Tom Slade with the Boys Over There Part 13

Archer took the gla.s.s and looking down saw a little white house with a heavy roof of thatch. A tipsy, ramshackle fence surrounded it and in the enclosure several sheep were grazing. The whole poor farm, if such it was, was at the end of a long rustic overgrown lane and quite a distance from the cl.u.s.ter of houses which const.i.tuted the hamlet. By scrambling down the rugged hillside one could reach this house without entering the hamlet at all.

"If I dared, I'd make the break," said Tom.

"Suppose they should be Gerrmans living therre?" Archer suggested. "I wouldn't risk it. Can't you see therre's a German flag on a flagpole?"

"That's just it," said Tom. "If I knew they were French people I could show them Frenchy's b.u.t.ton. If I was sure this uniform, or whatever you call it, was all right, I'd take a chance."

"It's all right at a distance, anyway," Archer encouraged; "as long as n.o.body can see yourr face or speak to you."

It was a pretty risky business and both realized it. After three days of successful flight to run into the very jaws of recapture by an ill-considered move was not at all to Tom's liking, yet he felt sure that it would be equally risky to penetrate into that dark wilderness which stretched away toward the Swiss border without first ascertaining something of its extent and character, and what the prospect was of getting through it unseen. Moreover, they were hungry.

Yet it was twilight and the distant river had become a dark ribbon and the outlines of the poor houses below them blurred and indistinct in the gathering darkness before Tom could bring himself to re-enter the haunts of men.

"You stay here," he said, "and I'll go down and pike around. There's one thing, that house is very old and people don't move around here like they do in America. So if I see anything that makes me think the house is French then probably the people are French too."

It was a sensible thought, more dependable indeed than Tom imagined, for in poor Alsace and Lorraine, of all places, people who loved their homes enough to remain in them under foreign despotism would probably continue living in them generation after generation. There is no moving day in Europe.

CHAPTER XV

HE WHO HAS EYES TO SEE

It was quite dark when Tom scrambled down and, with his heart beating rapidly, stole cautiously across the hubbly ground toward the dilapidated brush fence which enclosed the place. The disturbing thought occurred to him that where there were sheep there was likely to be a dog, but he would not turn back.

He realized that he was gambling with those hard-won days of freedom, that any minute he might be discovered and seized. But the courage which his training as a scout had given him did not forsake him, and he crossed the fence and stealthily approached the house, which was hardly more than a whitewashed cabin with two small windows, one door and a disheveled roof, entirely too big for it as it seemed to Tom. The odd conceit occurred to him that it ought to be brushed and combed like a shocky head of hair. Within there was a dim light, and protecting each window was a rough board shutter, hinged at the top and held open at an angle by a stick.

He crept cautiously up and examined these shutters with minutest care.

He even felt of one of them and found it to be old and rotten. Then he felt to see if his precious b.u.t.ton was safe in his pocket.

Evidently the dilapidated shutter suggested something to him, for he glanced about as if looking for something else, and seemed encouraged.

Now he stole a quick look this way or that to antic.i.p.ate the approach of any one, and then looked carefully about again.

At last his eyes lit upon the flagpole which was projected diagonally from the house, with the flag, which he knew must be the German flag, depending from it. The distant sight of this flag had quite discouraged Archer's hopes, but Tom knew that the compulsory display of the Teuton colors was no indication of the sentiment of the people.

He was more interested in the rough, home-made flagpole which he ventured to bend a little so as to bring its end within reach. This he examined with a care entirely disproportionate to the importance of the crude, whittled handiwork. He pushed the drooping flag aside rather impatiently as it fell over his face, and felt of the end of the pole and scrutinized it as best he could in the darkness.

It was roughly carved and intended to be ornamental, swelling into a kind of curved ridge surmounted by a dull, dome-like point. He felt it all over, then cautiously bending the pole down within reach of his mouth, he bit into the wood and deposited the two or three loose splinters in his pocket.

Then he hurried back up the hill to rejoin Archer.

"Let me have the flashlight," he said with rather more excitement than he often showed. And he would say no more till he had examined the little splinter of wood in its glare.

"It's all right," he said; "we're safe in going there. See this? It's a splinter from the flagpole----"

"A souveneerr!" Archer interrupted.

"There you go again," said Tom. "Who's talking about souvenirs? See how white and fresh the wood is--look. That's off the end of the pole where it's carved into kind of a fancy topknot. And it was whittled inside of a year."

"_I_ could whittle it inside of an hour," said Archer.

"I mean it was whittled not longer than a year ago, 'cause even the weather hasn't got into it yet. And it's whittled like a fleur-de-lis--kind of," Tom added triumphantly.

"Why didn't you bring the whole of it?"

"When they were building the shacks at Temple Camp," said Tom, "there was a carpenter who was a Frenchman. I was good friends with him and he told me a lot of stuff. He always had some wine in his dinner pail. He showed me how French carpenters nail s.h.i.+ngles. Instead of keeping the nails in their mouths like other carpenters do, they keep them up their sleeves and they can drop them down into their hands one by one as fast as they need them. They hit 'em four times instead of two--do you know why?"

"To drive 'em in," suggested Archer.

"'Cause in France they don't have cedar s.h.i.+ngles, like we do; they have s.h.i.+ngles made out of hard wood. And they get so used to hitting the nail four raps that they can't stop it--that's what he said."

"Here's another one," said Archer. "You can't drive a nail with a sponge--no matter how you soak it."

"He told me some other things, too," said Tom, ignoring Archer's flippancy. "He used to talk to me while he was eating his lunch. The way he got started telling me about the different way they do things in Europe was when he put the shutters on the big shack. He put the hinges at the top 'cause that's always the way they do in France. He said in Italy they put 'em on the left side. In America they put them on the right side--except when they have two.

"So when I saw the shutters on that old house I happened to notice that the hinges were at the top and that made me think it was probably a Frenchman's home."

"Maybe it isn't now even if it was when the shutterrs werre made," said Archer skeptically.

"Then I happened to remember something else that man told me. Maybe you think the fleur-de-lis is only a fancy kind of an emblem, but it ain't.

He told me the old monks that used to carve things--no matter what they carved you could always find a cross, or something like a cross in it.

'Cause they _think_ that way, see? The same as sailors always tattoo fishes and s.h.i.+ps and things on their arms. He said some places in the Black Forest the toymakers are French peasants and you can always tell if a fancy thing is carved by them on account of the shape of the fleur-de-lis. It ain't that they do it on purpose," he added; "it's because it's in their heads, like. They don't always make regular fleur-de-lis, but they make that kind of curves. He told me a lot about Napoleon, too," he added irrelevantly.

"So when I happened to think about that, I looked around to see if I could find anything to prove it, kind of. It don't make any difference if the German flag _is_ on that pole; they've _got_ to do that. When I saw the topknot was carved kind of like a fleur-de-lis I knew French people must have made it. And it was only carved lately, too," he added simply, "'cause the wood is fresh."

"Gee whillic.u.ms, but you're a peach, Slady!" said Archer ecstatically.

"Shall we take a chance?"

"Of course I don't know for sure," Tom added, "but we've got to go by signs--just like Indian signs along a trail. If you pick up an old flint arrowhead you know you're on an Indian trail."

"Christopherr _Columbus!_ But I'd like to find one of those arrowheads now!" said Archer.

CHAPTER XVI

THE WEAVER OF MERNON

But for all these fine deductions, you are not to suppose that Tom and Archer approached the little house without trepidation. The nearer they came to it the less dependable seemed Tom's theory.

"It might be all right in a story book," Archer said, backsliding into dismal apprehensions. But before he had a chance to lose his courage Tom had knocked softly on the door. They could hear a scuffling sound inside and then the door was opened cautiously by a little stooping old man with a pale, deeply wrinkled face, and long, straight white hair. From his ragged peasant's attire he must have been very poor and the primitive furnis.h.i.+ngs in the dimly lighted room, of which they caught a glimpse, confirmed this impression. But he had a pair of keen blue eyes which scrutinized the travellers rather tremulously, evidently supposing them to be German soldiers.

"What have I done?" he asked fearfully in German.

Tom wasted no time trying to understand him, but bringing forth his iron b.u.t.ton he held it out silently.