Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: TOM HOBBLED ALONG, HOLDING THE RAIL. Frontispiece--(Page 131)] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORT By Percy K. Fitzhugh Author of TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT, TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP, TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER, TOM SLADE WITH THE COLORS Illustrated by Thomas Clarity Published With the Approval of the Boy Scouts of America GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK Made in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1918, by GROSSET & DUNLAP ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Tom Meets One Friend and Is Reminded of Another 1 II. He Does a Good Turn and Makes a Discovery 9 III. He Scents Danger and Receives a Letter 19 IV. He Gets a Job and Meets "Frenchy" 29 V. He Makes a Discovery and Receives a Shock 39 VI. He Hears About Alsace and Receives a Present 46 VII. He Becomes Very Proud, and Also Very Much Frightened 55 VIII. He Hears Some News and Is Confidential with Frenchy 61 IX. He Sees a Strange Light and Goes on Tiptoe 68 X. He Goes Below and Gropes in the Dark 77 XI. He Makes a Discovery and Is Greatly Agitated 83 XII. He Is Frightened and Very Thoughtful 86 XIII. He Ponders and Decides Between Two Near Relations 92 XIV. He is Arrested and Put in the Guardhouse 97 XV. He Does Most of the Talking and Takes All the Blame 103 XVI. He Sees a Little and Hears Much 107 XVII. He Awaits the Worst and Receives a Surprise 115 XVIII. He Talks With Mr. Conne and Sees the Boys Start for the Front 121 XIX. He Is Cast Away and Is in Great Peril 129 XX. He Is Taken Aboard the "Tin Fish" and Questioned 135 XXI. He Is Made a Prisoner and Makes a New Friend 144 XXII. He Learns Where He Is Going and Finds a Ray of Hope 151 XXIII. He Makes a High Resolve and Loses a Favorite Word 154 XXIV. He Goes to the Civilian Camp and Doesn't Like It 161 XXV. He Visits the Old Pump and Receives a Shock 169 XXVI. He Has an Idea Which Suggests Another 176 XXVII. He Plans a Desperate Game and Does a Good Job 185 XXVIII. He Disappears--for the Time Being 192 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORT CHAPTER I TOM MEETS ONE FRIEND AND IS REMINDED OF ANOTHER As Tom Slade went through Terrace Avenue on his way to the Temple Camp office, where he was employed, he paused beside a truck backed up against the curb in front of a certain vacant store. Upon it was a big table and wrestling with the table was Pete Connigan, the truckman--the very same Pete Connigan at whom Tom used to throw rocks and whom he had called a "mick." It reminded him of old times to see Pete. The vacant store, too, aroused dubious memories, for there he had stolen many an apple in the days when Adolf Schmitt had his "cash grocery" on the premises, and used to stand in the doorway with his white apron on, shaking his fist as Tom scurried down the street and calling, "I'll _strafe_ you, you young loafer!" Tom had wondered what _strafing_ was, until long afterward he heard that poor Belgium was being _strafed_; and then he knew. "Wal, ef 'tain't Tommy Slade!" said Pete, with a cordial grin of surprise. "I ain't seen ye in two year! Ye've growed ter be a big, strappin' lad, ain't ye?" "Hello, Pete," said Tom, shaking the Irishman's brawny hand. "Glad to see you. I've been away working on a ship for quite a while. That's one reason you haven't seen me." "Be gorry, the town's gittin' big, an' that's another reason. The last time I seen ye, ye wuz wid that Sweet Cap'ral lad, an' I knocked yer two sassy heads tergither for yez. Remember that?" "Yes," laughed Tom, "and then I started running down the street and hollered, 'Throw a brick, you Irish mick!'?" "Ye did," vociferated Pete, "an' wid me afther ye." "You didn't catch me, though," laughed Tom. "Wal, I got ye now," said Pete, grabbing him good-naturedly by the collar. And they sat down on the back of the truck to talk for a few moments. "I'm glad I came this way," said Tom. "I usually go down Main Street, but I've been away from Bridgeboro so long, I thought I'd kinder stroll through this way to see how the town looked. I'm not in any particular hurry," he added. "I don't have to get to work till nine. I was going to walk around through Terrace Court." "Ben away on a ship, hev ye?" questioned Pete, and Tom told him the whole story of how he had given up the career of a hoodlum to join the Scouts, of the founding of Temple Camp by Mr. John Temple, of the summers spent there, of how he had later gotten a job on a steamer carrying supplies to the allies; how he had helped to apprehend a spy, how the ship had been torpedoed, how he had been rescued after two days spent in an open boat, of his roundabout journey back to Bridgeboro, and the taking up again of his prosaic duties in the local office of Temple Camp. The truckman, his case-spike hanging from his neck, listened with generous interest to Tom's simple, unboastful account of all that had happened to him. "There were two people on that ship I got to be special friends with," he concluded. "One was a Secret Service man named Conne; he promised to help me get a job in some kind of war service till I'm old enough to enlist next spring. The other was a feller about my own age named Archer. He was a steward's boy. I guess they both got drowned, likely. Most all the boats got upset while they were launching them. I hope that German spy got drowned." "Wuz he a German citizen?" Pete asked. "Sure, he was! You don't suppose an American citizen would be a spy for Germany, do you?" "Be gorry, thar's a lot uv German Amiricans, 'n' I wouldn' trust 'em," said Pete. "Well, there's some Irish people here that hate England, so they're against the United States too," said Tom. "Ye call me a thraiter, do ye!" roared Pete. "I didn't call you anything," Tom said, laughing and dodging the Irishman's uplifted hand; "but I say a person is American or else he isn't. It don't make any difference where he was born. If he's an American citizen and he helps Germany, then he's worse than a spy--he's a traitor and he ought to get shot." "Be gorry, you said sumthin'!" "He's worse than anything else in the world," said Tom. "He's worse than--than a murderer!" Pete slapped him on the shoulder. "Bully fer you!" said he. "Fwhativer became uv yer fayther, lad?" he questioned after a moment. "He died," said Tom simply. "It was after we got put out of Barrel Alley and after I got to be a scout. Mr. Ellsworth said maybe it was better--sort of----" Pete nodded. "An' yer bruther?" "Oh, he went away long before that--even before my mother died. He went to work on a ranch out West somewhere--Arizona, I think." "'N' ye niver heard anny more uv him?" "No--I wrote him a letter when my mother died, but I never got any answer. Maybe I sent it to the wrong place. Did you ever hear of a place called O'Brien's Junction out there?" "It's a good name, I'll say that," said Pete. "Everybody used to say he'd make money some day. Maybe he's rich now, hey?" "I remimber all uv yez when yez used fer ter worrk fer Schmitt, here," said Pete. "It reminded me of that when I came along." "Yer fayther, he used fer ter drive th' wagon fer 'im. Big Bill 'n' Little Bill, we used fer ter call him 'n' yer bruther. Yer fayther wuzn' fond uv worrk, I guess." "He used to get cramps," said Tom simply. "He used fer ter lick yez, I'm thinkin'." "Maybe we deserved to get licked," said Tom. "Anyway _I_ did." "Yer right, ye did," agreed Pete. "My brother was better than I was. It made me mad when I saw him get licked. I could feel it way down in my fingers, kind of--the madness. That's why he went to live at Schmitt's after my father got so he couldn't work much. They always had lots to eat at Schmitt's. I didn't ever work there myself," he added with his customary blunt honesty, "because I was a hoodlum." "Wal, I see ye've growed up ter be a foine lad, jist the same," said Pete consolingly, "'n' mebbe the lad as kin feel the tingles ter see's bruther git licked unfair is as good as that same bruther, whativer!" Tom said nothing, but gazed up at the windows of the apartment above the store where the Schmitts had lived. How he had once envied Bill his place in that home of good cheer and abundance! He remembered the sauerkraut and the sausages which Bill had told him of, and he had not believed Bill's extravagant declaration that "at Schmitt's you could have all you want to eat." To poor Tom, living with his wretched father in the two-room tenement in Barrel Alley, with nothing to eat at all, these accounts of the Schmitt household had seemed like a tale from the Arabian Nights. Once his father had sent him there to get fifty cents from thrifty and industrious Bill, and Tom remembered the shiny oilcloth on the kitchen floor, the snowy white fluted paper on the shelves, the stiff, spotless apron on the buxom form of Mrs. Schmitt, whom Mr. Schmitt had called "Mooder." Tom Slade, of Barrel Alley, had revenged himself on Bill and all the rest of this by stealing apples from the front of the store and calling, "Dirty Dutchman"--a singularly inappropriate epithet--at Mr. Schmitt. But he realized now that Mr. Schmitt had been a kind and hospitable man, a much better husband and father than poor Bill Slade, senior, had ever been, and an extremely good friend to lucky Bill, junior, who had lived so near to Heaven, in that immaculate home, as to have all the sauerkraut and sausage and potato salad and rye bread and Swiss cheese and coffee cake that he could possibly manage--and more besides. CHAPTER II HE DOES A GOOD TURN AND MAKES A DISCOVERY "What became of the Schmitts?" Tom asked. "It's aisy ter see ye've ben away from here," said Pete. "I've only been back five days," Tom explained. "Wal, if ye'd been here two weeks ago, ye'd know more'n ye know now about it. Ye're a jack ashore, that's what ye are. Ye've got ter be spruced up on the news. Did ye know the school house burned down?" "Yes, I knew that." "Wal--about this Schmitt, here; thar wuz two detectives come out from Noo Yorrk--from the Fideral phad'ye call it. They wuz making inquiries about Schmitt. Fer th' wan thing he wuz an aly-_an_, 'n' they hed some raysons to think he wuz mixed up in plots. They wuz mighty close-mouthed about it, so I heerd, 'n' they asked more'n they told. Nivir within half a mile uv Schmitt did they go, but by gorry, he gits wind uv it 'n' th' nixt mornin' not so much as a sign uv him wuz thar left. "Cleared out, loike that," said Pete, clapping his hands and spreading his arms by way of illustrating how Adolf Schmitt had vanished in air. "Thar wuz th' grocery full uv stuff and all, 'n' the furnitoor upstairs, but Adolf 'n' the old wooman 'n' th' kids 'n' sich duds ez they cud cram inter their bags wuz gone--bury drawers lift wide open, ez if they'd went in a ghreat hurry." Tom had listened in great surprise. "What--do--you--know--about--that?" he gasped when Pete at last paused. "It's iviry blessed worrd that I know. I'm thinkin' he wint ter Germany, mebbe." "How could he get there?" Tom asked. "Wouldn't thim Dutch skippers in Noo Yorrk Harrbor help him out?" Pete shouted. "Gerrmany, Holland--'tis all th' same. Thar's ways uv gittin' thar, you kin thrust the Germans. They're comin' and goin' back all the toime." "What do you suppose they suspected him of?" Tom asked, his astonishment still possessing him. "Nivir a worrd wud they say, but ye kin bet yer Uncle Sammy's not spyin' around afther people fer nuthin'. They searched the store aftherworrds, but nary a thing cud they find." So that was the explanation of the now vacant store which had been so much a part of the life of Tom Slade and his poor, shiftless family. That was the end, so far as Bridgeboro was concerned, of the jovial, good-hearted grocer, and Fritzie and little Emmy and "Mooder" in her stiff, spotless white apron. It seemed almost unbelievable. "A Hun is a Hun," said Pete, "'n' that's all thar is to't." "What did they do with all the stuff?" Tom asked. Pete shrugged his shoulders. "Mister Temple, he owns th' buildin' an' he hed it cleared out, 'n' now he leaves them Red Cross ladies use it fer ter make bandages 'n' phwat all, 'n' collect money fer their campaign. He's a ghrand man, Mister Temple. Would ye gimme a lift wid this here table, now, while ye're here, Tommy?" As they carried the table across the sidewalk, a group of ladies came down the block and whom should Tom see among them but Mrs. Temple and her daughter Mary. As he looked at Mary (whom he used to tease and call "stuck up") he realized that he was not the only person in Bridgeboro who had been growing up, for she was quite a young lady, and very pretty besides. "Why, Thomas, how _do_ you do!" said Mrs. Temple. "I heard you were back----" "And you never came to see us," interrupted Mary. "I only got back Tuesday," said Tom, a little flustered. He told them briefly of his trip and when the little chat was over Pete Connigan had disappeared. "I wonder if you wouldn't be willing to move one or two things for us?" Mrs. Temple asked. "Have you time? I meant to ask the truckman, but----" "He may be too old to be a scout any more, but he's not too old to do a good turn," teased Mary. They entered the store where the marks of the departed store fixtures were visible along the walls and Schmitt's old counter stood against one side. Piles of Red Cross literature now lay upon it. Upon a rough makeshift table were boxes full of yarn (destined to keep many a long needle busy) and the place was full of the signs of its temporary occupancy. "If I hadn't joined the Red Cross already, I'd join now," said Tom, apologetically, displaying his button. "A girl in our office got me to join." "Wasn't she mean," said Mary. "I'm going to make you work anyhow, just out of spite." Other women now arrived, armed with no end of what Tom called "first aid stuff," and with bundles of long knitting needles, silent weapons for the great drive. Tom was glad enough to retreat before this advancing host and carry several large boxes into the cellar. Then he hauled the old grocery counter around so that the women working at it could be seen from the street. The table, too, he pulled this way and that, to suit the changing fancy of the ladies in authority. "There, I guess that's about right," said Mrs. Temple, eying it critically; "now, there's just one thing more--if you've time. There's a thing down in the cellar with little compartments, sort of----" "I know," said Tom; "the old spice cabinet." "I wonder if we could bring it up together," said Mrs. Temple. "I'll get it," Tom said. "You couldn't do it alone," said Mary. "I'll help." "I can do it better without anybody getting in the way," said Tom with characteristic bluntness, and Mary and her mother were completely squelched. "Gracious, now he has grown," said Mrs. Temple, as Tom disappeared downstairs. "His eyes used to be gray; they've changed," said Mary. As if that had anything to do with moving tables and spice cabinets! The spice cabinet stood against the brick chimney and was covered with thick dust. Behind it was a disused stove-pipe hole stuffed with rags, which Tom pulled out to brush the dust off the cabinet before lifting it. He had pushed it hardly two feet in the direction of the stairs when his coat caught on a nail and he struck a match to see if it had torn. The damage was slight, and, with his customary attention to details, he saw that the nail was one of several which had fastened a narrow strip of molding around the cabinet. About two feet of this molding had been torn away, leaving the nails protruding from the cabinet and Tom noticed not only that the unvarnished strip which the molding had covered was clean and white, but that the exposed parts of the nails were still shiny. "Huh," he thought, "whoever pulled that off must have been in a great hurry not to hammer the nails in or even pull them out." As he twisted the nails out, one by one, it occurred to him to wonder why the heavy, clinging coat of damp dust which covered the rest of the cabinet was absent from this white unsoiled strip and shiny nails. The cabinet, he thought, must have been in the cellar for some time, whereas the molding must have been wrenched from it very recently, for it does not take long for a nail to become rusty in a damp cellar. He struck another match and looked about near the chimney, intending, if the strip of molding were there, to take it upstairs and nail it on where it belonged, for one of the good things which the scout life had taught Tom was that broken furniture and crooked nails sticking out spell carelessness and slovenliness. But the strip was not to be found. A less observant boy would not have given two thoughts to the matter, but in his hasty thinking Tom reached this conclusion, that some one had very lately pulled this strip of molding off of the cabinet and had used it for a purpose, since it was nowhere to be seen. With Pete's tale fresh in his mind, he struck match after match and peered about the cellar. Against the opposite wall he noticed a stick with curved tongs on one end of it, manipulated by a thin metal bar running to the other end. It was one of those handy implements used to lift cans down from high shelves. It stood among other articles, a rake, an old broom, but the deft little mechanical hand on the end of it was bright and shiny, so this, too, had not been long in the damp cellar. For a moment Tom paused and thought. It never occurred to him that momentous consequences might hang upon his thinking. He was simply curious and rather puzzled. He picked up the can lifter and stood looking at it. Then with a sudden thought he went back to the chimney, struck a match and, thrusting his head into the sooty hole, looked up. Four or five feet above, well out of arm's reach, something thin ran across from one side to the other of the spacious chimney. The can lifter was too long to be gotten wholly into the chimney, but Tom poked the end of it through the hole and upward until its angle brought it against the chimney wall. It was right there that the crosspiece was wedged. In other words, it had been pushed as high, a little on this side, a little on that, as this handy implement would reach, and perhaps kept from falling in the process by the gripping tongs. Not another inch could Tom reach with this stick. By hammering upward against the end of it, however, he was able to jam it up a trifle, thanks to its capacity for bending. Thus he dislodged the crosspiece and as it tumbled down he saw that it was the strip of molding from the cabinet. But along with it there fell something else which interested him far more. This was a packet which had evidently been held against the side of the chimney by the stick. There were six bulging envelopes held together by a rubber band. The dampness of the chimney had not affected the live rubber and it still bore its powdery white freshness. "I wonder if they looked there," Tom thought. "Maybe they just reached around--kind of. I should think they'd have noticed those shiny nails, though." He put the packet safely in his pocket and, hauling the cabinet up on his back staggered up the stairs with it. "What in the world took you so long?" said Mary Temple. "Oh, look at your face!" "I can't look at it," said matter-of-fact Tom. "It's too funny! You've got soot all over it. Come over here and I'll wash it off." It was a curious thing about Tom Slade and a matter of much amusement to his friends, that however brave or noble or heroic his acts might be, he was pretty sure to get his necktie halfway around his neck and a dirty face into the bargain. CHAPTER III HE SCENTS DANGER AND RECEIVES A LETTER Tom was greatly excited by his discovery. As he hurried to the office he opened the envelopes and what he found was not of a nature to modify his excitement. Here was German propaganda work with a vengeance. He felt that he had plunged into the very heart of the Teuton spy system. Evidently the recipient of these documents had considered them too precious to destroy and too dangerous to carry. "He might still think of a way to get them, maybe," thought Tom. There was a paper containing a list of all the American cantonments and opposite each camp several names of individuals. Tom thought these might be spies in Uncle Sam's uniform. There was some correspondence about smuggling dental rubber out of the United States to make gas masks in Germany. There were requests for money. There was one letter giving information, in considerable detail, about aeroplane manufacture. Another letter in the same handwriting interested Tom particularly, because of his interest in gas engines--the result of his many tussles with the obstreperous motor of the troop's cabin launch, _Good Turn_. Skimming hastily over some matter about the receipt of money through some intermediary, his interest was riveted by the following: "... I told you about having plans of high pressure motor. That's for battle planes at high altitudes. I've got the drawings of the other now--the low pressure one I told you about at S----'s. That's for seaplanes, submarine spotting, and all that. Develops 400 H.P. They're not putting those in the planes that are going over now, but all planes going over next year will have them. B---- told me what you said about me going across, but that's the only reason I suggested it--because the information won't be of any particular use to them after they bring down a plane. They'll see the whole thing before their eyes then. But suit yourself. There's a lot of new wrinkles on this motor. I'll tell you that, but there's no use telling you about it when you don't know a gas engine from a meat-chopper. "Sure, I could tend to the other matter too--it's the same idea as a periscope. That's a cinch. I knew a chap worked on the _Christopher Colon_. She used to run to Central America. Maybe I could swing it that way. Anyway, I'll see you. "If you have to leave in a hurry, leave money and any directions at S----'s. "I'm going to be laid off here, anyway, on account of my eardrums. "Hope B---- will give you this all right. Guess that's all now." Tom read this twice and out of its scrappiness and incompleteness he gathered this much! that somebody who was about to be dismissed from an aeroplane factory for the very usual reason that he could not stand the terrific noise, had succeeded in either making or procuring plans of Uncle Sam's new aeroplane engine, the Liberty Motor. He understood the letter to mean that it was very important that these drawings reach Germany before the motors were in service, since then it would be too late for the Germans to avail themselves of "Yankee ingenuity," and also since they would in all probability succeed in capturing one of the planes. He gathered further that the sender of the letter was prepared to go himself with these plans, working his way on an American ship, and to do something else (doubtless of a diabolical character) on the way. The phrase "same idea as a periscope" puzzled him. It appeared, also, that the sender of the letter, whoever he was and wherever he was (for no place or date or signature was indicated and the envelopes were not the original ones) had not sent his communications direct to this alien grocer, but to someone else who had delivered them to Schmitt. "It isn't anything for me to be mixed up in, anyway," Tom thought. He was almost afraid to carry papers of such sinister purport with him and he quickened his steps in order that he might turn them over to Mr. Burton, the manager of Temple Camp office. But when he reached the office he did not carry out this intention, for there was waiting for him a letter which upset all his plans and made him forget for the time being these sinister papers. It took him back with a rush to his experiences on shipboard and he read it with a smile on his lips. "Dear Tommy--I don't know whether this letter will ever reach you, for, for all I know, you're in Davy Jones's locker. Even my memo of your address got pretty well soaked in the ocean and all I'm dead sure of is that you live in North America somewhere near a bridge." Tom turned the sheet to look at the signature but he knew already that the letter was from his erstwhile friend, Mr. Carleton Conne. "You'll remember that I promised to get you a job working for Uncle Sam. That job is yours if you're alive to take it. It'll bring you so near the war, if that's what you want, that you couldn't stick a piece of tissue paper between. "If you get this all right and are still keen to work in transport service, there won't be any difficulty on account of the experience you've had. "Drop in to see me Saturday afternoon, room 509, Federal Building, New York, if you're interested. "Best wishes to you. "Carleton Conne." So Mr. Conne was alive and had not forgotten him. Tom wished that the letter had told something about the detective's rescue and the fate of the spy, but he realized that Secret Service agents could hardly be expected to dwell on their adventures to "ship's boy" acquaintances, and was it not enough that Mr. Conne remembered him at all, and his wish to serve on an army transport? He took the letter into the private office to show it to Mr. Burton, resolved now that he would say nothing about his discovery in Schmitt's cellar, for surely Mr. Conne would be the proper one to give the papers to. "You remember," he began, "that I said if I ever heard from Mr. Conne and he offered me a job, I'd like to go. And you said it would be all right." Mr. Burton nodded. "And the expected--or the unexpected--has happened," he added, smiling, as he handed Mr. Conne's letter back to Tom. "It'll be all right, won't it?" Tom asked. "I suppose it will have to be, Tom," Mr. Burton said pleasantly. "That was our understanding, wasn't it?" "Yes, sir--but I'm sorry--kind of." "I'm sorry, kind of, too; but I suppose there's no help for it. Some boys," he added, as he toyed with a paperweight, "seem to be born to work in offices, and some to wander over the face of the earth. I would be the last to discourage you from entering war service in whatever form it might be. But I'm afraid you'd go anyway, Tom, war or no war. The world isn't big enough for some people. They're born that way. I'm afraid you're one of them. It's surprising how unimportant money is in traveling if one has the wanderlust. It'll be all right," he concluded with a pleasant but kind of rueful smile. He understood Tom Slade thoroughly. "That's another thing I was thinking about, too," said Tom. "Pretty soon I'll be eighteen and then I want to enlist. If I enlist in this country I'll have to spend a whole lot of time in camp, and maybe in the end I wouldn't get sent to the firing line at all. There's lots of 'em won't even get across. If they find you've got good handwriting or maybe some little thing like that, they'll keep you here driving an army wagon or something. If I go on a transport I can give it up at either port. It's mostly going over that the fellers are kept busy anyway; coming back they don't need them. I found that out before. They'll give you a release there if you want to join the army. So if I keep going back and forth till my birthday, then maybe I could hike it through France and join Pershing's army. I'd rather be trained over there, 'cause then I'm nearer the front. You don't think that's sort of cheating the government, do you?" he added. Mr. Burton laughed. "I don't think the government will object to that sort of cheating," he said. "I read about a feller that joined in France, so I know you can do it. You see, it cuts out a lot of red tape, and I'd kind of like hiking it alone--ever since I was a scout I've felt that way." "Once a scout, always a scout," smiled Mr. Burton, using a phrase of which he was very fond and which Tom had learned from him; "and it wouldn't be Tom Slade if he didn't go about things in a way of his own, eh, Tom? Well, good luck to you." Tom went out and in his exuberance he showed Mr. Conne's letter to Margaret Ellison, who also worked in Temple Camp office. "It's splendid," she said, "and as soon as you _know_ you're going I'm going to hang a service flag in the window." "You can't hang out a service flag for a feller that's working on a transport," Tom said. "He isn't in regular military service. When I'm enlisted I'll let you know." "You must be sure to write." Tom promised and was delighted. So great was his elation, indeed, that on his way home to his room that evening he went through Terrace Avenue again, to see how the Red Cross women were getting on in their new quarters. Mary Temple received him in a regular nurse's costume, which made Tom almost wish that he were lying wounded on some battle-field. She was delighted at his good news, and, "Oh, we had such a funny man here just after you left," she said. "Mother thinks he must have been insane. He said he came to read the gas-meter, so I took him down into the cellar and the gas-meter had been taken away. Wouldn't you think the gas company would have known that? Then he said he would stay in the cellar and inspect the pipes." "Did you let him?" Tom asked. "I certainly did _not_! With all our stuff down there? When he saw I intended to stay down as long as he did, he went right up. Do you think he wanted to steal some of our membership buttons?" Tom shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully. He was glad the next day was Saturday. CHAPTER IV HE GETS A JOB AND MEETS "FRENCHY" Tom found Mr. Conne poring over a scrapbook filled with cards containing finger-prints. His unlighted cigar was cocked up in the corner of his mouth like a flag-pole from a window, just the same as when Tom had seen him last. It almost seemed as if it must be the very same cigar. He greeted Tom cordially. "So they didn't manage to sink my old chum, Sherlock Nobody Holmes, eh? Tommy, my boy, how are you?" "Did the spy get rescued?" Tom asked, as the long hand-shake ended. "Nope. Went down. But we nabbed a couple of his accomplices through his papers." "I got a new mystery," said Tom in his customary blunt manner. "I was going to give these papers to my boss, but when I got your letter I decided I'd give 'em to you." He told the detective all about Adolf Schmitt and of how he had discovered the papers in the chimney. "You say the place had already been searched?" Mr. Conne asked. "Yes, but I s'pose maybe they were in a hurry and had other things to think about, maybe. A man came there again just the other day, too, and said he wanted to read the gas-meter. But he looked all 'round the cellar." "Hmm," Mr. Conne said dryly. "Tom, if you don't look out you'll make a detective one of these days. I see you've got the same old wide-awake pair of eyes as ever." "I learned about deducing when I was in the scouts," said Tom. "They always made fun of me for it--the fellers did. Once I deduced an aeroplane landed in a big field because the grass was kind of dragged, but afterwards I found the fellers had made tracks there with an old baby carriage just to fool me. Sometimes one thing kind of tells you another, sort of." "Well, whenever you see something that you think tells you anything, Tommy, you just follow it up and never mind about folks laughing. I shouldn't wonder if you've made a haul here." "There was one of 'em that interested me specially," ventured Tom; "the one about motors." Mr. Conne glanced over the papers again. "Hmm," said he, "I dare say that's the least important of the lot--sort of crack-brained." Tom felt squelched. "Well, anyway, they'll all be taken care of," Mr. Conne said conclusively, as he stuffed the papers in his pocket. Tom could have wished that he might share in the further developments connected with those interesting papers. But, however important Mr. Conne considered them, he put the matter temporarily aside in the interest of Tom's proposed job. "I just happened to think of you," he said, as he took his hat and coat, "when I was talking with the steward of the _Montauk_. He was saying they were short-handed. Come along, now, and we'll go and see about it." Mr. Conne's mind seemed full of other things as he hurried along the street with Tom after him. On the ferryboat, as they crossed to Hoboken, he was more sociable. "Don't think any more about those letters now," he said. "The proper authorities will look after them." "Yes, sir." "And whatever they set you to doing, put your mind on your work first of all. Keep your eyes and ears open--there's no law against that--but do your work. It's only in dime novels that youngsters like you are generals and captains and famous detectives." "Yes, sir," said Tom. "What I mean is, don't get any crazy notions in your head. You may land in the Secret Service yet. But meanwhile keep your feet on the earth--or the ship. Get me?" Tom was sensible enough to know that this was good advice. "Your finding these letters was clever. If there are any spies in the camps they'll be rounded up double quick. As for spy work at sea, I'll tell you this, though you mustn't mention it, there are government sleuths on all the ships--most of them working as hands." "Yes, sir," said Tom. "I'm going across on a fast ship to-morrow myself," continued Mr. Conne, greatly to Tom's surprise. "I'll be in Liverpool and London and probably in France before you get there. There's a bare possibility of you seeing me over there." "I hope I do," said Tom. The transport _Montauk_ was one of the many privately owned steamers taken over into government service, and Tom soon learned that outside the steward's department nearly all the positions on board were filled by naval men. Mr. Conne presented him to the steward, saying that Tom had made a trip on a munition carrier, and disappeared in a great hurry. Tom could not help feeling that he was one of the least important things among Mr. Conne's multitudinous interests, and it must be confessed that he felt just a little chagrined at finding himself disposed of with so little ceremony. But, if he had only known it, this good friend who stood so high in that most fascinating department of all Uncle Sam's departmental family, had borne him in mind more than he had encouraged Tom to think, and he had previously spoken words of praise to the steward, which now had their effect in Tom's allotment to his humble duties. He was, in a word, given the best position to be had among the unskilled, non-naval force and became presently the envy of every youngster on board. This was the exalted post of captain's mess boy, a place of honor and preferment which gave him free entrance to that holy of holies, "the bridge," where young naval officers marched back and forth, and where the captain dined in solitary state, save for Tom's own presence. Now and then, in the course of that eventful trip, Tom looked enviously at the young wireless operators, and more particularly at the marine signalers, who moved their arms with such jerky and mechanical precision and sometimes, perhaps, he thought wistfully of certain fortunate young heroes of fiction who made bounding leaps to the top of the ladder of fame. But he did his work cheerfully and well and became a favorite on board, for his duties gave him the freedom of all the decks. He was the captain's mess boy and could go anywhere. Indeed, with one person he became a favorite even before the vessel started. It was well on toward dusk of the third day and he was beginning to think they would never sail, when suddenly he heard a tramp, tramp, on the pier and up the gangplank, and before he realized it the soldiers swarmed over the deck, their tin plates and cups jangling at their sides. They must have come through the adjoining ferry house and across a low roof without touching the street at all, for they appeared as if by magic and no one seemed to know how they had got there. Their arrival was accompanied by much banter and horseplay among themselves, interspersed with questions to the ship's people, few of which could be answered. "Hey, pal, where are we going?" "Where do we go from here, kiddo?" "Say, what's the next stop for this jitney?" "We don't know where we're going, but we're on our way," someone piped up. "We're going to Berlin," one shouted. The fact that no one gave them any information did not appear to discourage them. "When do we eat?" one wanted to know. Tom saw no reason why he should not answer that, so he said to those crowded nearest to him, "In about half an hour." "G-o-o-d-ni-ight!" "When are we going to start? Who's running this camp anyway?" "Go and tell the engineer we're here and he can start off." "Fares, please. Ding ding!" "Gimme me a transfer to Berlin." And so it went. They sprawled about on the hatches, perched upon the rail, leaned in groups against the vent pipes; they covered the ship like a great brown blanket. They wrestled with each other, knocked each other about, shouted gibberish intended for French, talked about _Kaiser Bill_, and mixed things up generally. At last they were ordered into line and marched slowly through the galley where their plates and cups were filled and a butcher was kept busy demolishing large portions of a cow. They sprawled about anywhere they pleased, eating. To Tom it was like a scout picnic on a mammoth scale. Here and there was noticeable a glum, bewildered face, but for the most part the soldiers (drafted or otherwise) seemed bent on having the time of their lives. It could not be said that they were without patriotism, but their one thought now seemed to be to make merry. Tom's customary stolidness disappeared in the face of this great mirthful drive and he sat on the edge of the hatch, his white jacket conspicuous by contrast, and smiled broadly. He wondered whether any other country in the world could produce such a slangy, jollying, devil-may-care host as these vociferous American soldiers. How he longed to be one of them! A slim young soldier elbowed his way through the throng and, supper in hand, seated himself on the hatch beside Tom. He had the smallest possible mustache, with pointed ends, and his demeanor was gentlemanly and friendly. Even his way of stirring his coffee seemed different from the rough and tumble fashion of the others. "These are _stirring_ times, hey, Frenchy?" a soldier said. "Yess--zat is verry good--_stirring times_," the young fellow answered, in appreciation of the joke. Then, turning to Tom, he said, "Zis is ze Bartholdi statue, yess? I am from ze West." "That's the Statue of Liberty," said Tom. "You'll see it better when we pass it." "Ah, yess! zis is ze first; I haf' nevaire seen. I zank you." "Do you know why the Statue of Liberty looks so sad, Frenchy?" a soldier asked. "Because she's facing Brooklyn." "Do you know why she's got her arm up?" another called. Frenchy was puzzled. "She represents the American woman hanging onto a strap in the subway." "Don't let them jolly you, Frenchy," another said. Frenchy, a little bewildered, laughed good-humoredly as the bantering throng plied him with absurdities. "Are you French?" Tom asked, as some new victim diverted the attention of the boys. "Ah, no! I am Americ'." "But you were born in France?" "Yess--zey call it Zhermany, but it is France! I take ze coat from you. Still it is yours. Am I right? I am born in Alsace. Zat is France!" "Doncher believe him, kiddo!" said a soldier. "He was born in Germany. Look on the map." "He's a German spy, Whitey; look out for him." "Alsace--ziss is France!" said Frenchy fervently. "_Ziss_ is the United States," shouted a soldier derisively. "_Ziss_ is Hoboken!" chimed in another. "Vive la Hoboken!" shrieked a third. Tom thought he had never laughed so much in all his life. CHAPTER V HE MAKES A DISCOVERY AND RECEIVES A SHOCK Soon after dusk the soldiers were ordered to throw away their "smokes" and either go below or lie flat upon the decks. Officers patrolled the rail while others strolled among the boys and reminded the unruly and forgetful not to raise themselves, and soon the big ship, with its crowding khaki-clad cargo, was moving down the stream--on its way to "can the Kaiser." Then even the patrol was discontinued. A crowded ferryboat paused in its passage to give the great gray transport the right of way, and the throng of commuters upon its deck saw nothing as they looked up but one or two white-jacketed figures moving about. Tom thought the ship was off, but after fifteen or twenty minutes the throb of the engines ceased and he heard the clank, clank of the anchor winches. A little distant from the ship tiny green, red and white lights appeared and disappeared and were answered by other colored lights from high up in the rigging of the _Montauk_. Other lights appeared in other directions and were answered by still others, changing rapidly. Tom thought that he could distinguish a dark outline below certain of these lights. The whole business seemed weird and mysterious. In the morning he looked from the rail at a sight which astonished and thrilled him. No sign of land was there to be seen. Steaming abreast of the _Montauk_ and perhaps a couple of hundred yards from her, was a great ship with soldiers crowding at her rail waving caps and shouting, their voices singularly crisp and clear across the waters. Beyond her and still abreast was another great ship, the surging army upon her decks reduced to a brown mass in the distance. And far off on either side of this flotilla of three, and before it and behind it, was a sprightly little destroyer, moving this way and that, like a dog jumping about his master. Upon the nearest vessel a naval signaler was semaphoring to the _Montauk_--his movements jerky, clean-cut, perfect. Enviously Tom watched him, thinking of his own semaphore work at Temple Camp. He read the message easily; it was something about how many knots the ship could make in a steady run of six hundred miles. The _Montauk_ answered that she could make twenty-eight knots and keep it up for nineteen hours. The other signaler seemed to be relaying this to the transport beyond, which in turn signaled the destroyer on that side. Then there was signaling between the _Montauk_ and her own neighbor destroyer about sailing formation in the danger zone. It was almost like A B C to Tom, but he remembered Mr. Conne's good advice and resolved not to concern himself with matters outside his own little sphere of duty. But a few days later he made a discovery which turned his thoughts again to Adolf Schmitt's cellar and to spies. He had piled the captain's breakfast dishes, made his weather memoranda from the barometer for posting in the main saloon, and was dusting the captain's table, when he chanced to notice the framed picture of a ship on the cabin wall. He had seen it before, but now he noticed the tiny name, scarcely decipherable, upon its bow, _Christopher Colon_. So that was the ship on which somebody or other known to the fugitive, Adolf Schmitt, had thought of sailing in order to carry certain information to Germany. As Tom gazed curiously at this picture he thought of a certain phrase in that strange letter, _"Sure, I could tend to the other matter too--it's the same idea as a periscope."_ Yet Mr. Conne's sensible advice would probably have prevailed and Tom would have put these sinister things out of his thoughts, but meeting one of the steward's boys upon the deck shortly afterward he said, "There's a picture of a ship, the _Christopher Colon_----" "That's this ship," interrupted the steward's boy. "They don't say much about those things. It's hard to find out anything. Nobody except these navy guys know about how many ships are taken over for transports. But I saw a couple of spoons in the dining saloon with that name on them. And sometimes you can make it out under the fresh paint on the life preservers and things. Uncle Sam's some foxy old guy." Tom was so surprised that he stood stark still and stared as the boy hurried along about his duties. Upon the _Montauk's_ nearest neighbor the naval signalman was semaphoring, and he watched abstractedly. It was something about camouflage maneuvering in the zone. Tom took a certain pride in being able to read it. Far off, beyond the other great ships, a sprightly little destroyer cut a zigzag course, as if practicing. The sky was clear and blue. As Tom watched, a young fellow in a sailor's suit hurried by, working his way among the throng of soldiers. Presently, Frenchy strolled past talking volubly to another soldier, and waving his cigarette gracefully in accompaniment. A naval quartermaster leaned against the rail, chatting with a red-faced man with spectacles--the chief engineer, Tom thought. Who were Secret Service men and who were not? thought Tom. Who was a spy and who was not? Perhaps some one who brushed past him carried in his pockets (or more likely in the soles of his shoes) the designs of the Liberty Motor. Perhaps some one had the same thought about
{'title': 'Tom Slade on a Transport by Percy Keese Fitzhugh', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}