Tom Slade on a Transport Part 6

"Yess," said Frenchy with great satisfaction. "Zat is how eet is--you will understand. My pappa cannot go. Zis is hees _home_. So he stay--stay under ze Zhermans. Ah! For everything, _everything_, we must pay ze tax. Five hundred soldiers, zey keep, _always_--in zis little village--and only seven hundred people. Ziss is ze way. Ugh! Even ze name zey change--Dundgart! Ugh!"

"I don't like it as well as Lethure," said matter-of-fact Tom.

Frenchy laughed at Tom's p.r.o.nunciation. "Zis is how you say--Le-teur.

See? I will teach you ze French."

"How did you happen to come to America?" Tom asked.

"Ah! I will tell you," Frenchy said, as a grim, dangerous look gathered in his eyes. "You are--how many years, my frien'!"

"I'm seventeen," said Tom.

"One cannot tell wiz ze Americans," Frenchy explained. "Zey grow so queeck--so beeg. In Europe, zey haf' nevaire seen anyzing like zis--zis army," he added, indicating with a sweeping wave of his hand the groups of lolling, joking soldiers.

"They make fun of you a lot, don't they?"

"Ah, zat I do not mind."

"Maybe that's why they all like you."

"I will tell you," said Frenchy, reverting to Tom's previous question.

"I am zhust ze same age as you--sefenteen--when zey throw my seester in ze zhail because she sing ze Ma.r.s.ellaise. Zat I cannot stand! You see?--When ze soldiers--fat Zhermans, ugh! When zey come for her, I strike zis fat one--here--so."

"I'm glad you did," said Tom.

"Hees eye I cut open, _so_. Wiz my fist--zhust boy's fist, but so sharp."

"I don't blame you," said Tom.

"So zen I must flee. Even to be rude to ze Zherman soldier--zis is crime. So I come to Americ'. Zey are looking for me, but I go by night, I sleep in ze haystack--zis I show. (He exhibited a little iron b.u.t.ton with nothing whatever upon it.) You see? Zis is--what you call--talisman. Yess?

"So I come to Epinal across ze border, through ze pa.s.s in ze mountains.

I am free! I go to my uncle in Canada who is agent to our wines. Zen I come to Chicago, where I haf' other uncle--also agent. Now I go to France wiz ze Americans to take Alsace back. What should I care if they laugh at me? We go to take Alsace back! Alsace!--Listen--I will tell you!

"Vive la France!

A bas la Prusse!

D'Schwowe mien Zuem Elsa.s.s 'nuess!

See if you can say zis," he smiled.

Tom shook his head.

"I will tell you--see.

"Long live France!

Down with Prussia!

The Boches must Get out of Alsace!"

"It must make you feel good after all that to go back now and make them give up Alsace," said Tom, his stolid nature moved by the young fellow's enthusiasm. "I'd like it if I'd been with you when you escaped and ran away like that. I like long hikes and adventures and things, anyway. It must be a long time since you saw your people."

"Saw! Even I haf' not _heard_ for t'ree year. Eight years ago I fled away. Even before America is in ze war I haf' no letters. Ze Zhermans tear zem up! Ah, no matter. When it is all over and ze boundary line is back at ze Rhine again--zen I will see zem. My pappa, my moother, my seester Florette----"

His eyes glistened and he paused.

"I go wiz Uncle Sam! My seester will sing ze Ma.r.s.ellaise!"

"Yes," said Tom. "She can sing it all she wants."

"If zey are not yet killed," Frenchy added, looking intently out upon the ocean.

"I kind of feel that they're not," said Tom simply. "Sometimes I have feelings like that and they usually come out true."

Frenchy looked suddenly at him, then embraced him. "See, I will give you ziss," he said, handing Tom the little iron b.u.t.ton. "I haf' two--see? I will tell you about zis," he added, drawing close and holding it so that Tom could see. "It is made from ze cannon in my pappa's regiment. Zis is when Alsace and Lorraine were lost--you see? Zey swear zey would win or die together--and so zey all die--except seventy. So zese men, zey swear zey will stand by each other, forever--zese seventy. You see? Even in poor Alsace--and in Lorraine. So zese, ze haf' make from a piece of ze cannon. You see? If once you can get across ze Zherman lines into Alsace, zis will find you friends and shelter. Ah, but you must be careful. You see? You must watch for zis b.u.t.ton and when you see--zen you can show zis. You will know ze person who wears ze b.u.t.ton is French--man, woman, peasant, child. Ze Zhermans do not know. Zey are fine spies, fine sneaks! But zis zey do not know. You see?"

It was as much to please the generous Frenchy as for any other reason (though, to be sure, he was glad to have it) that Tom took the little b.u.t.ton and put it in his pocket.

"Ze iron cross--you know zat?"

"I've heard about it," said Tom.

"Zat means murder, savagery, death! Zis little b.u.t.ton means friends.h.i.+p, help. Ze Zhermans do not know. You take this for--what you call--lucky piece?"

"I'll always keep it," said Tom, little dreaming what it would mean to him.

An authoritative voice was heard and they saw the soldiers throwing away their cigars and cigarettes and emptying their pipes against the rail.

At the same time the electric light in the converted guard house was extinguished and an officer came along calling something into each of the staterooms along the promenade tier. They were entering the danger zone.

CHAPTER VII

HE BECOMES VERY PROUD, AND ALSO VERY MUCH FRIGHTENED

Tom's talk with Frenchy left him feeling very proud that he was American born. He had that advantage over the Frenchman, he thought, even though Frenchy had escaped through a pa.s.s in the Alsatian mountains and made such an adventurous flight.

When Frenchy had spoken of the American soldiers Tom felt especially proud. He was glad that all his people so far as he knew anything about them, were good out-and-out Yankees. Even his poor worthless father had been a great patriot, and played the _Star-Spangled Banner_ on his old accordion when he ought to have been at work.

Then there was poor old one-armed Uncle Job Slade who used to get drunk, but he had told Tom about "them confounded rebels and traitors" of Lincoln's time, and when he had died in the Soldiers' Home they had buried him with the Stars and Stripes draped over his coffin.

He was sorry now that he had not mentioned these things when gruff, well-meaning Pete Connigan had spoken disparagingly of the Slades.

He was glad he was not an adopted American like Frenchy, but that all his family had been Americans as far back as he knew. He was proud to "belong" to a country that other people wanted to "join"--that _he_ had never had to join. And as he stood at the rail when his duties were finished that same night and gazed off across the black, rough ocean, he made up his mind that after this when he heard slurs cast upon his father and his uncle, instead of feeling ashamed he would defend them, and tell of the good things which he knew about them.

He stood there at the rail, quite alone, thinking. The night was very dark and the sea was rough. Not a light was to be seen upon the s.h.i.+p.

It occurred to him that it might be better for him not to stand there with his white steward's jacket on. He recalled how, up at Temple Camp, one could see the white tents very clearly all the way across the lake.