Tom Slade on a Transport Part 3

"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 wanderl.u.s.t. 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 Pers.h.i.+ng'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 members.h.i.+p b.u.t.tons?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully. He was glad the next day was Sat.u.r.day.

CHAPTER IV

HE GETS A JOB AND MEETS "FRENCHY"

Tom found Mr. Conne poring over a sc.r.a.pbook filled with cards containing finger-prints. His unlighted cigar was c.o.c.ked 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 n.o.body 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 gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+ps--most of them working as hands."

"Yes, sir," said Tom.

"I'm going across on a fast s.h.i.+p 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 mult.i.tudinous 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.