All the next day that face haunted Roscoe. "If I could only know where he is," he said to himself; "if I could bring him back, I'd tell the whole business."
It occurred to him that perhaps Tom was dead and that that was why he was continually seeing that stolid face with the bloody scar. "Maybe the cut got worse and he got blood poisoning and died," he thought.
This train of thought possessed him so that he grew to believe that Tom Slade must really be dead. And that being the case, there would be no use in telling anybody anything....
At breakfast he seemed so preoccupied that after he left the room his mother said to his father,
"You don't think he's nervous or timid, do you?"
"I think he's a little nervous about making a speech in public," said Mr. Bent. "He isn't afraid of anything else," he added proudly.
During the morning Mrs. Bent wanted to take his picture. "You look so splendid and handsome in your uniform, dear!" she told him. So he stood in the big bay window where the sunlight streamed in and let her snap the camera at him. He did look splendid and handsome, there was no denying that.
Then she would have him develop the film with his own hands so that she could make some prints right away. "You may not have another leave," she said. "It's dreadful that you have to go back to camp late to-night."
"Don't you care," he laughed, in that companionable way in which he always talked with his mother.
"You can take one of the prints over to East Bridgeboro to-night," she added, as an inducement to his developing the film at once.
"Think she'd like to have one?"
"The idea! Of course she would."
So, to please his mother, Roscoe took off Uncle Sam's service coat, put on a kitchen apron, and went into his little familiar dark closet to wrestle with chemicals.
And there again, in the dim light of the red lantern, and the deathlike quiet, he saw that face—with the cut and the thick, disordered hair, and the big, tight-set mouth. "You can see yourself it wouldn't do for anybody to know," he fancied the lips saying. "If you told, it would spoil it all——"
"I won't spoil it," Roscoe mumbled, as if he were doing the shadowy presence a great favor.
Private Bent, who was going to "can the Kaiser," was glad to get out of that dark, stuffy place.
In the afternoon he went down into the cellar to grease and cover up his motorcycle in anticipation of his long absence "over there." This would be his last chance to do it, unless he got up very early in the morning. But then he would be an hour over his leave in getting back to camp late to-night on a milk train. A soldier's honor must not be sullied by a stolen hour....
And there again Roscoe Bent saw that face. It was a little more than a face this time. He could almost have sworn that he saw the figure of Tom Slade standing over in the dark corner near the coal bins; and as Roscoe, kneeling by his motorcycle, fixed his eyes upon this thing another sentence ran through his thoughts: "Those secret service fellows—do yer think I'd let them get yer? Do you think because you made fun of me...."
He tried to stare the apparition down, but it would not disappear—not until he went over to it and saw that it was just a burlap bag full of kindling wood, with James, the furnace man's, old felt hat thrown upon it.
"I—I know what it means, all right," he muttered; "it means he's dead."
After supper he parted his wavy blond hair, and his mother brushed his uniform while he stood straight as an arrow, his handsome head thrown back. Then his father proudly helped him into his big military coat and he started for East Bridgeboro, which was across the river. The new Y. M. C. A. hall was not over there, but he was going there first, just the same.
"Have you got the print?" his mother called after him.
"Sure."
"The one holding the gun? You look so soldierly and brave in that!"
He laughed as he went down the steps.
But presently he became moody and preoccupied again. "If Mr. Ellsworth hadn't dragged me into this thing," he said to himself, "it wouldn't be so bad. It gets my goat to stand up there and shoot off about honor and all that sort of thing. But I can't do anything else now. I'm not going to spoil it all. It can't make any difference to Tom now—he's out of the game. He's through with the scouts, and he's through with Bridgeboro—dead, I'm afraid. And if I just keep my mouth shut, it'll be doing just what he wanted me to do; it was his idea."
So that was settled; and in place of those troubling thoughts, Roy Blakeley bobbed up in his mind—Roy Blakeley, who believed in "standing by a fellow through thick and thin"; who was staunch and loyal to his friend.
"He's a bully kid," mused Roscoe, as he crossed the bridge whence the town derived its name, and the more he thought about Roy the more mean and contemptible he felt himself to be.
At the scouts' float hard by the bridge, the troop's cabin launch, the Good Turn, participant in many adventures, past and to come, lay moored.
Even the sophisticated Roscoe, who had never "bothered much with the kids," knew of this famous boat. There had been a photograph of it hanging in the Temple Camp office, with the face of Tom Slade peering out through the little hatchway. The sudden knocking of the hull against the float in the still night startled him, and as he looked down upon the moon-lit river with its black background of trees he fancied again that he saw the face of Tom Slade looking out from the hatchway of the boat.
"Hello, there!" he called, though of course he knew no one was there.
Once over the bridge, he took a short cut through Morrell's Grove for the River Road.
"It's best to let well enough alone," he told himself; "what's past is past. I'm not going to worry about it now. If Ellsworth hadn't hauled me into this thing, and given me that spiel, I wouldn't be bothering my head about things that happened months ago. I'm not going to worry."
He was singularly moody and dissatisfied for a person who was not going to worry.
"Wish I could get that Blakeley kid out of my head," he reflected.
But he couldn't exactly get that Blakeley kid out of his head, and he couldn't get that face out of his mind, nor Mr. Ellsworth's stinging words out of his memory. So he stumbled along through the dark grove, thinking what he should say to the boys and how he should talk to Margaret Ellison so as not to let her suspect his troubled conscience and general feeling of—not exactly meanness and dishonor, but....
"Girls are such blamed fiends for reading your thoughts," he grumbled.
About halfway through the grove he stopped suddenly in the narrow path. For there was that face again peering out of the darkness. There was a slouch hat on it this time, but the old familiar shock of hair protruded from under it and there was an ugly scar on the forehead.
"It's blamed dark in here," said Roscoe, as he pulled himself together. A lonely owl answered with a dismal shriek from a distant tree, making the night seem still more spooky.
Roscoe tried to whistle to keep up his spirits, but as he walked on along the path the face, instead of fading away, seemed to become clearer, and he could have sworn that there was the dark outline of a form below it leaning against a tree. It was only his fancy enlivened by his conscience, he knew, but it took him back to a night months before, when he had stood in a remote mountain trail and watched a figure clinging to a tree, and he remembered how he had stood speechless and listened, as a man may watch a thunderstorm. No one in all the wide world but those two had known of that meeting.
"Or ever will," thought Private Bent.
Suddenly he paused again, and he, Private Roscoe Bent, who would take delight in canning the Kaiser, who would give his young life if need be, to make the world free for democracy, trembled like a leaf.
The figure had moved—he was sure of it. For a couple of seconds he could not speak, he was breathing so heavily.
"Hello!" he finally managed to call.
"Hello!" came a dull voice. "There ain't any need to be afraid," it added. "I couldn't hurt you. I can't see very good—is—it—you—Roscoe?"
Roscoe spoke not a word but went forward and cautiously felt of the figure, laid his hand on the heavy thick shoulder and peered into the face.
"Tom Slade," he muttered.
"I didn't know you in your soldier's coat," said Tom; "it makes you look so tall and straight and—brave——"
Still the soldier did not speak, only kept his hand upon Tom's shoulder and looked into his square ugly face. And again the ghostly hoot of the owl made the little patch of woods seem more spooky and lonesome.
Then Private Roscoe Bent, Second Infantry, U. S. A., who intended to help roll the Teuton lines back and smash militarism once and for all, who would go over the top with all the fine frenzy of his impulsive nature and send the blond beast reeling, slipped his arm farther over Tom's shoulder until Tom Slade could feel the warmth from the thick sleeve of Uncle Sam's big military coat upon his own bare neck and threadbare flannel shirt. And the handsome head with its wavy blond hair which Private Roscoe Bent knew how to hold with such a fine air, hung down against that threadbare shirt in anything but martial fashion.
"Oh, Tom—Tom Slade——" he said, a feeling of great relief taking possession of him. "I know what to do now—now I can see straight—as you used to say.—You've come—to show me the right way, just as you did before."
"There ain't so much more to tell," said Tom, in his old lifeless way. "After that we got torpedoed. The officer said only sixteen could get on a raft, and there was a man who was anxious to get on and he made seventeen, so I got off. I guess I was the last one on the ship. She made an awful noise when she went down."
"Yes—and——"
"There's nothing else." Tom's reports of thrilling happenings were always provokingly tame and brief. "I swam around for about two hours, I guess. I had a piece of a door to hold on to. That scar's where a big wave banged me against it.—A schooner picked me up. I'd 'a' got picked up sooner, maybe, only I was the last one and I drifted away from the ship lane—sort of. It was going to South America after bananas, so they took me there."
"How'd you get back?"
"Came home on another ship. I worked cabin boy. They caught a German spy on the first ship."
It was quite like him not to tell how they happened to catch the spy.
"And then you came right here?"
"They gave me dinner in the Sailors' Mission in New York, and then I started out here."
"You don't mean you walked?"
"I'm going to Mrs. O'Connor's in the Alley where I used to live—till I can get a job. I made two good friends, but I don't know whether they were drowned.—You look good in your soldier suit."
Roscoe had to get control of himself before he could answer.
"That's a screech-owl," said Tom; "hear him? When you get—when I was a scout we had to learn the calls of all the different birds."
"Never mind that. Why did you go on that ship?"
"I told you—I wanted to help with the Colors."
Roscoe struggled again with his voice.
"Don't you think you did enough for the Colors," he said thickly, "when you gave me this uniform? Don't you think that was enough?"
"Sit down here a minute. Don't you think you did enough for the Colors when you started me—over the top? Don't you?"
"It wasn't me. Anyhow, you can't do too much for the Colors."
Roscoe paused with his hand on Tom's knee. "No, I guess you can't," he said.
"You never told anybody, did you?" Tom asked.
"No," said Roscoe, with that little sneer of self-disgust. "I never told."
"It would of spoiled it all if you had. You got to be careful never to tell. You got to be specially careful, now you're a soldier—and look so fine and straight."
"Don't, Tom."
"You got to promise you'll never tell," said Tom, scenting danger in Roscoe's manner. "Will you?"
"Have you got any money at all, Tom?"
"You got to promise you'll never let 'em know about it now. Do you?"
"Never mind that, Tom——"
"You've got to. Do you?" Tom persisted.
"Can't you trust to a soldier's honor, Tom, without pinning him down?"
"Do you promise?"
"Won't you trust a friend? Won't you trust a soldier's honor, Tom?"
"Yes," said Tom. "I will."
For a few moments Roscoe sat breathing audibly and staring at Tom as if hardly knowing what to do or say next.
"Do you know where I'm going now?" he asked, feeling the necessity of speaking.
"Maybe I could guess," said Tom: "you're going up River Road. I bet she said you looked fine in your uniform."
"Yes, I'm going there. I'm going to take her to a racket in Bridgeboro."
"It's funny how I met you here," said Tom.
"You walked all the way out on the turnpike road, I suppose. Tom," he broke off suddenly, "there isn't any time to sit here and talk now; listen. It seems as if all these weeks had been wiped out and we were back up on that mountain again."
"I knew you'd like it up there; I——"
"Never mind that; listen. We're back just where we were that night. We can make everything all right."
"No, it isn't; everything isn't all right—old man. Tom, there's a meeting to-night, a sort of jumble—Y. M. C. A., scouts, and I don't know what all. Ellsworth nailed me for it. I've got to give the bunch a little spiel.—Tom, I want you to come to it——"
"I——"
"Now, don't start that; listen. It's in the new Y. M. C. A. Hall. I know you haven't got any clothes, if that's what you want to say, and I don't care a hang about your clothes. I don't ask you to blow in with the rest of them and sit in the audience," he went on hurriedly. "But just stroll around after everything's started and the lights are down. They couldn't see you—they won't notice you. Just stand in back."
"They got no use for me; they——"
"This is between you and me, old man; nobody else has got anything to do with it. Go down to Mrs. What's-her-name's——"
"O'Connor's," said Tom.
"Go down there and wash up, if you want to—I don't care. Only promise me you'll come around. I want you to see me make a show of myself. You'll have a good laugh—you old grouch," he added, with sudden good humor, "and after it's over we'll go up to my house and have a good long talk."
"I've often passed your house," said Tom.
"I'm going down to camp on a milk train about two A. M. This may be the last chance for us to see each other," Roscoe still spoke hurriedly; "they're sending troops across every week, Tom."
"I know they are."
"When I left you up on that mountain, Tom, I promised to come right back and register; and I did it, didn't I?"
"I told you nobody'd ever find out about that——"
"Never mind that. Will you do something for me now? Will you say you'll come?"
Tom hesitated. "I always said you'd be good at making speeches, and that kind of thing, but——"
Roscoe thrust his hand straight out. "Give me your hand, Tom, and say you'll come."
"Maybe I will."
"Say you'll come."
"I'd only stand in back after they put the lights down."
"Say you'll come," Roscoe persisted.
"Sure, now?"
"I ain't the kind that breaks my word," said Tom dully. "But besides that, I want to hear you."
Roscoe held his hand tight for a full minute. Then they parted and he hurried along the River Road.
He was already late, but he would probably have hurried anyway, for when the heart is dancing it is hard for the feet to move slowly. And Roscoe's heart was dancing. He could "see straight" now, all right. To be a soldier you must see straight as well as shoot straight.
He swung along the River Road with a fine air, as if he owned it, and passing a small boy (bound across the river, perhaps) he lifted the youngster's hat off and handed it to him with a laugh. When he reached the Ellison cottage he deliberately kept pushing the bell button again and again, just out of sheer exuberance, until Margaret herself threw the door open and exclaimed,
"What in the world is the matter?"
"Nothing; can't you take a joke?"
"You're late," she said.
"Sure; I'm a punk soldier. That's a swell hat you've got on. Can you hustle? If you don't mind, we'll take the short cut through the grove."
It was a swell hat, there is no denying that, and she looked very pretty in it.
"I'm taking my knitting," she said, handing him one of those sumptuous bags with two vicious-looking knitting needles sticking out of it.
"I hate to go through the grove, it's so spooky," she said, as they hurried along. "I'm always seeing things there. Do you, ever?"
"Oh, yes."
"Really? What?"
"Oh, lions and tigers and things."
"Now you make me afraid," she shuddered.
"I met a lion in there to-night," he said; "that's what delayed me. If I see another one, I'll jab him with one of these knitting needles. Hear that screech-owl? He sounds like the Kaiser'll feel next year.—Do you know that Blakeley kid?"
"Roy? Surely I do. Everybody knows him."
"He's all wool and a yard wide, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's fine."
"Look out you don't trip on that rock.—He walked down the street with me last night and talked about—about that Slade fellow."
"Yes; he's a staunch believer in Tom, even yet."
She made no answer.
"I think you kind of liked that fellow," said Roscoe teasingly.
"I always said if he ever made up his mind to do a thing he'd do it."
"Well, I guess he went and done it, as my old school grammar used to say."
"I don't like to hear you speak flippantly about him."
"How about me? Suppose I should make up my mind to do a thing——"
"Here we are at the bridge already," she said.
The new Y. M. C. A. Assembly Hall presented a gay scene, and they pushed through the crowd, Roscoe opening a way for the girl to pass, greeted on both hands by his friends and former companions. It seemed as if all the young people of the town were on hand; scouts were conspicuously in evidence, and among them all Mr. Ellsworth hustled genially about attending to a hundred and one duties.
"There you are," said Roscoe; "take that seat. Reminds you of that meeting on June fifth last when I wasn't with you—and Slade didn't show up either. Now, don't forget to clap when I stand up, will you?"
He swung up onto the platform, where Roy and Pee-wee and Doc Carson and Connie Bennett and the whole tribe of Silver Foxes clustered about him, helping him out of his big military coat and hovering about the chair he sat in. Even Dr. Wade, of the Y. M. C. A., and the gentlemen of the Local Scout Council received less attention.
As he sat there waiting, one or two of the scouts noticed (for scouts are nothing if not observant) that he craned his neck and looked far back into the lobby. If they thought twice about it, however, they probably attributed it to nervousness.
At last, after much impatient handclapping, all except the stage lights were dimmed, and Roy noticed again how the soldier peered searchingly into the back of the hall.
"Your mother and father coming?" he asked.
"They might stroll around."
"You look dandy," Roy whispered.
Roscoe grabbed him by the neck pleasantly and winked as he reached slyly over and pulled Pee-wee's belt axe from its martial sheath, to the amusement of some boys in the audience. But it was no matter for laughing, for if the Germans should break through the French lines at Verdun, say, and push through to Bordeaux, capture all the French transports, run the British blockade and make a sudden flank move against Bridgeboro, Pee-wee would be very thankful that he had his belt-axe along.
It was a great affair—that meeting. Dr. Wade told of the aims of the new Y. M. C. A.; the Methodist Scouts' gave an exhibition of pole jumping; the Elks (one member short) gave a demonstration of First-Aid bandaging, and a Red Cross woman gave a demonstration of surgery, for (as Roy said) she extracted one bone from everybody in the audience. Oh, it was a great affair! They had a movie play, Scouts in Service; the Bridgeboro Quartette sang Over There; a real, live Belgian refugee told how the gentle, kind Germans burned his little home and sent his sisters and brothers into slavery.
Perhaps it was this tragic story fresh in their minds which caused the crowd to clap vigorously when Private Bent, Second Infantry, U. S. A., jumped to his feet as Mr. Ellsworth finished introducing him and stood, feet close together, straight as an arrow, a little flush of embarrassment upon his handsome face, and threw his head back suddenly to get his little forelock of wavy hair out of the way.
It is no discredit to Dr. Wade or to Mr. Perry, of the Local Council, that Roscoe caught the audience with his first words. He was so young and fresh, so boyishly off-hand—so different from the others who had spoken. And then his straight young figure and his uniform!
"I don't know exactly why I'm here," he said; "I got this thing wished on me and you've got me wished on you. I'm sorry for you. So far as I'm concerned I guess I don't deserve any sympathy. I ran right into Scoutmaster Ellsworth with my eyes wide open [laughter] and he nabbed me. I should have kept my fingers crossed when I came back to Bridgeboro. He took me to his house and fed me on sugar——"
"You're lucky," some one called.
"And what could I do after that?"
"If I ever get clear of the Boy Scouts, believe me, I'll never get tangled up with them again. [Laughter.] But they tell me I'll see more of them in England and still more of them in France—so I guess there's no hope of getting away from them. [Laughter and applause.]
"If this thing keeps up we'll have to start a campaign to swat the scout, and see if we can't exterminate them in that way. [Uproarious shouts from Pee-wee.]
"But, ladies and gentlemen and scouts—not that scouts aren't gentlemen [laughter]—I don't think soldiers ought to be expected to make speeches. Actions speak louder than words, as the Kaiser will find out—— [Pee-wee was restrained with difficulty.] So I'm just going to do something instead of standing here talking. Scoutmaster Ellsworth said for me to put plenty of pep into my little performance. And I'm going to put some tabasco sauce in it [Pee-wee again] and I hope it will hold him for a while.
"He introduced me as an enlisted soldier. Two thousand eight hundred and fifty-seven times in the last two days, he's called me that. It's a base libel! I didn't enlist; I was drafted. [Laughter.]
"And now I'm going to let you into a secret. Before Registration Day I felt pretty much as I felt about coming here to-night—I had cold feet. I have only the one thought now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "and that is to get over there and get one good whack at that crew of bandits and murderers! [Loud cheering.]
"But before Registration Day I was scared—just plain scared. You soon get rid of that when you get into the uniform. [Applause.] Well, I'm ashamed to say it, but I ran away. I had a crazy notion I could get away with it. I went up to a lonely place on a mountain near that big scout camp."
You could have heard a pin drop in the hall now.
"And one of these fellows—these scouts—suspected where I had gone and came up there after me and brought me to my senses." Roscoe's voice had grown gradually lower, and he spoke hesitatingly now, but the silence was so intense that every word was audible. "He pawned a gold medal he had to pay his way up there and he made me come back here. He missed his part in the big rally. He couldn't come back himself because he'd hurt his ankle.—He made me come back here where I belonged—to register!
"And then when he found—— No, wait a minute, I'll read you the letter!"
He was in a fine frenzy of enthusiasm again now that he had finished the recital of his own shameful part in the affair. He took out Tom's letter and read it—read every word of it—and finished it with his cheeks flushed and his voice ringing:
"... so I'm going away to help in a way I can do without breaking my word to anybody. The thing I care most about is that you got registered. And next to that I'm glad because I like you"—Roscoe shook his head hastily and stopped for a second to control his voice—"because I like you and I always did—even when you made fun of me——"
"What he liked me for, I'm hanged if I know—but that's the kind of a fellow Tom Slade is——"
"Whatever became of him?" some one on the platform whispered to some one else.
There was a slight sound back in the lobby of the hall.
"Somebody down there head him off; don't let him get away!" called Roscoe, stepping right to the front of the platform. "Start him down here! He didn't get away, did he?"
Roy Blakeley, vaulting over two rows of chairs, was in the aisle in three seconds. Everybody turned and looked toward the back of the hall. Some stood, peering cautiously into the dim lobby, where a little scuffle seemed to be going on. Then Roscoe himself leaped straight over the orchestra's space and started up the aisle.
But he was not needed. For Mr. Ellsworth himself had caught Tom by the collar, thrusting him out into the aisle, where Roy clutched aim by the arm.
And then the crowd saw him; saw him standing shamefacedly there as if still inclined to break away and run for it; his head hanging down, his big hand moving nervously on the old book-strap which he wore for a belt. The necktie, which presumably Mrs. O'Connor had furnished him, was all awry, and in the half light they could see, too, that his old clothes were faded and torn. He seemed quite indifferent to everybody and everything—even to Mr. Ellsworth—though he smiled nervously at Roscoe.
But Roy Blakeley, clinging to his arm, could feel what no one else could feel or see—Tom's hand pressing his wrist like a wireless signal, and Roy, like the bully scout he was, understood the code, took the message, and was silent.
Yes, that was a great meeting—it was a peach of a meeting!
"You broke your word," accused Tom, as Roscoe elbowed his way in.
"I did nothing of the kind. I asked you to trust a soldier's honor. You know more about a soldier's honor now than you did before, don't you?"
"Good-night!" laughed Roy. "No more soldier's honor for you! Hey, Tomasso? You've had enough of it."
Indeed he had had altogether too much of it. But his embarrassment passed as the bulk of the crowd, not involved in this surprising turn of affairs, took its way homeward, leaving the scouts and a few others in the hall. And soon things worked around so that Roscoe saw Tom alone. Not altogether alone, either, for Margaret Ellison was with him. How Roy and Pee-wee chanced to miss this I do not know.
The girl said very little, but stared at him until at last he said, "Are you looking at that scar? It don't look good, but it'll go away, I guess."
"How did you get it?" she asked.
"He gave his place to another man," said Roscoe, "and was dumped into the ocean alone."
"A chunk of wood banged me in the forehead," said Tom simply.
"Tom, I want you to do me a favor," said Roscoe, while Margaret continued to gaze at him. "It's a terribly impolite thing to suggest, but if you'd be willing to walk over to East Bridgeboro with Margaret, I could go home and get my things together. I'm afraid I'll miss the only train. You come to my house afterward and go to the train with me. You don't mind, do you, Marge? He'll protect you from the lions and tigers."
If she minded she didn't show it.
"I—ain't dressed up," said Tom awkwardly.
"I'm so glad of that!" she said.
Never in his life had he walked with a girl anywhere near his own age, and he felt just as he had felt that gala day when he had chatted with her in Temple Camp office. And because he was flustered and knew of nothing in particular to say, he repeated just what he had said then—that he could see she liked Roscoe, and he added that he didn't blame her, for Roscoe was "so good-looking in his uniform—kind of."
To this she made no answer; but after a few minutes she said, "Will you take me through Barrel Alley where you used to live?"
So Tom took her through Barrel Alley, answering her questions about his experiences and telling of spies and torpedoings and his rescue and cruise to South America simply, almost dully, as if they were things which were not worth talking about.
When they came behind John Temple's big bank building, they stood on the barrel staves whence the alley derived its name and counted the floors and picked out the windows of Temple Camp office.
"You'll come in and see Mr. Burton in the morning, won't you?" she said.
"Maybe," said Tom.
The good scout trail, which had wound over half the earth, took them on down that poor, sordid alley, and he showed her the tenement where he had once lived.
"The day we got put out," he said simply, "the sheriff stood a beer can on my mother's picture."
"Oh!" she said; "and then?"
"Nothing then," said Tom, "only I knocked him into the gutter. I got arrested."
They came out into the brighter light and clearer air of Main Street, and now the good scout trail, which indeed had not disappointed him, led them toward the quiet river and the willows and the hilly banks and across the bridge, from which he showed her the troop's cabin boat (soon to be plastered with Liberty Loan posters), and into the rural quiet of East Bridgeboro.
"I said it was a trail," said Tom.
"Yes?"
"I mean everything you do—kind of. It's just a trail. You don't know where it'll take you."
"It's just brought you back to the same place, hasn't it?" she said.
"But it won't stop," said Tom. "It don't make any difference, anyway, as long as you hit the right one. Once I thought it was kind of a crazy notion about everything you do being a trail. But now I know different. And if you do the wrong thing, you get on the wrong trail, that's all. Maybe you don't understand exactly what I mean."
"I do understand."
"It's brought me right back to where I'm talking to you again the same as on Registration Day. So you see it's a good trail. I got a kind of an idea that there can be a trail in your brain—like.—Often I think of things like that that I can't make other people understand—not even Roy sometimes.—I guess maybe girls understand better."
"Maybe," she said. "Do you see I'm wearing the little badge you gave me yet?"
They strolled on, following the trail, and neither spoke for a few minutes.
"In the end you don't get misjudged," said Tom simply, "because if you get on the right trail it'll bring you to the right place. If you've got the right on your side, you got to win."
"And that's why we'll win the war," she said.
"A feller that maybe got drowned told me about a little girl in London that got blown up while she was studying her lessons. And when I heard that I knew we'd win."
"Uncle Sam's like you, Tom," she laughed. "When he makes up his mind to do a thing.... Do you remember how you told me you had a good muscle? Uncle Sam's got a good muscle, don't you think?"
"I was thinking something like that when I looked at Roscoe to-night," he said. "We got to trust to Uncle Sam."
"The whole world is trusting to Uncle Sam now."
"He's got the muscle," said Tom.
"Yes."
The trail led through a fragrant avenue of evergreens now, through a solitude where Tom had often hiked, and presently they turned into the path which formed the short cut to the girl's home. Across the river, on the top of the bank building, they could see the Stars and Stripes waving in the small field of brightness thrown by the searchlight. And all else was darkness.
So, chatting idly, but all the while, coming to know each other better, they passed the log on which Tom and Roscoe had sat and talked, and strolled on through the dark, silent grove, where the lions and tigers were, and where the lonely screech-owl still hooted his dismal song.
THE END