taking a rest in a hollow and presided over by a couple of youngsters, so identical in every respect, even to a wide, good-natured grin, was adventure, to say the least.
CHAPTER XV
THE TWINKLE TWINS
Unable to restrain his own wonder, Jimmy burst forth impulsively, “Say, where did you two come from? You don’t belong around here, do you? That’s the first plane I’ve seen since we struck Camp Sterling and said ‘I do.’”
“We live about thirty-five miles from here, out in the country. We’re the Twinkleton Twins,” came the smiling answer. “That’s no joke. The name, I mean.” He had noted Jimmy’s involuntary half-frown. “We’re Twinkletons all right. John and Gerald. I’m John and he’s Gerald. Only we get Jack and Jerry, or the Twinkle Twins, mostly. Oh, it’s great to have a double!” he added drolly, his Cheshire grin reappearing.
“It sure is,” echoed his brother, duplicating the wide smile.
“Well, Twinkle Twins, we’re glad to know you.” Bob held out his hand. “I’m Bob Dalton, and these two Sammys are Roger Barlow and Jimmy Blaise—Blazes, I mean.”
“Jimmy Blazes! That’s a hot name,” commented the twin who had first spoken, as he shook hands with Roger and Jimmy. “Pretty near as good as Twinkle Twins.”
“Pretty near,” agreed Jimmy with a heartiness that bespoke lively approbation of the merry-faced strangers. His glance roving over the aeroplane, he added: “It must be great sport to sail around in that. Beats a buzz-buggy all hollow!”
“That’s us. We have a racer, but we haven’t used it much since we got Auntie, here.”
“Auntie!” repeated Roger in an amused tone. Thus far he had let Bob and Jimmy do the talking. “Talk about names! That’s a funny one for an aeroplane.”
“She’s an Antoinette, but we call her Auntie ’cause it’s quicker. She’s a near and dear relative. See?” explained Jack Twinkleton. “She has a history, too. You’d never guess who used to own her, so I’ll tell you. You’ve heard of Emile Voissard, haven’t you?”
“Well, rather!” exclaimed Bob. “He’s the wonderman they call the ‘Flying Terror of France.’ I’ve seen a lot of pictures of him. He’s done great work in the air for the Allies. Never expected to meet anyone who knew him, though.” Bob’s features registered profound admiration.
“He’s a cousin of ours,” proudly informed Jerry. “Our mother was a Voissard. We’re half French and the rest English. This plane is a back number. Emile was over here with it before the war began, giving exhibition flights. We lived in California then. He used it a lot out there. About the time he got ready to throw it on the scrap heap we made him give it to us. The engine was on the blink, etc., and he said it was a safe proposition for us, because we’d never be able to do more than run it over the ground. We tinkered at the engine a long while, but we finally made her go, and Auntie’s been using her wings more or less ever since.”
“We only came east last July. We were in Stanford University,” chimed in Jack. “We’re a pair of ‘orfin’ twins. Used to spend our summers with an aunt in California, but she couldn’t stand us after we got the flying habit. We got on her nerves. So she shipped us and Auntie out here to an uncle of ours. It suited us, though. He has a fine country place. He’s a chemist and spends most of his time hanging out in his laboratory. Doesn’t care much what we do as long as we let him alone. He’s a sort of hermit and sticks off by himself. Now, come on. Jerry and I’ll show you around. Guess you’ve heard enough about us.”
With this the Twinkle Twins conducted a most willing trio about and up into the aeroplane, keeping up a running fire of explanation as they pointed out its parts and their uses. From the well-patched taut canvas wings to the once almost useless engine, which they had successfully repaired, they had demonstrated a skill and ingenuity that aroused the Khaki Boys to enthusiastic admiration. They were in the midst of a most interesting experience, consequently they asked questions to the stage of being ashamed to quiz further these affable new acquaintances.
“It’s risky when your engine stops all of a sudden. Is that what happened to you this afternoon?” Jimmy ventured a last query.
“Yep,” nodded Jack. “When Auntie gets balky then we have to do some volplaning. Take a quick slide down, you know. She’s all right; got a fine stability. Oh, fine! Except in banking or running across the wind. Sometimes wish she was a Bleriot. Then again, I don’t.”
“We love our Auntie, but oh, you dihedral angle!” put in Jerry fervently.
His tone made his listeners smile, though none of them had the slightest idea of what he was talking about. Jack immediately following his brother’s remarks with a further account of their flight and descent that afternoon, the Khaki Boys forebore inquiring into the nature of that mystifying term “dihedral angle.”
The tour of inspection concluded the twins launched a volley of eager questions concerning the Army and life at Camp Sterling, such as “How long have you been in camp?” “Do you like it?” “How long do you suppose it will be before you go over?”
“Maybe we wouldn’t like to give old Auntie a whack at the Boches,” declared valiant Jerry. “I’ll bet we could do up a few Prussians before we got ours.”
“It’s this way with us,” confided Jack. “We’ve had practice and made some fair flights. Next week we’re off to enlist in the Aviation Corps, if they’ll take us. We’re just past nineteen, but Uncle Edward has given his consent. We know a little bit about the flying game besides handling the plane. Ever since the war began we’ve been studying up on engines, machine guns, military law and all that. We can make maps and read ’em too. We’ll have to go to an Aero school, if we’re accepted, but when we get there we’re going to pretty soon show ’em from the start that we’re regular flyers. A good many fellows that go into the aviation corps never see their chance to get off of the ground. But not the Twinkle Twins. We’re crazy to go over quick.”
“Maybe bob up in front of good old Emile and spring a surprise on him,” averred Jerry, who seemed fond of supplementing his brother’s remarks with one or two of his own.
“Hope we’ll see you again before you go,” Jimmy said warmly. “Why can’t you come up to camp to-morrow? We’d be glad to show you around. We’re all going home on Wednesday for Thanksgiving. By the time we get back you may be gone.”
“Much obliged for the invitation. We’ll take you up on it and drive over to-morrow afternoon in the racer. We went up there once when we first came east. Since then we’ve been pretty busy with Auntie. Never happened to fly so near Sterling until to-day. We’ve always started off in other directions. You’ll have to wise us where to find you and all about it. We don’t want to miss seeing you.”
“Tell us what time you’ll be there and we’ll meet you in front of the Y. M. C. A.,” proposed Roger. “How about two P. M. to-morrow?”
“O. K.,” replied Jack.
“That’ll suit us,” from Jerry.
A cordial but hasty handshaking all around, and the Khaki Boys departed, casting frequent backward glances at the aeroplane. Its owners had already begun to busy themselves with “Auntie” preparatory to taking flight.
“It must be great to fly,” glowed Bob. “Those twins are wonders. I mean the way they’ve rigged up that plane and all that. I had to smile to myself, though, at what that one said about flying Auntie against the Boches. You can figure how long that little light-weight, with its patchy wings and misfiring engine, would last against a Fokker. Bing, bang! Away goes Auntie; all shot to pieces. They’ve got the proper spirit, just the same.”
“Wish we would meet ’em again in France,” emphasized Jimmy.
“I was struck dumb when they claimed Voissard as a relative,” declared Bob. “If it hadn’t been for that Red Cross Bazaar we’d never have met the Twinkle Twins. Talk about looking alike! They certainly are the original duplicates. But for goodness’ sake, what’s a dihedral angle?”
“Don’t ask me. You know more about planes now than either Blazes or I,” shrugged Roger.
“I ought to know,” deplored Bob. “Never was sent out to do an aeroplane story when I was on the Chronicle. I’ve read quite a lot about planes since the war began. Mostly about the newer types, though. That Antoinette of theirs isn’t one of them. It’s a fairly old-timer. I’m going to hunt up that dihedral angle puzzle in my dictionary.”
Back in camp barely in time for mess, Bob was forced to postpone his search for information concerning the mystifying angle. Returned to barracks from the mess hall he consulted a medium-sized, fat, black dictionary.
“Here you are,” he presently informed his still unenlightened bunkies. “Here’s a picture of Auntie, and here’s a Bleriot. See the difference? See the way the wings of this Antoinette are set in a slight V? There’s your old dihedral angle. Look at this Bleriot. Its one plane is set in a rigid horizontal line. Now I’m going to read up on this. Oh, wait till to-morrow. I’ll make the Twinkle Twins think I’m the man that taught Cousin Emile how to fly.”
“Those two must have done a lot of studying by themselves,” observed Roger. “I suppose being at Standford University has helped them some. I’ve heard that it’s a fine college. Many of its students have gone into the aviation corps.”
“Oh, those Twinkles have just absorbed knowledge of aeroplanes like a sponge takes up water,” was Bob’s sage opinion. “They’ve made it their chief interest in life. Sort of following in their cousin’s footsteps, you know. They’re lucky to have had the chance.”
“I suppose it’s hard for ordinary enlisted men in the aviation corps to get a chance to fly,” mused Roger. “Our training must be easy beside what they have to go through.”
“Most of ’em haven’t the foundation to start with,” rejoined Bob. “It takes a trained mind to get away with all a man has to learn before he ever starts to fly. Then again, with all he knows he may never develop into a flyer. It may not be in him to make good. It’s a great game, but I’ll bet it carries a lot of disappointed sore-heads along with it. I’d never want to tackle it. I’d sure be one of ’em.”
The tardy arrival of Ignace who had been on detail in the mess kitchen of late, turned the conversation back to the subject of the Twinkle Twins themselves. The Pole was duly regaled with an account of the afternoon’s adventure, to which he listened in rapt silence. Much to the surprise of his bunkies, he earnestly begged his Brothers not to introduce him to the illustrious twins on the morrow. “You no bring here,” he entreated.
“What’s the matter with you, Iggy? They won’t bite you.” Jimmy finally grew a trifle impatient. “We’re going to bring ’em up here on purpose to meet you, ’cause you can’t go to the ‘Y’ with us to meet them. Do you get me? That goes.”
“So-o-o!” Ignace looked desperate but made no further objection. In fact he said little more that evening. Apparently losing all interest in his bunkies’ new acquaintances, he retired to his cot and occupied himself in a laborious study of Roger’s manual, which he had at last begun to “un’erstan’.”
When, at precisely two o’clock on Sunday afternoon the twin guests arrived and were presently conducted in triumph to Company E’s barrack by their boyish hosts, Ignace was missing from the squad room. Nor did he put in an appearance until just before time for the evening mess, at least half an hour after his bunkies had bade their visitors a reluctant farewell and watched them drive off down the company street in their racer.
“You’re a nice one!” greeted Jimmy in pretended disgust. “Where have you been keeping yourself? Maybe you were ashamed to be seen with us! What do you mean by quitting us cold? You’re a fine sort of Brother, you are.”
Jimmy’s energetic salutation brought a dull flush to the Pole’s cheeks. His china-blue eyes showed real distress. He gulped, sighed, shifted from one foot to the other, then faltered out: “Never I shame to go by you an’ Bob an’ Roger. So have I the respet to my Brothar. Such gran’ fren’ see me, think I no much, think mebbe you no much, too. You tell you have ’nother Brothar, all right, they don’t see. They see——” Ignace made a gesture expressive of his lowly opinion of himself.
“Well of all the modest violets, you’re the flower of the bunch!” was Bob’s satirical tribute.
“You’ve a nice opinion of us, Iggy.” Roger’s twitching lips belied his reproach.
“Let’s take him over to the shower bath and duck him,” proposed Jimmy. “Of all the bosh I ever listened to that’s the boshiest. Wake up, Iggy! You’re not at a social tea. You’re in the Army now, and in bad, too, just on my account. If you ever again do another vanishing act when we’re going to have company, you’ll be more than in bad with the Army; you’ll be in bad with us. You’ll be going around hunting three lost Brothers, who quit you because you couldn’t tell the difference between a regular fellow and a snob!”
CHAPTER XVI
UNKNOWN, UNGUESSED
At noon on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Roger, Jimmy and Bob said a regretful good-bye to Ignace and sallied forth to the station bound for a four days’ furlough with the Blaises. Due to Jimmy’s thoughtfulness, Ignace had that very morning received a Thanksgiving box of good things to eat from Mrs. Blaise that had astonished him almost to tears. He had never before come into such a windfall, and his round blue eyes grew rounder when after the departure of his bunkies he explored the contents of this holiday treat.
His first thought was of someone with whom he might share it. Franz Schnitzel appealed to him as most worthy of choice. Like himself, Schnitzel never received either money or gifts from home.
Thanksgiving Day ended Ignace’s detail in the mess kitchen. The day following ended his period of punishment. On Saturday afternoon he and Schnitzel obtained passes and went into Tremont for a quiet but happy little celebration of their own. All in all, Ignace was not so lonely as he had expected to be. Though he sorely missed his Brothers, he was unselfishly glad of the good time they were having at Jimmy’s home. Evidence of that reached him on Saturday afternoon in the shape of post cards from all three, which he lugged happily about in a coat pocket for a week after their return.
Detail of Schnitzel to kitchen duty on Sunday morning robbed Ignace of his company at breakfast. During the absence of his bunkies, Ignace and the German-American had daily sat side by side at mess, saying little but nevertheless well content in each other’s society. They were becoming very good friends.
Sunday noon landed Bob, Jimmy and Roger in barracks with a rush. They pounced upon Ignace with good-humored roughness and plied him with endless questions about himself and his doings during their absence.
“Now for the love of Mike, Iggy, do behave like a little tin soldier until Christmas,” admonished Bob. “Jimmy’s folks want us with them for the Christmas furlough. That means you. If you happen to see anybody trying to slay us all in a bunch, let ’em try, but you keep out of the slaying. You’ve done your stretch. Be satisfied. Let somebody else get it in the neck for a change.”
It was not until in the evening when the four Khaki Boys were leaving the “Y,” where they had spent an hour after mess, that Jimmy bethought himself to ask Iggy, “Did Schnitzel have any trouble with Bixton while we were gone? I heard before we left that Bixton was wild because he had to stay in camp. I thought, maybe, he’d try to take it out on Schnitz.”
“No. He no do nothin’, no say nothin’. He have the big box to eat he get by home. Himself eat, no give nothin’. All time smoke an’ look mad. Schnitzel no care. He stay by me. We are the frens.”
“‘Himself eat,’” mimicked Jimmy. “I wish he would, and not leave a scrap!”
“You should worry. He’s safe for a while. He won’t risk any more run-ins with the K. O. for fear of getting canned up for Christmas. Bottled Bixton doesn’t look good to him just now.” Bob grinned at his own fanciful labeling of the obstreperous Bixton.
“I guess he’s about through as a trouble bird,” observed Jimmy. “That detail in the mess kitchen must have cured him. I’ll bet he hated to go to it.”
“Never I like him that kitchen,” sighed Ignace. “Schnitzel no mind. He ver’ good solder. Say—say—— What him say?” Wrestling with memory, Ignace ended with a triumphant, “Him say, ‘All the duty him a line’!”
“Oh, wow!” shouted Bob gleefully, slapping Iggy on the back. “That’s a funny one!”
“You have the grow stron’er,” placidly remarked the misquoter, unruffled by Bob’s levity.
Taps that night left the Khaki Boys ready for a quick hike into dreamland. The next day dawned like any one day at Camp Sterling, with a concerted rush on the part of several thousand Sammies to get into their uniforms and line up for roll call.
“With all due credit to our hard-plugging cooks, I’m not what you might call a hearty eater,” grumbled Bob to Roger, as the Khaki Boys of Company E stood before the counter in the mess hall at noon. “Mrs. Blaise’s cook beats Mrs. Army’s hash maidens all hollow.”
“It is a come down.” Roger smiled at Bob’s nonsense. “I’m not very hungry, either. I’ve lost my appetite, I guess, from eating so much sweet stuff. No more of it for me to-day or to-morrow either.”
“Nor me.” Having received his portion in his mess kit, Bob eyed it with disfavor. “Beans,” he commented. “I’ll try ’em. This pale, simple, gooey rice pudding—— No, thank you. Bobby has chok’lit candy and nice cake in his suit-case. Go ’way, nasty old pudding!”
His scornful repudiation of the unoffending rice pudding was not the only one. Neither Jimmy nor Roger were tempted to the point of trying it. Ignace swallowed one small spoonful and with a disdainful, “No taste nothin,” ate no more of it. The glories of his wonderful Thanksgiving treat were still hovering over him, hence his will to criticize everyday fare.
Shortly after one o’clock Assembly something happened to the platoon of Company E men of which the four Khaki Boys were a part. In the midst of drill a soldier dropped his rifle, clapped both hands over his stomach with a deep groan, and, doubling up like a jack-knife, pitched forward to the ground, a writhing heap. Hardly had the lieutenant commanding the platoon reached him when a second, then a third man collapsed in precisely the same fashion.
In the next few moments the lieutenant fully demonstrated his prompt ability to act in the face of an emergency. Taking instant command of the situation, he rapped out his orders with crispness and dispatch. Before aid had arrived, however, from the nearby base hospital, at least a dozen more men were showing signs of the strange malady. These last, Ignace among them, were still able to keep on their feet. Only the first three victims were entirely out of commission.
The arrival of an ambulance, manned by a detail of men attached to the base hospital, saw the work of caring for the sufferers speedily under way. Already ordered to “Fall Out,” the still unaffected men of the platoon were dismissed with the order “To Barracks.” They were also instructed to report at the hospital at the slightest sign of indisposition.
During the excitement an ominous whisper had winged its way among the dismayed participants in the tragic scene which presently grew to an audible murmur of “Poison!” At that dread word, unspoken questions leaped into the strained eyes of the gray-faced men who had thus far felt no indications of that baleful seizure. In the same instant it had come home to each that in some stealthy fashion one of the myriad secret enemies of Uncle Sam had found his opportunity to strike. In the midst of apparent safety had lurked an unknown, unguessed foe.
CHAPTER XVII
THE WORK OF A FIEND
Returned to barracks three more men of Platoon 4, Company E, were added to the list of sufferers from that sinister seizure. As a result those still unvisited by it were promptly ordered to report at the regimental hospital for treatment. The fact that a number of Company E men at drill in other platoons had also collapsed had increased the gravity of the affair to a point that required instant action on the part of the medical department. The symptoms of the peculiar malady were such as to indicate poisoning. They called for speedy investigation and the administering of a precautionary antidote to such of the men as had thus far showed no signs of sickening.
It was the first real catastrophe that had ever struck Camp Sterling and the news of it spread like wildfire throughout the camp. To one and all it seemed almost incredible that a “poison plot” had reached successful culmination in Company E mess kitchen. Undoubtedly it had centered there. None other than men from Company E’s barracks had felt any ill effects from their noon meal. Yet who could guess as to how far such a calamity might extend?
Released from drill for the balance of the day, the half hour between Retreat and mess that evening marked the ending of a troubled afternoon in Company E barracks. An air of deep gloom hung over the squad room in which the four Khaki Boys bunked.
Bob, Jimmy and Roger were in especially low spirits. Ranged in a dejected row on Roger’s cot they were a most unhappy trio.
“It’s awful,” groaned Jimmy. “Poor old Iggy. He looked ready to croak when they took him to the hospital. What do you suppose it was that poisoned ’em? We ate the same stuff they did and we’re all right—yet.”
“Don’t you know yet what poisoned ’em?” Bent forward, chin in hand, Bob straightened up with a jerk. “I’ll tell you. It was the rice pudding. We didn’t touch it, but poor old Iggy did.”
“By George, that’s so! I must be thick not to have doped out that much for myself. I’d forgotten about Iggy’s starting to eat it.”
“So had I.” Roger looked disgusted at his own forgetfulness. “That’s why a lot of men didn’t get sick. They passed up the pudding, too, because Thanksgiving sweet stuff made ’em finicky.”
“I caught it the minute that rain-maker over at the hospital asked me what I ate for dinner,” declared Bob. “He gave me a queer look when I told him ‘no pudding’ and made a note of it. I was going to mention it to you, then I thought I’d wait and let you figure it out.”
“Then they must know it already at headquarters,” asserted Jimmy.
“Sure they know it,” nodded Bob. “Whatever was left of that rice pudding is under chemical analysis by this time. They have to act quickly in a case like this.”
“Iggy may pull through all right.” Jimmy brightened. “He only ate one spoonful of the stuff. I was watching him. He tried it and said: ‘No taste nothin’.’ Then he didn’t touch it again. I know, ’cause right afterward we all beat it out of the mess hall. What about Simpson, though? I can see him yet, and hear him groan.”
Simpson had been the first man to collapse.
“Poor fellow.” Roger’s tones vibrated with intense sympathy. “He’s a fine man and a splendid soldier. I’ve been expecting every day to see him jump to corporal. Now——” He paused, reluctant to voice his doubt of Simpson’s recovery.
“It might turn out not to be poison, you know,” said Bob reflectively. “Somebody may have dosed the pudding with something that would make the men deathly sick and yet not finish ’em. Only hope that’s the case. This will raise some ructions here in camp, believe me. Every one of those guys in the mess kitchen’ll be held for a third degree. No one’s supposed to have anything to do with the grub but them. Yet they might all be as innocent as babies. Some fiend may have doctored the rice or the milk before it ever struck camp.” Wise in the ways of the newspaper world, Bob was already full of plausible theories concerning the dreadful affair.
“Suppose it was poison, nobody could accuse a man on kitchen detail unless pretty good proof of it came up against him,” stoutly asserted Roger.
“They’ll grill the whole bunch to a standstill. If any one of ’em shows the least sign of guilt—Bing! Into the jug he goes for trial by a court martial. If he’s found guilty, Bang! Porous!”
“I don’t believe a man in this camp would do such a horrible thing!” Jimmy’s voice rang with intense loyalty.
“We hope not,” gravely rejoined Bob. “You can never tell, though. This whole country’s honey-combed with spies and myrmidons of the Central Powers. The Secret Service has run down more of ’em than anyone can guess at. I know of a few things from being on the Chronicle. Sometimes I’ve thought we’re all asleep over here. But we’re waking up. Too bad it took us so long to do it.”
“Gee, but I’m glad Iggy went off kitchen duty before this happened! Missed it by only two days!”
“Just in time to get doped, instead of getting hauled up for doping,” retorted Bob. “It’s about as bad one way as the other.”
“Oh, you!” Jimmy grew indignant. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. Just the same, I’d rather he’d be in hospital than under a cloud because some others are there. I’d hate to see a friend of mine in bad for——”
“A friend of ours is in bad!” Bob fairly bounced to his feet. “Schnitz is on kitchen detail! Great Jehosephat! And he’s a German-American, too!”
Into three pairs of eyes leaped a consternation born of this belated reflection. It looked as though Schnitz was in for it.
“Tough luck,” emphasized Jimmy, equally concerned over Schnitzel’s predicament. “Too bad it wasn’t Bixton instead.” Jimmy cast an unfriendly glance across the squad room to where Bixton, as usual, lounged on his cot. He also had escaped disaster.
“Oh, come now.” Roger could not refrain from smiling. “You don’t mean that, Blazes. It’s wrong to wish trouble on any man, no matter what he may be. I don’t believe even Schnitzel would wish that on Bixton, and he’s had to take a lot from that sneak. Schnitz is too——”
“By the way, where is Schnitz?” Jimmy was staring darkly at Schnitzel’s empty cot. “Maybe he’s in hospital, too. He wasn’t at drill, so we don’t know——”
“Whether he’s in hospital or in arrest,” finished Bob significantly, “I haven’t seen a man on kitchen detail since noon. You can draw your own conclusions. Right after mess to-night I’m going out news-gathering. I’ll bet I find out something, too. I know where I can get some information.”
“Mess!” grimaced Jimmy. “I hate to think of it. I’m not hungry enough to risk getting mine to-night.”
“We all feel the same,” agreed Bob. “They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, though. I won’t be a quitter. I’ll take a chance. Probably we’ll get something solid to eat to-night that it would be hard to doctor. You can look for some new faces in the mess kitchen. Take my word for it.”
Bob’s prediction was verified almost to the letter. Supper that night consisted of bread, boiled potatoes and beefsteak, served by a new detail of kitchen men. Not one of the old detail was on duty, which went to prove that they were either ill or had been held on suspicion.
The three Khaki Boys never forgot that particular meal. Each felt that every mouthful of food he ate might contain a fatal dose of poison. Iggy’s absence also greatly added to their depression. All hoped for the best, yet feared the worst. The same heavy oppression clutched their comrades, who alike had bunkies of their own to worry over.
Bob returned to barracks with Roger and Jimmy, only to sally forth again on his quest for news. Jimmy was anxious to go with him, but for once Bob did not desire company. “Bobby’s got to go it by himself,” he objected. “You’re a lovely young corporal, Blazes, but you don’t fit into my plan. ‘He travels fastest who travels alone,’ you know. Any other time I’d be delighted, but, to quote our dear, I won’t say departed, Iggy, ‘no now.’”
Tattoo had sounded before Bob reappeared, his black eyes glittering with suppressed excitement. “I’ve had a busy evening,” he announced, as Jimmy and Roger began hurling eager questions at him. “Pile onto my cot and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Fire away,” ordered Jimmy impatiently as the three gathered together, eager to hear what Bob had discovered.
“First of all, Iggy’s better.” Bob beamed, as he told this important news. “He wasn’t nearly so sick as the rest. He may be back here to-morrow night.”
“Hooray!” rejoiced Jimmy, though in a very moderate tone.
“That’s fine!” Roger’s sober features grew radiant.
“Simpson’s gone west.” The light faded from Bob’s face.
“When—did—he——” Jimmy could not bring himself to say the dread word.
“Soon after they took him to hospital.” Bob was silent for a moment. “He—he—suffered terribly. One of those two that dropped right afterward is—is—gone. Brady, that slim, curly-headed fellow, that was always laughing. The other may pull through. All the rest will, I guess. They’re pretty sure it was the pudding. Simpson asked for a second portion of the stuff. I’d like to get my hands on the fiend that poisoned it. I’d choke the life out of him!”
“They’re taking it hard at headquarters,” Bob continued. “The K. O.’s wild about it. Says he’ll never rest till he gets the one who did it. That’s what I heard. I didn’t have a personal interview with him.” This last with grim humor. “They gathered in the k. m.’s before they’d finished their work. Don’t know what’s been done to ’em, so far. Couldn’t get a line on that. Don’t know whether the story broke in time for an evening extra or not. I couldn’t get one. The morning papers will be full of it. There’ll be a bunch of reporters on the scene to-morrow. It’s hinted that arsenic was used. Nobody’ll know that, though, until the pudding’s been analyzed and post mortem held on—on——” Bob drew a sharp, whistling breath. “A dog’s death for two brave fellows to die,” he went on with intense bitterness.
“Yet they died in their country’s service,” reminded Roger softly. “They did their level best for Uncle Sam while they lasted. Brady and Simpson; splendid boys and good soldiers.” Unconsciously, Roger had voiced the finest eulogy that a man could desire to have spoken of him.
“Yes, we mustn’t forget that,” assented Bob sadly. “This has been a horrible day. I wish I could wipe it off my slate. But I can’t. And then there’s Schnitz to think of. Anything out of the ordinary happen while I was gone?” he asked with sudden irrelevance.
“Not a thing. Why?” Jimmy detected anxiety in the question.
“I thought maybe there’d be a guard detail sent to go through the kitchen men’s stuff. It’s too early for that, I guess. You don’t suppose Schnitz would have anything among his traps that might look bad for him, do you?”
“What could he have?” wondered Roger. “We know he couldn’t have any poison. What else could there be?”
“Nothing.” Bob hesitated. “It’s only on account of his nationality. You know how Bixton’s talked about him. You know, too, why our fellows were poisoned. He’s the only G. A. in this barrack. He was on kitchen duty. Now suppose he had some trifle among his belongings that was perfectly all right in itself, but looked fishy to the search party? It’s not likely to be so, but it might be.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CLUE
What transpired the next day seemed to the Khaki Boys more in the nature of a wild nightmare than stark reality. As Bob had foreseen, morning brought a flock of newspaper men from not too far distant cities to the scene of the disaster.
Excitement, however, reached fever heat when the latest editions of the evening papers flaunted black scareheads such as, “Soldier Suspected of Poisoning His Comrades.” “Incriminating Evidence Found Among Soldier’s Belongings.” “Franz Schnitzel, a German-American, Accused as Poisoner,” and similar glaring headlines.
That same morning a guard detail had entered Company E’s barracks with instructions to search the belongings of such of the kitchen men detained on suspicion who were housed in those barracks. Nothing of importance had been unearthed except in the suitcase of Schnitzel. What had been found there was deemed sufficiently serious in character to warrant holding him on a charge of murder, to await trial by a court martial. Not only had a medium-sized bottle of powdered glass been taken from the suitcase, but also a typed sheet of paper, listing various poisons, together with annotations as to the effect, length of time required to act, and the more or less deadly qualities of each.
“I’ll never believe it of Schnitz. Never!” exclaimed Jimmy Blaise passionately. Tucked into a corner of the “Y” writing room, with Roger and Bob, the three had just finished reading the account of the affair, as set forth in the evening papers. “Schnitz isn’t guilty any more than I am.”
“Schnitz isn’t guilty, of course.” Bob gave a contemptuous snort. “In the first place, I don’t believe it was powdered glass that went into that pudding. I’ll bet the findings of the autopsy and chemical analysis will prove that it was something else.”
“Then he’ll be cleared of the charge, won’t he?” eagerly asked Jimmy.
“Cleared nothing,” was the gloomy retort. “He’ll be third degreed to a frazzle to make him confess that he used the poison that did the killing. That list of poisons and the bottle of powdered glass are too strong evidence against him to be overlooked. He’s been caught with the goods, you might say. I say he’s been caught in a trap laid by an enemy.”
“You don’t mean you think that——” Jimmy paused.
“I do mean just that. But before I say more, let me ask you something. Was Bixton in the squad room all last evening while I was out?”
“I don’t remember.” Jimmy frowned reflectively. “Let me think. I saw him sitting on his cot around seven o’clock. After that——”
“He did go out,” interrupted Roger. “I saw him go. It was about half-past seven, I guess. He came back in a great hurry, too, about ten minutes before Taps sounded. I was just turning in. You fellows were both in bed. I was thinking about poor Schnitz when I saw Bixton and Eldridge hustle in.”
“He’s done it then; queered Schnitz just as he threatened.” Bob’s accusation contained savage conviction. “He put that stuff in Schnitz’s suitcase some time during the night. It would be a cinch for him, because he bunks next to Schnitz.”
“But how and where could he get the glass in such a hurry?” demanded Jimmy. “There’s the list, too. Bixton’s not smart enough to make any such list himself. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to get hold of a book on poisons in this camp, and he certainly wasn’t away from camp in that short time.”
“Those are some of the things we must figure out.” Bob’s lips set in a straight line. “This is no joke. It’s a life or death proposition for Schnitz. Very well. Now we’re going to keep close mouths and run this thing down.”
“Let’s go to the K. O. and tell him about it,” proposed Jimmy eagerly. “He’d take it up in a hurry.”
“Where’s your proof to back it?” shrugged Bob. “You can’t accuse a man offhand of such a serious thing. No; we must watch and wait and work, and spring the trap on Bix just the way he watched and waited, and sprang the trap on Schnitz.”
“We might be too late to do any good,” demurred Roger gravely.
“Don’t you believe it,” disagreed Bob. “This affair won’t come to a head in a hurry. There’ll be more or less delay and argument over the poison itself. Then there’ll be a merry chase for more evidence. The K. O.’s not anxious to see one of our men condemned for murder. There are so many German plots floating around that this business will be thoroughly sifted first. Suppose the poison had been mixed in the rice before it was cooked or put in the milk. All that has to be looked into and it will be. The papers say that the Secretary of War intends to investigate this thing to the limit. That means he’s going to give Schnitz a chance for his life.”
“Maybe Bixton had something to do with the poisoning,” Jimmy theorized. “He’s a slacker. We know that. Maybe he’s a traitor, too.”
“Nothing doing.” Bob shook his head. “He’s only mixed up in queering Schnitz. He saw his chance and grabbed it. I’d sooner think it might be one of the fellows on kitchen detail with Schnitzel than Bixton. Bix and Iggy both finished their kitchen detail at the same time.”
“Tough luck.” Jimmy vented his feelings in his favorite expression.
“Tough it is, but maybe not forever. My fighting blood is up, and I’m going to camp on the trail of that hound, Bixton, until I get something definite to hang on him,” vowed Bob. “I want you two to keep an eye on him whenever you can. Watch where he goes, what he does, and the men he talks with. Be careful not to let him catch you at it, though. That’ll be your part of the scheme.” Bob rose and rolled up the newspaper he had been reading.
“What are you going to do. What’s your part going to be?” Jimmy wanted to know.
“Same as yours, only more so,” grinned Bob. “I’m going to gather information about that kitchen detail, Bixton, Eldridge and anyone else who needs looking up. I’m going to be an investigator.”
Bob’s earnest proposal that the three of them take to sleuthing on their own hook fired the enthusiasm of both Roger and Jimmy. Here was a real mystery to solve, more baffling than any they had ever followed in fiction. On their ability to ferret it out rested not only Schnitzel’s life, but the saving of his good name from eternal dishonor.
The next two days, however, were painfully devoid of results. Close and constant watch on Bixton developed nothing that could be used against him.
Ignace had now returned to the fold a paler and slightly thinner edition of himself. According to himself he had been “‘ver’ seek, but no so seek som’ other.” He was greatly cast down over Schnitzel’s plight, and sturdily expressed his belief in the other’s innocence. He was equally eager to do whatever Bob advised, and solemnly promised, “Watch all time.”
On the afternoon of the third day after Schnitzel’s arrest, Jimmy, Roger and Ignace received a summons to headquarters. At a loss to recollect any misdemeanor on their part, they went, wondering mightily why the K. O. should wish to see them. Once in the presence of their commanding officer they met with a shock. Before them, spread out on the major’s desk, lay several letters, minus their envelopes, which reposed beside them. Each man was in turn requested to glance over the letter to which was affixed his signature, and state whether he had written it and at what time. It is needless to say that all told the same story. The letters on the major’s desk were the letters that had so mysteriously vanished during the Khaki Boys’ first week in camp.
Having duly explained this to the K. O.’s satisfaction, they were treated to a second bewildering surprise. These very letters, it seemed, had been found in Schnitzel’s suitcase. Major Stearns had opened them, as a point of duty, and had claimed the right to withhold them in order to make an inquiry. Shown to Schnitzel, he had stubbornly denied ever having seen them before.
“You state, Blaise, that these letters were stolen from a shelf over your cot on the same night that they were written?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you any reason for believing that it was Schnitzel who stole them?”
“No, sir. I know Schnitzel didn’t steal them.” Jimmy emphasized the ‘know’ strongly.
“Why are you so positive that he did not?”
“Because, sir, Schnitzel wasn’t that sort. He’s a true man, and he’s innocent of the crime he’s charged with.” Jimmy’s sympathies overcame his awe of Major Stearns.
“Humph!” The K. O. allowed this opinion to stand unrebuked. He was fond of Jimmy, and rather admired him for his staunch defense of the accused soldier. “Is that your only reason?”
Tardily recalling Bob’s injunction to secrecy regarding Bixton, Jimmy hesitated, then cautiously answered: “We were not acquainted with Schnitzel, sir, at the time we wrote those letters. There was no reason why he should want to take them.”
“Still you can’t give me any proof that he didn’t, can you?”
“No, sir.” Jimmy breathed freely again.
Receiving this negative, the major proceeded to question first Roger, then Ignace, with practically the same result. Profiting by Jimmy’s mistake, neither volunteered more than was necessary. In the end they left headquarters without their letters. The fact that these had been stolen added to the case against Schnitzel.
The Khaki Boys left headquarters in a state of intense excitement, manifested in their eager exchange of remarks the moment they were safely outside the building. Directly after the disappearance of their letters they had suspected Bixton of the theft. His later attempt to get at Jimmy’s equipment had strengthened the suspicion. Now the lost letters had, at this late date, turned up in Schnitzel’s suitcase. Actual proof against Bixton they had none. That did not matter so much at present. It would come. Why? Because at last they had a clue, or what seemed to them a clue. At least, it was a circumstance that connected Bixton with Schnitzel. If Bixton had stolen the letters that were found in Schnitzel’s suitcase, it followed that no one save Bixton would have placed them there, and not only the letters but the bottle of powdered glass and the poison list.
CHAPTER XIX
A FRUITFUL RUBBISH CAN
December heralded many comings and goings at Camp Sterling. With almost every day, a detachment of soldiers marched to the station to return no more. Traveling seaward by circuitous routes, the waiting transports claimed them and bore them away to “Over There.” The draft now in full swing, hundreds of men constantly arrived to replace them. Soldiering went on with a rush. Across the water had come the Allies’ cry, “More Men!” and Uncle Sam did not propose to be behindhand in furnishing his trench quota.
On the Saturday before Christmas our four Khaki Boys departed in high glee on a four-days’ furlough, to be spent with the Blaise family. Only one regret lurked beneath their exuberant joy. It had to do with a forlorn comrade, shut in the guard house, and apart from all Christmas cheer. Schnitzel was still awaiting trial, due to numerous halts in the machinery of military law, occasioned by the thoroughness of the investigation. Once definitely established that Company E’s men had been the victim of arsenic poisoning, instead of powdered glass, it became less easy to establish Schnitzel’s guilt.
Grilled over and over again as to where he had obtained the arsenic, his undaunted protest of innocence was not without effect. Undoubtedly he could not hope to escape trial. He was the only man in camp against whom anything incriminating had been discovered. Rigid testings of supplies in the commissary departments had yielded no further traces of poison. This did away with the theory of outside agency, and fastened the opprobrium more strongly on the German-American.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Shut off from any possible opportunity to see Schnitzel, the four Khaki Boys did not forget him. Many verbal battles were fought by them in his behalf. Few others beside themselves believed him innocent.
Each of the quartette, including Iggy, had written to Schnitzel cheerful, hopeful letters, breathing firm belief in his innocence. All had planned to buy him some token of remembrance as soon as they went on their furlough.
Bob’s secret campaign to gain information concerning Bixton, Eldridge and the kitchen men on duty with Schnitzel at the time of the poisoning had not been specially fruitful. He gathered considerable data concerning Bixton, not specially useful to his purpose, in that it had no bearing on the mystery. What Bob burned to know was the origin of the tabulated list of poisons. He was now certain that Bixton had not compiled it. He suspected Eldridge, but of the latter he could find out little. He was considerably older than Bixton, fairly well-educated, but most uncommunicative except to his bunkie. He claimed Buffalo as his home town, but Bob believed him to be from the middle West. His walk, voice and mannerisms smacked faintly of the Hoosier.
On the Wednesday after Christmas, the noon train into Camp Sterling unloaded its freight of returned soldier boys, the four Brothers a part of the throng that passed through the big gates, and tramped the snowy roads to their various barracks.
Much to his disgust, Bob found himself “settling down” a good deal sooner than suited him. According to the cold information of Sergeant Dexter, a quantity of discarded wrapping paper, together with numerous ends of string, had been found under his cot on the previous Saturday evening. Rebuked for untidiness, he was condemned to a detail of policing barracks that filled him with righteous wrath.
“I can guess who was to blame for that,” he sputtered angrily to Jimmy. “Eldridge put up that job on me. Bix went away on the same train we did. The other sneak didn’t. It’s up to him. I know it.”
“Funny he didn’t do the same to the rest of us,” commented Jimmy.
“Oh, he wasn’t particular as to which of us got it,” snapped Bob. “Probably he just dumped those papers and beat it in a hurry. Makes me sick. It’s the first time I’ve got it in the neck since I came to Sterling. I don’t mind the detail. It’s being dished that makes me sore. The worst of it is, I couldn’t say a word. Just had to stand and take it from the Sarge.”
“Oh, well, it’s no great disgrace,” comforted Jimmy. “Think of poor Schnitz.”
“I am and I have. Do you realize that his trial is bound to come off before long? According to our manual, thirty days, with an additional ten added if approved by military authorities, is the longest a case can hang fire. I don’t know whether that holds good in Schnitz’s case. I should think so, though. Anyhow, we’ve not done a thing for him. We’ve got to get busy and do something.”
“What?” Jimmy made a gesture of despair.
“I don’t know yet, but I do know that it’s got to be done mighty soon.” Bob shot a baleful glance across the squad room toward Eldridge, who was seated cross-legged on his cot, undoing a small package. “Look at him!” muttered Bob, as the man proceeded to tear the outside wrapper into strips. “More rubbish for Bobby to cart away.”
Jimmy’s eyes followed Bob’s. Suddenly he gripped the latter’s arm. “Maybe he got that package in the mail. Maybe it’s from his home. Maybe——”
“Great guns!” exclaimed Bob softly, and swung round, his back toward Eldridge. “Don’t let him see you rubbering, Blazes. You’ve given me a jolt, though. I’m going to watch what he does with those strips of paper and nab ’em. Oh, boy! Why is Bobby on police duty?”
The paper presently went into a receptacle at one end of the squad room, provided for that purpose. When supper call sounded, Bob declined to answer it. “You fellows go ahead,” he directed. “I don’t want any supper. Later on I’ll go down to the canteen, and fill up on cakes and milk. This is my chance, and I’m going to take it.”
The moment the squad room had emptied itself, Bob sped to the rubbish can. Fortunately for him, the scraps of paper he sought were of a dull grayish green, and thus easily distinguished from the rest of the can’s contents. Quickly, but thoroughly, he searched, making sure that he had every scrap of the paper he sought in his possession. Too shrewd to attempt to piece them together in the squad room, he wrapped them in a handkerchief, and hurried off to the Y. M. C. A.
It was over an hour later when he returned to barracks, his black eyes snapping with triumph.
“I know what I know,” he exulted, dropping down beside Jimmy, who was seated on his cot. “Come on outside and I’ll show you something. Where are the fellows?”
“They just went over to the canteen. Rodge wanted to buy some soap to do his family washing with. I told ’em I’d wait here for you.”
“Let’s find ’em. I’m going canteenwards myself to feed. We’ll probably meet ’em there.”
“Now show me,” demanded Jimmy, the moment they were out in the company street.
Bob took a small flashlight and something else from a trouser’s pocket. The “something else” was a half-sheet of paper. Training the flashlight upon it, he read, “‘Alice E. Eldridge, 1205 N. Clark St., Chicago, Illinois.’ That’s a return address. I copied it, then got rid of the papers. Had a great time piecing them together. Regular Chinese puzzle. Now this is what I’m going to do. I’ve a friend on the Chicago American. As soon as I feed, I’m going back to barracks and write to him. I’ll send him this address, and ask him to get me all the data he can about the Eldridge family.”
CHAPTER XX
A LEAP IN THE DARK
Thursday, the day following the writing and mailing of Bob’s letter, brought its own surprises. Came the order that a part of Company E’s men, along with a number housed in other barracks, were to be transferred to a camp many miles south of Sterling. This in itself was to be expected. The majority of the men ordered to pack received the command with admirable tranquillity. It threw the four Khaki Boys into panic, however. Not because, with the exception of Jimmy, they were to be among those to go. Even Jimmy was to return. He was to have the proud honor of going along merely to help escort the detachment to their new quarters. What upset the equanimity of the four Brothers was the fact that Bixton was among the number to be transferred. Fate had evidently elected that Bixton should not suffer for his villainy.
Corporal Jimmy was divided between pride in the coming detail and discouragement of the defeat of their crusade of Justice.
“I’d be all puffed up with pleasure over this trip if it weren’t for this business about poor Schnitz,” he confided to his bunkies on the Friday night before the start.
“I never thought I’d hate to see the last of Bixton,” grumbled Bob, “but I certainly do. It puts a crimp in the Slippery Sleuths’ Society, all right, all right. Anyhow, Eldridge is left. We may be able to tree him. Keep your eye on Bixton, Blazes, all the way down. You might just happen to stumble upon something.”
“I would by Jimmy go, the care to him take,” broke in Ignace. Up to this point, he had watched his favorite Brother’s preparing for sleep in round-eyed, gloomy silence. “You take the good care yoursel’, Jimmy,” he anxiously enjoined. “You get the hurt never I smile more.”
“You never smile anyway, you old sobersides.” Jimmy flashed him an amused, but affectionate glance. “Don’t you worry about me, Iggy, ’cause I’ll come back safe and sound. I’m not going across. I’ll only be gone four days.”
“We’ll sure miss you,” declared Bob. “Now I move that we turn in, too, and let Blazes alone. He has a hard trip ahead of him, and he needs a long night’s rest. You’ll be up first in the morning, old man. If we’re asleep, waken us so we can say good-bye and good luck.”
Bob and Roger were awake as soon as Jimmy. Ignace, however, slept peacefully on until Jimmy roused him to say a hasty good-bye. Three pairs of affectionate eyes watched Corporal Jimmy to the stairway, their owners sincerely glad that they had the assurance of his return. There was but one Jimmy Blaise.
Marched to the station under the graying light of a cloudy dawn, the majority of the departing soldier boys were in good spirits. The detachment numbered a little over three hundred men, including a sergeant and two other corporals besides Jimmy, who would return to Camp Sterling with him once their detail had been accomplished. Brimming with the adventurous spirit of youth, the travelers were, for the most part, exultant to be at last on the way “to the front.”
Yet in the breast of one of the gallant little company, mingled fear and resentment raged. Bixton was taking the removal very badly, though no one save himself and Eldridge knew it. On the previous night he had unburdened himself to his bunkie in a bitter denunciation against the Service.
“Once they get you in the Army, they use you like a dog,” he had savagely asserted. “Expect you to crawl to every smarty that wears chevrons, treat you as if you were dirt, and then think you ought to run all the way to France to get croaked. It would serve this country right if it lost out in this war. I was a fool to enlist. I could have side-stepped the draft. A lot of fellows have. Don’t see why I should make a target of myself for a government that don’t care a hoot about me. I don’t want to die. I want to live.”
Now started on his way toward the thing he most dreaded, Bixton had determined to take the bit in his teeth and bolt. From the time he entered the train he busied himself with concocting schemes for a successful get-away.
As the day wore on toward evening, Bixton grew desperate. He had managed on entering the train to place himself in a seat near the rear end of the last car. Only a few feet from the rear platform, it seemed impossible to win it without being observed. To add to his difficulties, Jimmy Blaise was also in the same car as himself. To be sure, he made frequent trips to and through the two cars ahead, specially reserved for the detachment. Still, he appeared to be spending most of his time in the last one. Bixton regarded this merely as a “happen-so.”
Following Christmas, the weather had moderated. A thaw had set in on the Wednesday afterward that had rapidly turned the recent snowfall to slush. Two days of brilliant sunshine had left the ground fairly bare of white. Dawn that morning had hinted of rain before evening. Bixton fervently hoped that it would rain. Given an early twilight, and a pitch-black night, he could make good use of it.
By nine o’clock that evening the rain had come—a slow, dispiriting mist, reinforced later by a heavy fog. It was an ideal night for a deserter. Hunched in his seat, Bixton feigned a drowsiness he was far from feeling. From under his half-closed lids his pale blue eyes divided their vigil between his companions and the foggy world glimpsed through the car windows. As time dragged on the low hum of voices around him began to die out. One after another grew sleepy and dozed off. By ten o’clock comparative silence reigned. Occasionally a soldier roused himself with a jerk to make a trip to the water cooler directly behind Bixton.
At five minutes to eleven o’clock, Jimmy Blaise walked through the car, and dropped rather wearily into a vacant seat on the opposite side from Bixton, but a little ahead. Jimmy was beginning to feel the strain of the long day’s responsibility. Still wide awake, he felt very tired, but well content. Everything was moving along smoothly. Half the trip had been made, and all was well. Not a man had yet attempted to desert. He doubted if anyone would. Even Bixton had behaved like a lamb. Small chance now of doing anything for Schnitz. With this thought Jimmy’s contentment vanished in a rise of bitter reflection against the injustice of Fate. Poor Schnitz! How terribly he had been already misjudged! And the worst was yet to come! With a deep sigh, Jimmy closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, sick at heart.
For perhaps ten minutes he remained thus, eyes closed, but otherwise keenly aware of his surroundings. Due to increasing fog, the train was running more slowly over a flat stretch of country, the roadbed of which was almost level with the rails. Alert to catch every sound, the monotonous hum of the train itself, as it sped along through the night, had a slightly blurring effect on his acute hearing powers—not great enough, however, to prevent him from distinguishing above it a faint click from behind him. It brought him instantly to an erect sitting posture, his head turned in the direction whence it had come.
There came a muffled cry, a flash of olive-drab down the aisle, the reverberating slam of a door; then silence. At intervals throughout the car, drowsy heads bobbed up, the glances of their owners sleepily directed toward the rear door. Several of their comrades nearer to the door than themselves were up, and making for it. Undoubtedly, something unusual had happened. But what? They could not then know that already some distance behind them, two soldiers, mud-plastered, and shaken by their mad leap in the dark, were, nevertheless, engaged in the fight of their lives. A battle in which Honor strove against Dishonor; a conflict between Loyalty and Disloyalty.