“Just let him start something. Great Scott!” Jimmy’s hand went up like lightning. His quest of an officer to salute had been granted with a despatch that almost proved fatal to him. “Pretty near missed it again,” he muttered, as soon as the passing officer, a second lieutenant, was out of earshot.
“I saw him about a fourth of a second before you,” laughed Roger. “I didn’t have time to warn you. That’s what we get for gossiping. We must keep our eyes open and our hands ready from now on.”
Determined not to be caught napping again, the two bunkies strolled along, eyes alertly trained on all passers-by. Following the company street for almost a mile they retraced their steps, talking confidentially as they went. A brief stop at the barrack saw them issue from it with sparkling eyes. The home folks had stolen a march on them in the matter of letters. Jimmy was the proud recipient of three, while Roger had been made happy with a kindly note from Mrs. Blaise.
“Let’s go up there to those woods and sit on that stump fence to read ’em,” proposed Jimmy. “No use going back to barracks. Old Bob will have a fit if we butt in on his great stunt, whatever that is.”
Roger acquiescing, the two left the street, unconsciously taking almost the same route which Ignace had traveled. It was not more than a quarter of a mile to the irregular stump fence that skirted the bit of woodland.
“Gee, it looks great up among those trees. Come on.” Clearing the fence at a bound, Jimmy forgot his newly-acquired dignity and raced along through the woods with the joyous friskiness of a small boy, Roger close behind him.
A little way back among the trees they came to a good-sized flat rock and on this the two sat down to read the news from home. Roger read Mrs. Blaise’s note in happy silence. Jimmy, however, broke into speech about every five seconds. “Just listen to this!” or “What do you know about that?” was his continual cry, followed by the reading of a line or a paragraph. One letter alone he declined to share with Roger. “This is from my girl,” was his sheepish apology. “She used to live next door to us, but now she lives in Buffalo. This letter came to our house after I’d gone, so Mother sent it on to me. ’Course, Margaret, that’s her name, couldn’t come down to the train to see me off; so she wrote, thinking I’d get it that day. We’re just good friends, you know. None of the love stuff. She’s a fine little girl, though, and pretty as a picture.”
“I am sure she must be.” Roger’s eyes twinkled. Jimmy’s candid confession amused him not a little. Silent while Jimmy read the letter, he became aware of a far-off crackle of brush. “Someone’s coming,” he announced.
“Huh? Uh-huh,” returned Jimmy, still deep in his letter.
But no one appeared in sight, although the faint snapping of twigs under human feet was still to be heard.
“Someone is walking around on the other side of that little hill,” Roger asserted, proud of his ability to locate the sound. For this is a most necessary requisite of a soldier.
“Let ’em walk.” Jimmy declined to be interested.
“Just for curiosity, I’m going to see who it is.” Roger rose and strolled quietly toward the crest of the hill. Three minutes later he was back, his usually serious face all smiles. “Come here,” he called in an undertone. “Want to see something funny? Go cat-footed, though. Let him hear you and the show will be over!”
CHAPTER VI
THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE
Hastily tucking his letter into its envelope, Jim noiselessly trailed Roger to the top of the hill. Looking down, they beheld a most remarkable sight. Back and forth in the hollow, for a distance of about twenty feet, marched, or rather pranced, Ignace. His shoulders rigidly forced back by means of a long stick, thrust under his arms, he was giving an exhibition of high stepping that would have filled Bob with joy. Lifting first one foot, then the other, to a height of at least two feet, he traversed the hollow with the airy steps of a circus pony.
“Let’s beat it before I howl,” begged Jimmy, shaking with suppressed mirth.
As stealthily as they had come, the two beat a quick retreat down the hill and out of sight of their industrious Brother, where they could have their laugh out.
“I never thought he’d do it,” gasped Jimmy.
“We won’t let him know we saw him. It would be a shame to kid him when he’s so dead in earnest. But won’t Bob howl? Oh, wait till I tell him!”
“It was certainly rich.” Roger’s boyish laugh rang out afresh. “It’ll do him good, though. I’ll bet he keeps it up every day. He’s afraid of being put in the awkward squad. I like his grit. He’ll get there. Now if Bob can fix him up on the rest. We’d better be hiking, Jimmy Blazes. It must be nearly time for Retreat.”
“Four-thirty.” Jimmy consulted a gunmetal wrist watch. “I wouldn’t wear one of these at home,” he added, half apologetically. “They’re too girly-girly. But they’re all O. K. out here.”
“Wish I had one.” Bob eyed the little watch with approval. “I think I’ll buy one when I get my first pay. It would be a great convenience.”
Jimmy agreed that it would. He also made mental note that he would write certain things to his mother at once. Well supplied with pocket money, he decided that he would surprise his bunkie with a present of a wrist watch long before pay-day arrived. Roger would value it doubly as a gift from a Brother.
“What if poor old Iggy forgets to come out of the woods in time for Retreat?” Having now descended the slope and almost reached the company street on which their barrack was situated, Roger paused to glance anxiously back toward the woods.
“Think we’d better skate back after him?” Jimmy’s gaze followed Roger’s.
As they stared toward the woods, a familiar figure came loping down to the stump fence. Iggy was still decorated with his makeshift shoulder brace. Scrambling over the fence, the Pole stopped and laboriously divesting himself of the stick, tucked it under a projecting stump. Straightening up, he threw back his shoulders and came slowly forward, careful to lift his heavy feet well from the ground, though in a now-modified fashion.
“Did you see him tuck away his shoulder brace?” snickered Jimmy. “That means to-morrow same time, same place. No awkward squad for Iggy. It’s Jimmy’s little old bunch for him. Ignace So Pulinski’s going to stick by his brother James, if he has to step clear over the barracks to do it. Let’s hustle, so we can tell old Bob before Iggy comes.”
Vastly amused by what they had so lately witnessed, the two strode rapidly along toward their barrack, to acquaint Bob with the exploits of Ignace before that aspirant toward military proficiency should put in an appearance.
“Well, how’s the great stunt?” inquired Jimmy. On entering the barrack, he had hurried ahead of Roger, who had stopped to speak to a comrade, up the short flight of steps to the second floor squad room, where the four Khaki Boys bunked.
Seated cross-legged on his cot, a quantity of loose sheets of paper scattered broadcast about him, Bob was making a fountain pen fairly fly over a pad, braced against one knee. Raising his head from his writing he grinned amiably. “Oh, fine, fine,” he declared. “Bobby has certainly been the busy little rookie. I’m not done yet, by a long shot. After mess I’m going to see if I can’t borrow the loan of a typewriting machine and type this copy.” He waved a careless hand over the wide-strewn sheets of paper.
“But what’s that got to do with the great stunt? Or maybe this is the stunt?” Jimmy guessed, nodding toward the papers.
“Clever lad,” commented Bob. “This is it. Mustn’t touch,” he warned, as Jimmy reached out a mischievous hand to gather them in. “Can your impetuosity, Jimmy Blazes. Now watch me rake in the results of two hours’ genius.” Bob whisked the papers together in a jiffy and began patting them into an even pile.
“All right, stingy. Just for that I shan’t tell you Iggy’s latest.” Jimmy turned away, smiling to himself. He was not in the least peeved. He merely wanted to arouse Bob’s curiosity.
“It’ll keep,” was the unconcerned answer. “It’s almost time for Retreat, anyhow. I’ll hear the terrible tale of illustrious Iggy later, all right. Better still, I’ll ask Iggy about it.”
“You needn’t.” Jimmy swung round with a jerk. “Don’t say a word to him. He doesn’t know we know it.”
“We? H-m! That’s you and Ruddy, I suppose. Then I’ll quiz old Roger. Here he comes now with our Polish brother at his heels. What’s happened to Iggy? He looks all braced up. Sort of a strait-jacket effect. What make of starch do you use, Iggy?” he waggishly hailed, as the Pole reached him, holding himself painfully erect.
“You see? You think him better?” Ignace asked anxiously. “Yes, but I am the tired!” Making a lunge for his cot he bundled himself upon it in a heap.
“Complete collapse of the left line,” murmured Bob.
Now grown used to the sight of their comrades, the other occupants of the barrack had paid small attention to the trio who had just arrived. Bixton, however, the talkative rookie whom the four “Brothers” so disliked had been aware of the Pole’s sudden change of carriage. A member of the same squad, he had heard the drill sergeant’s reprimand of Ignace that afternoon and accordingly took his cue from it.
“Hey, Poley, what’s the matter?” he called in a purposely loud tone. Ignace had now risen from his cot and reassumed his strait-jacket appearance. “Are you practicing for the awkward squad? You’ll get there if you live till to-morrow.”
“You too much speak.” A slow red had crept into the Pole’s cheeks. His mild blue eyes held an angry glint as he turned on his tormentor who had swaggered up to him. “I no like you. You no let me ’lone I give you the strong poonch.” Ignace clenched his right hand menacingly.
“Oh, you will, will you? Better not try it. You’ll——”
“Let him alone,” ordered Jimmy hotly. “He’s minding his own business. Now mind yours.”
“Who asked you to butt in?” sneered Bixton. “’Fraid I might give your Poley pet a trimming?”
The appearance at the head of the stairs of the acting first sergeant of the squad-room put an end to the budding altercation. The men who had begun to gather about the wranglers prudently left the scene of discord, and promptly busied themselves with their own affairs.
Almost immediately afterward the call for Retreat formation sounded and the recruits were marshalled out into the company street, where they stood at attention while the daily ceremony of lowering the Flag was conducted, a regimental band in the distance playing the “Star Spangled Banner.” Everywhere in Camp Sterling at this hour all soldiers not on detail were expected to stand at attention during this impressive ceremony, saluting as the band played the final note.
Our four Khaki Boys found themselves thrilling in response to the sonorous notes of their country’s chosen anthem. All watched with reverent eyes the dignified descent of that red, white and blue banner, the sacred emblem of “Liberty and Union; Now and Forever; One and Inseparable.”
CHAPTER VII
CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP
Call to mess followed at 5:30. It was not until the four Khaki Boys had performed their usual stunt of climbing over several tables with their portions of food, and were seated in a row along a wall bench, that Bob reopened the subject of Bixton.
“The next time that Bixton smarty tries to jump you, Iggy, don’t act as though he was alive,” was his wrathful advice. “He’s a talker and a trouble maker. Don’t let him get your goat. That’s what he’s trying hard to do. He thinks you are easy.”
“I give him the good lick,” threatened Ignace, still ruffled.
“I don’t doubt you could wipe up the squad-room floor with him. But what’s the use of spoiling the floor?” Bob demanded whimsically. “Let him babble. He likes it.”
“I no like,” came the sullen protest.
“Neither do I,” sputtered Jimmy. “He was trying to make a show of Iggy. I’ll hand him one myself some of these fine days.”
“Ruddy and I’ll come to see both our brothers when they land in the ‘jug’ for scrapping,” offered Bob, affably sarcastic. “Won’t we, Rud?”
“No, I won’t.” Roger looked severe. “If you two are going to let that Bixton fellow rattle you, then I can’t say much for your good sense. Give him the icy stare a few times and he’ll stay in his own corner. Just as long as he sees he can bother you, he’ll do it. When he finds he can’t, he’ll quit and start on somebody else. But that won’t be your lookout.”
“I try’t,” promised Ignace. His scowling features clearing, he proceeded to devote himself sedulously to the savory portion of stew in the meat can before him. Nor were his companions loath to drop the unpleasant subject of Bixton for a hungry appreciation of their food.
The meal finished, the four dutifully cleansed their mess-kits, returning with them to their barrack. The evening meal over, the pleasantest relaxation period of their camp day lay before them. Until the 9:45 call to quarters they were free to follow their own bent, so long as it did not take them beyond camp limits.
After putting away his mess-kit, Bob’s first move was to reach under his cot for the suitcase in which he had deposited his precious papers. A respectful audience of three stood watching him, mildly curious as to what he intended to do next.
“Does the great stunt come off now?” smiled Roger.
“Not yet, my boy. I’m going out on the trail of a typewriter first. It breaks my heart to leave you, but it must be did. Half an hour’s clickety-clicking and you’ll see me back here in all my glory. If the machine downstairs isn’t working overtime, maybe I can grab it for a while.”
“Let’s go over to the ‘Y’ and write letters,” proposed Jimmy. “Our room’s better than our company with old Mysterious Myra here. If I don’t answer mine bang-up quick, I’ll never write ’em. Here’s enough paper and envelopes for the bunch.” Reaching under his cot he held up a good-sized box of stationery.
“I would to poor my mother a letter in American write, but she can no read that write,” offered Ignace sadly. “I can the American read and write but no my family. My mother un’erstan’ American little but no read.”
“Write it in Polish, then,” suggested Jimmy. “You don’t have to write it in English, do you?”
“But I want show poor my mother how that I am smart it to do.” Ignace was bent on distinguishing himself. “She it would much please.”
“Couldn’t someone read it to her, then?” asked Bob. “One of her neighbors; or maybe your groceryman.” Familiar with the Polish section of the city from whence Ignace had come, Bob was somewhat acquainted with the ways of the clannish Poles. He knew that they were prone to gravitate to the grocery store in their neighborhood for everything from merchandise to general information.
“S-o-o! I have no think to that.” Ignace brightened. “I write him American anyhow!”
“Drop in about eighty-thirty and watch Mysterious Myra conduct a seance.” Bob cast a withering glance at Jimmy. “You ought to be ashamed to ticket a bunkie with such a handle,” he added severely. “Now get out of here quick before I smite you.” He made a playful pass at Jimmy.
Equally in fun, the latter raised an arm as though to return it.
A sudden cry of, “Fight! Fight!” echoed through the room, and caused both Jimmy and Bob to whirl. Directly across from them Bixton had been morosely watching the quartette. Aware that the bit of by-play was merely fun, he had called out “Fight!” with malicious intent. Knowing the acting first sergeant to be at one end of the room, he had shouted with a view toward creating trouble. His essay succeeded so far as to bring the officer to the group on the run.
“What’s this?” he questioned, sternly surveying four very calm but very injured young men. “What’s the trouble here?”
“None that we know of,” answered Roger respectfully.
“Then who called out ‘Fight!’?” snapped the non-com.
“It was not one of us.” Roger evaded a direct reply.
“Humph!” The sergeant shot a quick glance about the almost empty room. His keen eyes coming to rest on Bixton he made directly for him. “Did you call out ‘Fight!’?” he queried sharply.
Caught in his own trap, the color mounted to Bixton’s freckled face. “Yes.” The reply was grudgingly made.
“Why did you do it? Did you see anyone fighting?” demanded the sergeant satirically.
“I thought I did,” mumbled the man.
“You thought you did,” emphasized the non-com. He thereupon launched into a tirade of sarcastic rebuke that fell like verbal hailstones on the would-be trouble-maker’s ears.
“Come on, let’s beat it,” muttered Jimmy. “I’m so happy I could hug that sergeant.”
Leaving Bob to smile seraphically as he busied himself with his papers, the three made a discreet exit, the voice of the nettled non-com still beating upon their ears as they scampered down the stairs.
“That’s the time he got his,” exulted Jimmy as they emerged from the barrack.
“He must have been watching us,” commented Roger. “When he saw Bob and you making passes at each other he thought he’d start something.”
“He get the fool,” chuckled Ignace.
“He certainly did,” agreed Jimmy joyfully. “If he gets off with a call-down, he’ll do well. I’ll bet that sergeant has him spotted for a talker. Hope he has. Then Smarty Bixton’ll get the worst of it if he tries to queer us again. Maybe he’s learned something by this time that wasn’t down in his books.”
“He’s heading for the rocks,” Roger said soberly. “Somebody ought to try to set him straight. I wish he hadn’t started on Iggy the way he has. We couldn’t say a word to him now. It would only make things worse. We’ll just have to do as we agreed and not notice him.”
The looming up of a second lieutenant in their path brought three hands up in smart salute and temporarily closed further discussion of Bixton. Reaching the Y. M. C. A., Jimmy distributed note-paper with a lavish hand and soon the trio had settled themselves on hard benches before the primitive-looking desks to write their letters.
Provided with an extra fountain pen of Jimmy’s, Ignace stared blankly at the wall, sighed profoundly, gingerly tried the pen, and finally gave himself up to the painful throes of composition. Jimmy dashed into his letter-writing with his usual reckless impetuosity, his pen tearing over the paper at a rapid rate. In consequence he was triumphantly signing “Jimmy” to his second letter before Roger had half finished his carefully worded note to Mrs. Blaise.
“Hurry up, slow-pokes. It’s eight-ten,” adjured Jimmy, as he scrawled an address across an envelope.
“Him is done,” proudly announced Ignace, holding up his epistolary effort. Undated and unpunctuated, it began at the very top of the sheet and ended halfway from the bottom of the first page. “Now you read.” He proffered it to Jimmy.
The latter took it and with difficulty kept a sober face as he read:
“poor mi mothar so am i the bad son wen i run away but i can no stan the bete my fathar giv all tim now am i the solder an he can no get mor i sen you the monee wen i get som tim i hav the 3 brothar now i hapee but no wen think you poor mi mothar from you son Ignace.”
“That’s a good letter, Iggy.” Jimmy had lost his desire to laugh as he handed it back. It had begun to strike him as pathetic. He was wondering how it had happened that before meeting the poor Polish boy he had never credited that humbler half of the world, in which Ignace had lived, with human emotions.
“I can the read better the write,” assured Ignace grandly, well pleased with the other’s praise. “I write the name, the street my mother, you write again this?” he asked, holding up an envelope.
Much amused, Jimmy complied. Ignace surveyed the envelope with admiration. “How gran’ is the write my brother,” he commented.
“Some compliment. Here’s a stamp, Iggy. Stick it on and away we go. Finished yet, old top?” This to Roger.
“Yes.” Methodically Roger sealed and stamped the envelope he had just addressed.
“Look who’s here!” exclaimed Jimmy. His gaze roving idly down the big room, he had spied Bob Dalton just entering it.
Discovering his chums in the same instant, Bob steered straight for them, his black eyes twinkling with mischief. “Three whoops for Mysterious Myra,” he hailed, waving a little sheaf of papers above his head. “Got through typing sooner than I expected, so I beat it over here in a hurry. This is an exclusive stunt. It calls for an exclusive place. Too much publicity at the barrack. Come on over in that corner and help yourself to a front seat while I read you Dalton’s Marvelous Military Maneuvers in Rhyme, respectfully dedicated to the daily use of Ignace So Pulinski.”
CHAPTER VIII
A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
“You ought to be grateful to me for the rest of your life, Iggy,” was Bob’s bantering peroration when the four had taken possession of the deserted and therefore desirable corner.
“Y-e-a. So am I.” Ignace looked more dazed than grateful. He had not the remotest idea of what Bob was driving at.
“Now listen hard, Iggy, and try to get this. Ahem!” Clearing his throat the rhymster shot a mirthful glance at Ignace and began to read, emphasizing each word for the Pole’s benefit.
By the time he had reached the middle of the jingle, Jimmy and Roger were smiling broadly. They, at least, had come into complete understanding of the “great stunt.” The Pole’s stolid face was a study. Light was just beginning faintly to dawn upon him.
“Did you get it?” Bob asked him, his black eyes dancing.
“Y-e-a. Som I get. You read him ’gain.”
“No. I’m going on to the next. When I’m through, I’m going to give you these rules for your own. You must study ’em and learn ’em. See?”
“Y-e-a. Thank.” Ignace beamed seraphic joy at his poetic benefactor. “So will I,” he vowed fervently.
“Go ahead and tear off some more,” begged Jimmy impatiently. “Myra’s sure some poet.”
“Anybody want to snap the lever?” Bob looked up with an inquiring grin.
“Not yet.” Roger eyed the rhymster with genuine admiration. “It’s bully. Go on.”
“I like. Much I un’erstan’. You read him more. Byme by you give me I stoody all time.” The Pole showed actual signs of enthusiasm.
“That’s the idea, else why is Bobby a bum poet?” Pleased, nevertheless, at his success, Bob resumed.
With this last line of sage advice, Bob stopped reading. “This talking machine has an automatic brake,” he declared. Deftly shuffling the typed sheets into numerical order he handed them to Ignace with a flourish. “Now go to it, old chap. Stay on the job until you can say ’em backward. There are about a dozen more that I didn’t read out loud. If you don’t understand ’em trot ’em around to me and I’ll set you straight. Practice every move as you say it and you’ll soon be O. K. After you get them learned, the rest will come easier to you.”
“Thank! Thank!” Ignace clutched the papers gratefully. Pride of his new acquisition made him reluctant to let Roger and Jimmy take them long enough to read the balance of the verses.
“Show’s over. We’d better be moving along. It’s twenty-five to ten,” warned Jimmy at last. “You’re all to the good, Bob. Wish I could write like you can.”
“Forget it.” Bob waved an inconsequential hand. “You’ve got me beaten already when it comes to soldiering. So honors are more than even, I guess. A lot they care up here whether you wrote the Declaration of Independence or the latest best seller. You’re in the Army now, and in bad, too, unless you can show the drill sergeant that you’re a live one.”
“Soon I show,” broke in Ignace eagerly. “Here have I the rule. What more?”
“What indeed?” murmured Bob, winking solemnly at Roger.
Leaving the Y. M. C. A., the four Brothers started briskly toward their barrack, which was no farther away than would be two ordinary blocks in a city. Call to quarters sounded just as they entered the building. During the short walk Ignace had ambled along in happy silence, holding tightly to his treasure trove. He was secretly wondering which of his three Brothers he liked best and what he could do for them to prove his loyalty. Just now he could think of nothing to do that seemed worth while, except to work hard and show them that he could be a good “solder.” He resolved to study night and day the “fonny” rules Bob had written for him. Could Bob have foreseen the outcome of this firm resolve, he might have considered well before supplying Ignace with the rhymed record of instruction he had just delivered into his Polish bunkie’s keeping with the advice, “Stay on the job until you can say ’em backward.”
“There! We forgot to mail our letters,” commented Roger regretfully to Jimmy as he began removing his shoes.
“Too late now. Taps’ll sound in a minute. I’ll mail ’em all the first thing in the morning, right after breakfast. Give me yours now. I’ll get Iggy’s and put ’em all together on the top of my shelf. If you happen to think of it first, remind me of them.”
Collecting from Ignace the one letter he had written, Jimmy placed it, together with his own and Roger’s, on top of a little folding shelf above his bunk. He had brought it from home and it held his father’s and mother’s photographs. It also boasted of several kodak prints. There was one of the girl friend with whom he had grown up, another of Buster, his dog, and still another of himself, seated in ‘Old Speedy.’ “They’re all here,” he had remarked to Roger as he had set them in place, “even to Old Speedy.”
Sleep soon visited the eyelids of the four Khaki Boys. Having been more active than usual that day they were quite ready for a good night’s rest. The last to drop into slumber, Roger was the first to awaken the next morning. Long accustomed to rising at a few minutes past five o’clock, he had found himself awake before first call blew each morning since his arrival in camp. His eyes opening to greet the daylight pouring in at the windows, his gaze roved idly over the rows of sleeping soldier boys. Remembrance of Jimmy’s request concerning the letters sent his glance next straying toward the shelf where he had seen his bunkie place them. They were not there now. Roger stared frowningly at the shelf, then his face cleared. Jimmy had evidently taken them from there and put them elsewhere. Perhaps in his suit-case. As soon as Jimmy was awake he would ask about them. He was sleeping so peacefully now. It would be a shame to disturb him before first call. Jimmy always slept until the last minute, then fairly dashed into his uniform.
Deciding that he would begin to dress, Roger slipped quietly from his cot and began methodically putting on his clothing. When the clarion notes of the bugle, sounding first call, split the drowsy air, he was fully dressed and seated on the edge of his cot, watching with quiet amusement the orderly flurry that had commenced all around him.
“Where’s my shoe?” came presently in desperate tones from Jimmy, thus centering Roger’s attention upon his friend. “It was right beside the other last night. I’ll swear to it that I put it there. Now it’s gone!” Jimmy’s voice rose anxiously on the last word. By this time the call of “I can’t get ’em up” was echoing through the barrack.
“Here is him.” From under his own cot, where Ignace was just snatching his own shoes, he drew Jimmy’s missing one and slid it along the bare floor.
Jimmy swooped down upon it with a gurgle of relief. Not stopping to inquire how it had wandered there, he hastily put it on and went on dressing at breakneck speed, barely finishing before Reveille, the third and last warning before roll call.
Concern for his bunkie’s loss drove the subject of the letters from Roger’s mind. Returning into the barrack after roll call to make themselves presentable before breakfast, recollection of the missing letters came back to Roger with dismaying force.
“Don’t forget your letters, Jimmy,” he reminded.
“Much obliged. I had forgotten. That shoe business rattled me. I’ll cinch them now before I visit the sink to make myself beautiful.”
A few quick strides and he had reached his cot. Following, Roger heard him exclaim: “What in Sam Hill!” Whirling with a grin he called out, “You old fake! You’ve got those letters! All right. You can just mail ’em.”
“But I haven’t,” came the earnest denial. “When I first woke up this morning I looked at the shelf and saw they were gone. I thought you’d put them in some other place.”
“I put them on that shelf,” emphasized Jimmy. “What’s the matter, I’d like to know? First my shoe turns up under Iggy’s cot and then away go all our letters. There’s something queer about this. Shoes without feet can’t walk off alone. Letters can’t disappear without hands. What’s the answer?”
“Maybe Iggy or Bob took the letters to mail for you,” hazarded Roger. “They’ve gone ahead to scrub up for breakfast and we’d better do the same. You can ask them about it in the mess hall. Don’t bother any more about it now. Come on.”
Frowning, Jimmy obeyed, feeling a trifle nettled over the fact of a second annoying disappearance on the heels of the first.
“Did either of you fellows take those letters to mail?” was his initial remark to Bob and Iggy as they met at mess.
Receiving a surprised “No” from both, Jimmy turned to Roger with: “What do you know about that?”
“Not much.” Roger grew grave as he explained the situation to Bob and Iggy.
“Someone got away with them,” asserted Bob cheerfully. “Must be a mighty small someone who’d stoop to lift a bunch of letters to the home folks. Stealing anything from another fellow is a serious offense in the Army.”
“Why should anybody want to do a thing like that?” demanded Roger. “We don’t know the fellows in our barrack well enough yet for any of them to do it for a joke.”
“It’s no joke,” was Jimmy’s savage opinion. “It was done for pure meanness. How’d my shoe get away down under Iggy’s bed? Some fellow in the squad-room has it in for me. If you don’t know who he is, well—I do. I’ll bet you my hat Bixton did it to spite me for jumping him yesterday. Just wait till I see him! I’ll——”
“No, you won’t,” interposed Bob. “You’d only get in wrong unless you had proof. You can’t accuse a fellow offhand of anything like that and get away with it. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. The only way to land a criminal is to get evidence that he is one. The same thing applies to a mischief-maker. Whoever he is, I’m not saying it’s Bixton, he’ll think he’s put one over on you, and so pretty soon he’ll try it again. It’s up to you to pussy-foot around and catch him at it. Now mind your Uncle Bob, not a word about these letters to anyone. You can write some more to your folks. Just act as if nothing had happened and do a little watchful waiting. There’s a time to speak, but it isn’t now. So bottle your wrath, Blazes, and do the Sherlock Holmes act. With the four Brothers on the job, all keeping a starboard eye out, believe me, whoever cribbed those letters will wish sooner or later that he’d let ’em alone.”
CHAPTER IX
THE CROWNING INSULT
Realizing the soundness of Bob Dalton’s counsel, his three friends agreed to abide by it. Nevertheless, Jimmy was already firmly convinced that he had Bixton to thank for the strange disappearance of his letters. He did not hesitate to reiterate the statement to his chums. Iggy solemnly supported the theory out of pure devotion to Jimmy. Bob and Roger refused to commit themselves, thought privately they were of the same opinion that suspicion pointed strongly in Bixton’s direction. Both knew only too well that it needed but a word from them to set hot-headed Jimmy Blazes on the trail of the disagreeable rookie with a vengeance, a proceeding which, as Bob had sagely pointed out, would be not only futile but disastrous to Jimmy as well.
The exigencies of drill that morning drove the incident from the minds of the four for the time being. Keyed up to the highest pitch of desire to do well, Ignace partially retrieved himself in the eyes of the impatient drill sergeant. Though he could not know it, that efficient individual laid the Pole’s marked improvement of carriage to the dressing-down he had launched at Iggy on the previous day. Proud of his ability to “whip these rookies into shape” he showed considerably more patience with the still clumsy recruit, and the end of the morning drill found Ignace again escaping the dreaded awkward squad.
Not yet obliged to put in full time at drill, the squad to which Iggy and Jimmy belonged was dismissed at 10:30 not to resume their work until called out again after one o’clock Assembly. The instant he was released, Ignace hot-footed it for barracks, there to begin the “stoody” of Military Tactics as laid down by Bob. As the latter had shrewdly calculated, when the idea for them had taken shape in his fertile brain, he could not have devised a better way of impressing the first, simple Army commands on the slow-thinking Polish boy. Aside from feeling highly honored that his “smart” Brother should have gone to so much trouble for him, Ignace regarded the jingles with much the same delight which a child takes in its first book of nursery rhymes.
Reaching the barrack soon after Ignace, Jimmy was not surprised to find the latter seated on his cot, busily engaged in droning Rule No. 1 aloud. As it happened the squad-room was almost deserted. The three or four rookies it contained beside themselves were wholly occupied with their own affairs. Thus Ignace had a free field with no one to object to the sing-song murmur of his voice.
“Come on, Iggy,” Jimmy urged. “Let’s go over to the ‘Y’ and write our letters again. We’ll have plenty of time before mess, if we hustle.”
“I can no go.” Ignace stopped in the middle of a verse to make this stolid refusal.
“Don’t you want to write to your mother?”
“Y-e-a. Som’ day. No now. I am the busy. Better I stoody the rule firs’. Mebbe to-night write. Mebbe, no. Now am on job. So stay I. You see. This morning, no get the cross word. No yet go to what call you it, that bad squad? So have I do good. Soon much good. Pretty soon fine solder, I work hard.”
“All right. Keep up the good work.” Smiling, Jimmy turned away to get his note-paper. “Guess I’ll stay here and write,” he added, half to himself. Extracting a small leather portfolio from his suit-case, he settled himself on his cot, his back braced against the wall, and started the re-writing of his letters. Every now and then he raised his head to grin at Ignace, whose voice droned on, a steady, monotonous murmur. Far from disturbed by the sound, Jimmy was merely amused.
Shortly after their arrival, the barrack contingent began dropping in by twos and threes, among them Roger and Bob. Regardless of all comers, Ignace’s sing-song recitation never flagged. Disturbed by the increasing amount of stir and conversation, his tones rose unconsciously with it until gradually he became an object of attention. Nor was he in the least aware of the curious and mirthful glances launched in his direction. Even the voices of his three Brothers, talking together so near to him, failed to distract his attention from his “job.”
“There sits a living monument to my usefulness,” muttered Bob, jerking his head toward Iggy. “I wouldn’t butt in on him for the world. He’s forgotten we’re alive. Just listen to him.”
Roger’s eyes rested for an instant on the absorbed Pole, then traveled about the squad-room. What he saw brought a quick frown to his forehead. “Iggy,” he remonstrated. “Keep your voice down. You’re getting noisy.”
“So-o!” The reciter straightened up with a jerk as though coming to Attention. “I no mean make the noise. You ’scuse.”
“I don’t care,” Roger laughed. “I only told you for your own good. The fellows up here will start to kid you if you keep it up. That’s all.”
“Thank.” Ignace cast a sheepish glance about him. Encountering more than one smiling face he colored slightly, then doggedly returned to his task. Though his lips continued to move, his voice was no longer heard. Luckily for him, his arch-tormentor, Bixton, was absent from the squad-room and so missed a chance to jeer at the “Poley Pet” as he had sneeringly dubbed Ignace.
When, shortly before call to mess, he sauntered into the room, he cast a scowling glance toward the latter. He had anticipated the pleasure of seeing “that thick fathead” banished to the awkward squad. In consequence he was disappointed, not so much on Iggy’s account, but more because of Jimmy’s peppery championship of the former. He had begun by jeering at Iggy purely because he considered him a glaring mark for ridicule. Jimmy’s interference had aroused in him a fierce dislike for both boys which was not likely to die out in a hurry.
The presence of the acting first sergeant, who had come up the stairs behind him, alone served to keep him discreetly within bounds. His bunkie, however, a lank, hard-featured man, whose small black eyes had a disagreeable trick of narrowing until almost half shut, lost no time in regaling the newcomer with the latest news from across the aisle, laughing loudly as he related it. Seated side by side on the latter’s cot the two were a fitting pair. At least, so Jimmy thought, his usually pleasant mouth curving scornfully as he viewed them for a second, then turned his back squarely upon the obnoxious couple.
At drill that afternoon, Ignace did even better than in the morning. True, he had not yet absorbed much of Bob’s rhymed information. Still, it had given him a working basis on which to proceed. It needed only time and the dogged persistence which so characterized him to give him a lasting grip on the first principles of military tactics.
Released from drill, half-past three that afternoon saw him back in barracks, and engrossed in the “stoody” of his precious jingles. Now, however, he was minus the company of his Brothers, who returned to the squad-room after drill only to go directly out again for a walk about the camp. With no friendly eye to keep ward over him, Ignace forgot Roger’s caution of the morning and was soon droning away like a huge bumble-bee. Nor did he evince the slightest sign of having heard, when from across the room floated the surly command, “Aw, cut it out, you big boob!”
“‘All officer you mus’ saloot,’” placidly intoned Iggy, his gaze glued to his copy. “‘You right han’ to you head now——’”
“What’s the matter with you, you fathead? You heard me tell you ‘cut it out’ once. Isn’t that enough?” This second boorish hail as well as the first came from the man, Bixton, who was lounging on his cot. His longed-for opportunity had come.
This time Ignace had heard and dimly realized that he was being most ungently addressed. His voice breaking off on “now” his head came up with a jerk. His round blue eyes registered a blank amazement that quickly changed to active resentment as he fixed them upon the rookie who had so roughly called out to him. Half rising from his cot, his strong hands instinctively clenched themselves. Then he slowly sank back to his former position, determined to follow Bob’s advice, “just act as though that smarty wasn’t alive.” Out of pure defiance he again resumed his reciting of the Salute rule, raising his tones a trifle by way of showing his utter disregard for the other’s uncalled-for attack.
With a sudden spring Bixton left his cot. A hasty glance about him revealed the fact that the room was clear of officers. Nor were there more than half a dozen privates present, including himself and Ignace. Striding across to where the latter sat he halted directly in front of the Pole.
“I’m goin’ to put the sergeant onto you, you poor fish,” he blustered. “How’d you s’pose a fellow can rest with you keeping up that racket? Now chop it off, or you’ll get yours.”
For answer, Ignace calmly laid down one of the typewritten sheets he was holding and centered his gaze on another.
“At ‘Forwar’ Mar——” he began unconcernedly.
With a sudden lunge of his right arm, Bixton snatched at the little sheaf of papers. Unexpected as was the movement, the Pole’s grip on them tightened. One of them came away in the aggressor’s clutch, however, with an ominous tearing sound.
That was the last straw. Insults to himself, Ignace could endure, but when it came to an attempt to wrest from him the fruits of Bob’s labor he was a changed and raging Iggy. Uttering a wrathful howl he launched his stocky body at Bixton with a force that sent them both crashing to the squad-room floor. The Pole landing uppermost, his arms wrapped themselves about his tormentor in an effort to pin him down.
Of strong and wiry build, Bixton struggled fiercely to free himself. Over and over the squad-room floor they rolled, thumping heavily with every turn. Nearing the end of the room farthest from the stairway, Iggy succeeded in tearing himself free and getting a vise-like hold on his antagonist. The few rookies that had been present when the fight began now gathered about the combatants with noisy exclamations of “Give it to him, Poley!” “You got him cinched, now hand him one!” It was plainly evident with whom their sympathies lay. Bixton was most thoroughly disliked by the majority of his comrades.
“Ignace Pulinski!”
The utterance was freighted with a degree of stern disapproval that almost caused the Pole to relax his grip on his adversary. It proceeded from Roger Barlow. He had come up the stairs just in time to hear the cry of “Give it to him, Poley!” Darting the length of the floor, he had pushed his way into the midst of the group to behold his usually placid Brother transformed into an enraged savage.
“Let him up,” ordered Roger. “Let him up, I say!” The intense forcefulness of his tones cut the air like a whip-lash. Long years of obedience to a superior will now had its effect upon Ignace. His face distorted with anger, nevertheless his strong hands fell away from Bixton’s prostrate form. Very sullenly he lumbered to his feet and stepped back a pace, his fists still doubled.
Freed from that relentless pressure, Bixton was up in a flash. His pale blue eyes gleaming with malignant fury, he launched a vicious upper-cut at Ignace, only to find his punishing right arm arrested in mid-air by two determined hands. Anticipating some such move on Bixton’s part, Roger had blocked it with lightning-like swiftness.
“Help me hold him back, you fellows,” he snapped, as Bixton struggled to strike him with his left arm.
Three pairs of sturdy arms now coming to Roger’s aid, Bixton was fairly dragged over to his cot and bundled upon it, thrashing about wildly under the pinioning hands. Ignace had not assisted in this operation. He stood stock-still at the point where he had let Bixton up, his face a study. Roger’s interference had brought him to his senses. He was beginning to regret his own display of temper. He had done just exactly what he had been warned against doing. Weighted down by a sense of his own shortcomings, he shuffled over to his cot and began to pick up his scattered papers.
“Hold on to him just a minute more, please. I’ve something to say to him.” With this energetic direction, Roger’s own hands relaxed their grasp on Bixton. “Now, listen to me,” he continued, fixing a steely gaze on the man. “If you know when you’re well off, you’ll behave yourself when the fellows let go of you. I don’t know what all this is about, and I don’t care. Just by pure luck you’ve escaped the sergeant. If he’d come in here as I did and seen you two fighting, you’d both be in the guard-house by now. He’s likely to come in any minute, so watch yourself. That’s all. Break away, boys.”
Released, Bixton shot up from his cot like a jack-in-the-box. “Trying to screen your pet, are you?” he sputtered. “Well, you can’t. He’s going to get his, all right, the minute the sarge hits the squad-room. I’ll teach that pasty-faced hulk a thing or two!”
For all his bluster, he made no attempt to attack either Roger or his companions.
“Better hold your tongue,” advised Roger dryly, looking the bully squarely in the eye. “It takes two to make a fight, you know. I wouldn’t bank too much on the sergeant’s seeing it differently. Come on, fellows. Leave him to think it over.”
Roger turned away, followed by an extremely disgusted trio of young men. He did not consider it necessary to enjoin them to silence. Bixton’s threat to tell tales to the sergeant had merely put him in deep disfavor with them. In the Army or out, no self-respecting man will countenance a tale-bearer.
Roger went over to Ignace, who had now slumped down on his cot in an attitude of utter dejection. He had hard work to keep from smiling. He did not doubt for an instant that Ignace had had just cause for his outbreak. Nevertheless, he put on an air of severity that he was far from feeling. “What started this fight?” he asked sharply. “Didn’t Bob and I both warn you not to notice that fellow? Do you know where you’ll land if the sergeant hears of this? You’ll land in the guard-house for a month, maybe. I shouldn’t be very sorry for you, if you did. Get up and let me brush you off. Your uniform’s covered with dust.”
Without a word Ignace meekly stood up. Reaching under his own cot for his clothes brush, Roger put it into energetic use on his now chastened Brother. “I’m surprised at you,” he rebuked, between strokes. “You need a keeper, Iggy.”
“So am I the bad one,” Ignace agreed mournfully. “But I feel to kill w’en that——” English failing him, he paused, then added a string of Polish words which Roger could only guess at as not being complimentary to Bixton.
“You had better luck than you deserved,” commented Roger crisply. “Now come on out for a walk with me. I want you to tell me about this affair. But not here. It’s a good thing that it was I instead of Jimmy who happened along. There’d have been a free-for-all fight sure. Here comes the sergeant, too,” he added grimly, as the acting first sergeant stepped from the stairway into the squad room. “Wait a minute. Sit down again and we’ll see what Bixton intends to do.”
With these words, Roger calmly seated himself on his own cot to await developments, his eyes trained squarely on Bixton. That injured individual had also been busy plying a clothes brush, a fairly good sign, Roger thought, that he did not intend to carry out his threat. During the short time that the sergeant remained in the room an expectant silence prevailed. Like himself the other rookies present were breathlessly awaiting the outcome.
Stretched at full length on his cot, Bixton made no move to unburden himself to the officer. He watched the latter morosely as he paused to give an order to one of the men, who promptly seized his hat and followed him from the room. As the two disappeared, Roger could not refrain from casting a challenging glance at the sulker. Directly he had done it, he was sorry.
Bixton had caught and rightly interpreted it. Raising himself on his elbow he said fiercely: “’Fraid I was going to tell on him, wasn’t you? I’ll do it yet, if I feel like it. I’ll fix both you boobs for this. There’s other ways beside that. Before I’m through, I’ll see you both fired outa this camp and those two smart Alecks that run with you. This camp’s not big enough to hold me and you fresh guys at the same time, and you’ll pretty soon get wise to it or my name’s not Bixton.”
CHAPTER X
NO LONGER “JUST ROOKIES”
As the September days glided by, Bixton’s threat of speedy vengeance bore no apparent fruit. Whether he was lying in wait for a good opportunity to discredit the four Khaki Boys, or whether he was only the proverbial barking dog that never bites, they neither knew nor cared. To their great relief, the story of the fight did not reach the ear of the acting first sergeant. Thus Ignace escaped the disgrace of being punished in his very first week at Camp Sterling.
On hearing an account of the affair from Ignace himself, Roger was less inclined than ever to blame him for what had happened. He did not say so to Ignace, however. Instead, he sharply pointed out to the crest-fallen pugilist that two wrongs never made a right. He also privately warned Bob and Jimmy, who had been told of the fracas, not to let their sympathies run away with them.
Impetuous Jimmy, however, found it very hard to repress openly, to Ignace, his own satisfaction at the latter’s recent uprising. He secretly wished that Ignace had given Bixton a sound thrashing and “gotten away with it.” Slow of comprehension in some respects, the Polish boy was not too obtuse to divine Jimmy’s attitude toward him. In consequence, he hung about the latter with a dog-like fidelity that signally amused Roger and Bob. Devoted as he was to his three Brothers, Jimmy was rapidly becoming his idol.
The passing of days saw all four young men making progress in the business of soldiering. As has been already stated, Jimmy showed the most dash and snap in that direction. He took to military procedure like a duck to water, and “went to it” heart and soul. Easily the most efficient man in his squad, he was on the road to a corporalship, though he did not suspect it. He drilled with the same zest he would have put into a football game and prided himself on his prompt ability to execute correctly a new movement immediately it had been explained to him. It was the glory rather than the duty of being a good soldier that most impressed him.
On the other hand, Bob and Roger regarded it more from the duty angle. This was only natural, considering that both men had been obliged, when in civil life, to shift for themselves. They tackled drill as they would have wrestled with a new job. It interested but did not enthrall them. It was a means to an end. That end meant, to them, Bob in particular, active service in France. He looked upon “Going Over” as the supreme adventure. If he survived he intended to come home and write a book “that would sell like hot cakes.”
Iggy’s noblest aspiration was to do well and so stay in the same squad with Jimmy and Bixton. Devotion to the former and spite against the latter swayed him equally. He knew that Jimmy was as desirous of his welfare as Bixton was of his downfall. This double motive inspired him to good works. Back of it all, undoubtedly, he was a true patriot. His enlistment in the Army proved that. For the time being, however, the glory of being a soldier was lost in the difficulty of trying to stay one. The drill sergeant was the most awe-inspiring figure on his horizon. Long afterward when the four Brothers had proved their mettle in far-off France, he had been heard to declare soulfully: “Go Over Top no so bad. One drill sergeant more worse twenty Tops!”
In spite of his encounter with Bixton, Ignace was still seized with spells of reciting his rules aloud. It did not take his companions of the barracks long to discover the nature of his frequent fits of mumbling. When it gradually became noised about in the squad-room that Bob Dalton had composed them for his bunkie’s benefit, he was besieged for copies of them. Though he refused to supply them, he good-naturedly recited such as he could recall to several of the men. Very soon hardly a day passed when he was not asked to give one or more of them. As a result it was not long before they achieved the popularity of a topical song and at least half the occupants of the squad-room could recite one or more of them. In time they became circulated throughout the camp and long after Bob had left Camp Sterling behind for “Over There,” his “Military Maneuvers in Rhyme” were passed on to newcomers and gleefully quoted.
October saw the four Khaki Boys long since emerge from the School of the Soldier into the School of the Squad. They had now mastered the basic principles of military training and were beginning to feel a little more like Regulars. They now knew the Manual of Arms and had been fully instructed in the use, nomenclature and care of their rifles. They were no longer just “rookies.”
Their periods of drill had been gradually lengthened until they were now putting in the same amount of time as the seasoned men. From half-past seven in the morning until dismissal by a sergeant at half-past eleven, they were kept at work learning soldiering. One o’clock Assembly marked the beginning of the afternoon drill period, which lasted until half-past four with thirty minutes’ intermission before Retreat.
Thus far none of the quartette had troubled themselves much concerning “passes,” those magic bits of scribbled paper that meant permission to quit camp limits for a few brief hours of civil life. Once or twice they had obtained leave to spend an evening in Glenwood, a village about three miles from Camp Sterling.
“What we ought to do is to all get a pass, go to Tremont and take in a good show,” was Bob’s opinion one evening as the four boys sat talking together in barracks. “We could get off at noon some Saturday and be back by midnight. That would give us the afternoon to see the town, a bang-up supper at a first-class restaurant and a show afterward. Oh, boy! Oh, joy! I can just see us doing it.”
“That sounds good to me,” glowed Jimmy. “I’ve been going slow on the pass business ’cause I want to ask for one from Saturday until Monday morning, so that I can go home. Every letter I get from Mother lately she asks me when I’m coming home. But I guess if I’m good maybe I can get off with you fellows and get the pass home, too.”
“Let me see. This is Thursday. Why not make it for day after to-morrow?” proposed Bob. “With pay-day only yesterday we’ve all got money to spend. Why let it burn in our pockets? Use up and earn more’s my motto.”
“I’d like to take a trip to Tremont,” nodded Roger. “We’ve all worked good and hard since we came here. It’s time for a little harmless recreation.”
“You can count me in,” readily assured Jimmy.
“I can no go,” stated Ignace regretfully.
“Why not?” Jimmy demanded. “What’s going to hinder you?”
“I have no the monies. A little, yes, but no much. So stay I here. Anyhow, you go. I very glad for you have the fon. While you way think I to you,” Ignace added with a sigh.
“No money! For goodness’ sake, where is it? You just drew—— I beg your pardon, Iggy.” Jimmy colored hotly. “I shouldn’t have asked such a nosey question. Forget it.”
“Ask all thing you want ask all time.” Ignace accompanied this gracious permission with a sweeping flourish of his hand. “You are the Brother. So have you the good right. Firs’ think I no say nothin’. Anyhow, now I tell. I am to poor my mother the bad son for that I run way. When I home give her all monies no my father take. Now I here she have the nothin’ for long time. He my father give only for the rent an’ the eat. No much the eat. In my house are the three littles, two sister an’ one brother. So have I nother brother. He have sixteen year. Work hard but every week get only the five dollar, an’ my father take mos’. Now have I the pay sen’ all my mother. Only I keep two dollar. It is enough here, but no for have the eat, the show, the good time Bob say. Som’ day go along Tremont. No now. I am the broke.” Ignace looked mildly triumphant at having been able to express himself in slangy Bob’s vernacular.
“You may be ‘the broke,’ Iggy, but you’ve got a solid gold heart!” exclaimed Bob, his shrewd black eyes growing soft. “I call that mighty white in you. Never you mind, if we can get the passes you come along with us just the same. I’ll do the treating and glad to at that.”
“Count me in on that,” emphasized Jimmy. “My dough is yours, Iggy. You can draw on it till it gives out.”
“Same here,” smiled Roger, who had been signally touched by the broken little tale of sacrifice.
“No, no!” The Pole’s tones indicated stubborn finality. “I can no do. Thank. You are the too good all. I know; un’erstan’. I have for me what you call it, the respet. So mus’ I the no say an’ stay by the camp. You ask me more, I no like; feel fonny mad!”
Ignace’s characterization of hurt self-respect as “fonny mad” raised a laugh. That, at least, did not disturb him. He merely grinned and remarked tranquilly: “You make the fon one poor Poley.”
The plan for a journey into Tremont, having been duly discussed, it but remained to the three young men to obtain the desired passes for Saturday afternoon. Tremont was the only city of importance within a radius of seventy-five miles. It lay about twenty miles east of the camp. Soon after the making of Camp Sterling a line of automobile busses had sprung up to do a thriving business between there and Tremont. There were also many regularly licensed jitney automobiles that went to and fro for the accommodation of both soldiers and visitors, not to mention their own individual profit.
“We can go to Tremont in one of those Cinderella pumpkins for seventy-five cents, or we can give up a plunk apiece and ride in style in a jit. You pays your money and you takes your choice,” declared Bob. At first sight he had attached the appellation of Cinderella pumpkins to the big yellow uncomfortable busses operated by a business concern in Tremont.
“Me for a regular buzz wagon. I wouldn’t wear out my bones bouncing around in one of those bumpety-bump Noah’s Arks if I was paid to ride in it,” objected Jimmy disdainfully.
“What’s a quarter more beside Jimmy Blazes’s delicate little bones!” jeered Bob.
“Did you ever ride in one of those rattle-traps?” retorted Jimmy.
“No, my son, and I don’t intend to,” beamed Bob. “I’ve seen other fellows ride in ’em.”