Tom Slade on a Transport Part 7

There was no rule about it, apparently, but sometimes, when people forgot to make a good rule, Tom made it for them. So now he went down to his little stateroom (the captain's mess boy had a tiny stateroom to himself) and put on a dark coat.

The second cabin dining saloon and dining room, which were below decks and had no outside ports, were crowded with soldiers, playing cards and checkers, and they did not fail to "josh" Whitey as he pa.s.sed through.

Frenchy was there and he waved pleasantly to Tom.

"Going to get out and walk, Whitey?" a soldier called. "I see you've got your street clothes on."

"I thought maybe the white would be too easy to see," Tom answered.

"Wise guy!" someone commented.

Reaching the main deck he edged his way along between the narrow pa.s.sageway and the washroom to a secluded spot astern. He liked this place because it was so lonesome and unfrequented and because he could hear the whir and splash of the great propellers directly beneath him as each big roller lifted the after part of the vessel out of the water.

Here he could think about Bridgeboro and Temple Camp, and Roy Blakeley and the other scouts, and of how proud he was that he was an American through and through, and of what he was going to say to people after this when they called his father a "no good" and Uncle Job a "rummy." He was glad he had thought about that, for back in Bridgeboro people were always saying something.

Suddenly a stern, authoritative voice spoke just behind him. "What are you doing here?"

In the heavy darkness Tom could just make out that the figure was in khaki and he thought it was the uniform of an officer.

"I ain't doing anything," he said.

"What did you come here for?" the voice demanded sternly.

"I--I don' know," stammered Tom, thoroughly frightened.

Quickly, deftly, the man slapped his clothing in the vicinity of his pockets.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm captain's mess boy."

Laying his hand on Tom's shoulder, he marched him into the saloon and to the head of the companionway where the dim light from the pa.s.sageway below enabled him to get a better sight of the boy. Tom was all of a tremor as the officer scrutinized him.

"You're the fellow that read the semaph.o.r.e message, aren't you?" the officer demanded.

"Y-yes, sir, but I didn't notice them any more since I found out I shouldn't." Then he mustered courage to add, "I only went back there because it was dark and lonely, kind of. I was thinking about where I live and things----"

The officer scrutinized him curiously for a moment and apparently was satisfied, for he only added, speaking rather harshly, "You'd better be careful where you go at night and keep away from the ropes." With this he wheeled about and strode away.

For a minute or two Tom stood rooted to the spot where he stood, his heart pounding in his breast. He would not have been afraid of a whole regiment of Germans and he would probably have retained his stolid demeanor if the vessel had been sinking, but this little encounter frightened him. He wished that he had had the presence of mind to tell the officer why he had doffed his white jacket, and he wished that he had had the courage to mention how his Uncle Job had fought at Gettysburg and been buried with the flag over his coffin. Those things might have impressed the officer.

As he lay in his berth that night, his feeling of fright pa.s.sed away and he was overcome with a feeling of humiliation. That _he_, Tom Slade, who had been a scout of the scouts, who had worked for the Colors, whose whole family history had been one of loyalty and patriotism, should be even---- No, of course, he had not been actually _suspected_ of anything, and he knew that the government had to be very watchful and careful, but---- Well, he felt ashamed and humiliated, that's all.

He made up his mind that if he should see that officer again, and he did not look too forbidding, he would mention how his mother had taught him to sing _America_, how his father had played the _Star-Spangled Banner_ on his old accordion and how Uncle Job had died in the Soldiers' Home.

Those were about the only good things he could remember about his father and Uncle Job, but weren't they enough?

And since the government was so very particular, Tom got up and hung his coat across the porthole, though no clink of light could possibly have escaped, for his little stateroom was as dark as pitch and even when he opened his door there was only the dim light from the inner pa.s.sage.

CHAPTER VIII

HE HEARS SOME NEWS AND IS CONFIDENTIAL WITH FRENCHY

The next morning there was a rumor. Somebody told somebody who told somebody else who told a deck steward who told Tom that a couple of men had gone very stealthily along the dimly lighted pa.s.sageway outside the forward staterooms below, looking for a lighted stateroom.

"There was never so much as a glint," the deck steward volunteered.

Instantly Tom thought of his experience of the previous night and there arose in his mind also certain pa.s.sages from one of the letters he had turned over to Mr. Conne.

Acting on his benefactor's very sensible advice, he had not allowed his mind to dwell upon those mysterious things which were altogether outside his humble sphere. But now he could not help recalling that this s.h.i.+p had been the _Christopher Colon_ on which somebody or other had thought he might be able to sail. Well, in any event, the s.h.i.+p's people had those things in hand, and after his disturbing experience of the night before, he would not dare speak to one of his superiors about what was in his mind. But he was greatly interested in this whispered news.

"The electric lights are turned off in the staterooms, anyway," he said.

"Yes, but that bunch is always smoking--them engineers," said the deck steward, "and a chap would naturally stick his head out of the port so as not to get the room full of smoke. All he'd have to do is drop his smoke in the ocean if anyone happened along. It's been done more'n once."

"Then you don't think it was spies they suspected or--anything like that?"

The deck steward, who was an old hand, hunched his shoulders. "Maybe, and maybe not. You can't drum it into some men that a cigarette is like a searchlight on the ocean."

"Yet the destroyers signal at night--even here in the zone," Tom said.

"Not much--only when it's necessary. And the transports don't answer.

It's just a little brown kind of light, too. They say the tin fish[1]

can't make it out at all."

"Is that where the engineers sleep--down there?" Tom asked.

"The chief and the first a.s.sistants up on deck; third and fourth and head fireman are down there, and two electricians. The carpenter's there, too."

"Well, they didn't find anything, anyway," said Tom. "Is that all they did?"

"Did? They opened every room on their way back and searched every nook and corner. Not so much as a pipe or a cigarette or a cigar could they find--nor a whiff of smoke neither. Besides, the port windows were locked shut and the steward had the keys! They're takin' no chances in the zone, you can bet."

"I was thinking, if it was a spy or anyone like that, he might have had a flashlight," said Tom, "and thrown it out if he heard anyone coming."

"With the gla.s.s locked shut?"

"No, that spoils it," said Tom.

"They searched every bloomin' one of 'em," said the deck steward.

"Charlie was two hours making up the berths again after the way they threw things around. But nothing doing. They found a mess plate with a little black spot on it and he said they thought it might have been from a match-end being laid there, but I heard they told the captain there was nothing wrong down there."

"What made them think there was?" asked Tom.

The deck steward shrugged his shoulders. "You can search _me_. But they're mighty particular, huh?"

He went about his duties, leaving Tom to ponder on this interesting news, and though admittedly nothing had come of that stealthy raid which had exposed neither rule breakers nor spies, still Tom thought about it all day, more or less, and he was glad that Uncle Sam was so watchful and thorough. It made him realize, all the more, how absurd and preposterous it would be for him, the captain's mess boy, to concern himself or ask questions or say anything about serious matters which were none of his business.