HE VISITS THE OLD PUMP AND RECEIVES A SHOCK
“It’s all happy-go-lucky here,” said a young American from somewhere in Kansas, who had been raked in with a haul of prisoners from a torpedoed liner. “We used the water at the pump as long as the engines worked; then we shouldered our buckets and began going down to the brook. When the buckets went to pieces, we made a few out of canvas and they’re not half bad.”
Tom had inquired why they went down to the end of the oval to get water when there was a pump up in the middle of the grounds.
“So there you are,” concluded his informer.
“Is the engine supposed to pump water up from the brook?” Tom asked.
“It isn’t supposed to do anything,” said the other, “it used to be supposed to, but it’s retired.”
“I thought Germany was so efficient,” said Tom. “I should think they’d fix it. Can’t it be fixed?”
“Not by anyone here, it seems. You see, they won’t let us have any tools—wrenches, or files or anything. If you mention a file to Old Griff, he throws a couple of fits. Thinks you want to cut the barbed wire.”
“Then why don’t they fix it?”
“Ah, a question. I suppose they think the exercise of trotting down to the brook will do us good. I dare say if the chief engineer could get hold of a file he could fix it; seems to think he could, anyway. But gas engines are funny things.”
“You’re right they are,” said Tom, thinking of the troop’s motor boat away home in Bridgeboro. “Of course, I don’t mind the walk down there,” he added, “only it seemed kind of funny——”
“It’s tragic for some of these lame fellows.”
“Who is the chief engineer,” Tom asked.
“Oh, he’s a kid that was a despatch rider, I think. Anyway, he’s wise to motorcycles. He’s had several consulting engineers on the job—Belgian, French, and British talent—but nothin’ doing. He’s gradually losing his head.”
“You couldn’t exactly blame them for not letting him have a file,” Tom said, reasonably enough, “or a wrench either for that matter, unless they watched him all the time.”
“Nah!” laughed his companion. “Nobody could file through that fence wire without the sentries hearing him; it’s as thick as a slate pencil, almost.”
“Just the same you can’t blame General Griffenhaus for not being willing to give files to prisoners. That’s the way prisoners always get away—in stories.”
About dusk of the same day Tom wandered to the pump, which was not far from the center of the vast oval. On the earth beside it a ragged figure sat, its back toward Tom, evidently investigating the obstreperous engine. Tom had never taken particular notice of this disused pump or of the little engine which, in happy days of yore, had brought the water up from the brook and made it available for the pump in a well below.
“Trying to dope it out?” he asked, by way of being sociable.
The “chief engineer,” who had half turned before Tom spoke, jumped to his feet as if frightened and stared blankly at Tom, who stood stark still gaping at him.
“Well—I’ll—be——” began the “chief engineer.”
Tom was grinning all over his face.
“Hello, Archer!”
“Chrr-is-to-pherr Crrinkums!” said Archer, with that familiar up-state roll to his R’s. “Where in all get-out did you blow in from? I thought you was dead!”
“You didn’t think I was any deader than I thought you was,” said Tom, with something of his old dull manner.
“Cr-a-ab apples and custarrd pies!” Archer exclaimed, still hardly able to believe his eyes. “I sure did think you was at the bottom of the ocean!”
“I didn’t ever think I’d see you again, either,” said Tom.
So the “chief engineer” proved to be none other than Archibald Archer—whose far-off home in the good old Catskills was almost within a stone’s throw of Temple Camp—Archibald Archer, steward’s boy on the poor old liner on which he had gotten Tom a job the year before.
“I might of known nothing would kill you,” Tom said. “Mr. Conne always said you’d land right side up. Do you eat apples as much as you used to?”
“More,” said Archer, “when I can get ’em.”
The poor old gas engine had to wait now while the two boys who had been such close friends sat down beside the disused pump in this German prison camp, and told each other of their escape from that torpedoed liner and of all that had befallen them since. And Tom felt that the war was not so bad, nor the squalid prison community either, since it had brought himself and Archibald Archer together again.
But Archer’s tale alone would have filled a book. He was just finishing an apple, so he said, and was about to shy the core at the second purser when the torpedo hit the ship. He was sorry he hadn’t thrown the core a little quicker.
He jumped for a life boat, missed it, swam to another, drifted with its famished occupants to the coast of Ireland, made his way to London, got a job on a channel steamer carrying troops, guyed the troops and became a torment and a nuisance generally, collected souvenirs with his old tenacity, and wound up in France, where, on the strength of being able to shrug his shoulders and say, Oui, oui, he got along famously.
He had managed to wriggle into military service without the customary delays, and in the capacity of messenger he had ridden a motorcycle between various headquarters and the front until he had been caught by the Germans in a raid while he was engaged in giving an imitation of Charlie Chaplin in the French trenches. He spoke of General Haig as “Haigy;” of General Byng as “Bing Bang;” and his French was a circus all by itself. According to his account, he had been a prime favorite with all the high dignitaries of the war, and he attributed this to the fact that he was not afraid of them. In short, it was the same old flippant, boastful, R-rolling Archibald Archer who had won many a laugh from sober Tom Slade. And here he was again as large as life—larger, in fact.
It was a long time before they got down to the subject of the engine, but when they did they discussed it for the greater part of the night, for, of course, they bunked together.
“First I thought it was the triphammer,” said Archer; “then I thought it was the mixing valve; then I thought it was bronchitis on account of the noise it made, and after that I decided it was German measles. Blamed if I know what’s the matter with it. It’s got the pip, I guess. I was going to file a nick in the make-and-break business but they’re too foxy to give me a file. Now I wish I had a hammer and I’d knock the whole blamed business to smithereens.”
“Have a heart,” laughed Tom. “And keep still, I want to go asleep. We’ll look at it in the morning.”
“Did I tell you how we made a hand grenade full of old tomatoes near Rheims?”
“No, but I want to go to sleep now,” said Tom.
“It landed plunk on a German officer’s bun; Charlie Waite saw it from his plane.”
“Good night,” laughed Tom.