ROSCOE BENT BREAKS HIS PROMISE
"There ain't so much more to tell," said Tom, in his old lifeless way. "After that we got torpedoed. The officer said only sixteen could get on a raft, and there was a man who was anxious to get on and he made seventeen, so I got off. I guess I was the last one on the ship. She made an awful noise when she went down."
"Yes—and——"
"There's nothing else." Tom's reports of thrilling happenings were always provokingly tame and brief. "I swam around for about two hours, I guess. I had a piece of a door to hold on to. That scar's where a big wave banged me against it.—A schooner picked me up. I'd 'a' got picked up sooner, maybe, only I was the last one and I drifted away from the ship lane—sort of. It was going to South America after bananas, so they took me there."
"How'd you get back?"
"Came home on another ship. I worked cabin boy. They caught a German spy on the first ship."
It was quite like him not to tell how they happened to catch the spy.
"And then you came right here?"
"They gave me dinner in the Sailors' Mission in New York, and then I started out here."
"You don't mean you walked?"
"I'm going to Mrs. O'Connor's in the Alley where I used to live—till I can get a job. I made two good friends, but I don't know whether they were drowned.—You look good in your soldier suit."
Roscoe had to get control of himself before he could answer.
"That's a screech-owl," said Tom; "hear him? When you get—when I was a scout we had to learn the calls of all the different birds."
"Never mind that. Why did you go on that ship?"
"I told you—I wanted to help with the Colors."
Roscoe struggled again with his voice.
"Don't you think you did enough for the Colors," he said thickly, "when you gave me this uniform? Don't you think that was enough?"
"Sit down here a minute. Don't you think you did enough for the Colors when you started me—over the top? Don't you?"
"It wasn't me. Anyhow, you can't do too much for the Colors."
Roscoe paused with his hand on Tom's knee. "No, I guess you can't," he said.
"You never told anybody, did you?" Tom asked.
"No," said Roscoe, with that little sneer of self-disgust. "I never told."
"It would of spoiled it all if you had. You got to be careful never to tell. You got to be specially careful, now you're a soldier—and look so fine and straight."
"Don't, Tom."
"You got to promise you'll never tell," said Tom, scenting danger in Roscoe's manner. "Will you?"
"Have you got any money at all, Tom?"
"You got to promise you'll never let 'em know about it now. Do you?"
"Never mind that, Tom——"
"You've got to. Do you?" Tom persisted.
"Can't you trust to a soldier's honor, Tom, without pinning him down?"
"Do you promise?"
"Won't you trust a friend? Won't you trust a soldier's honor, Tom?"
"Yes," said Tom. "I will."
For a few moments Roscoe sat breathing audibly and staring at Tom as if hardly knowing what to do or say next.
"Do you know where I'm going now?" he asked, feeling the necessity of speaking.
"Maybe I could guess," said Tom: "you're going up River Road. I bet she said you looked fine in your uniform."
"Yes, I'm going there. I'm going to take her to a racket in Bridgeboro."
"It's funny how I met you here," said Tom.
"You walked all the way out on the turnpike road, I suppose. Tom," he broke off suddenly, "there isn't any time to sit here and talk now; listen. It seems as if all these weeks had been wiped out and we were back up on that mountain again."
"I knew you'd like it up there; I——"
"Never mind that; listen. We're back just where we were that night. We can make everything all right."
"No, it isn't; everything isn't all right—old man. Tom, there's a meeting to-night, a sort of jumble—Y. M. C. A., scouts, and I don't know what all. Ellsworth nailed me for it. I've got to give the bunch a little spiel.—Tom, I want you to come to it——"
"I——"
"Now, don't start that; listen. It's in the new Y. M. C. A. Hall. I know you haven't got any clothes, if that's what you want to say, and I don't care a hang about your clothes. I don't ask you to blow in with the rest of them and sit in the audience," he went on hurriedly. "But just stroll around after everything's started and the lights are down. They couldn't see you—they won't notice you. Just stand in back."
"They got no use for me; they——"
"This is between you and me, old man; nobody else has got anything to do with it. Go down to Mrs. What's-her-name's——"
"O'Connor's," said Tom.
"Go down there and wash up, if you want to—I don't care. Only promise me you'll come around. I want you to see me make a show of myself. You'll have a good laugh—you old grouch," he added, with sudden good humor, "and after it's over we'll go up to my house and have a good long talk."
"I've often passed your house," said Tom.
"I'm going down to camp on a milk train about two A. M. This may be the last chance for us to see each other," Roscoe still spoke hurriedly; "they're sending troops across every week, Tom."
"I know they are."
"When I left you up on that mountain, Tom, I promised to come right back and register; and I did it, didn't I?"
"I told you nobody'd ever find out about that——"
"Never mind that. Will you do something for me now? Will you say you'll come?"
Tom hesitated. "I always said you'd be good at making speeches, and that kind of thing, but——"
Roscoe thrust his hand straight out. "Give me your hand, Tom, and say you'll come."
"Maybe I will."
"Say you'll come."
"I'd only stand in back after they put the lights down."
"Say you'll come," Roscoe persisted.
"Sure, now?"
"I ain't the kind that breaks my word," said Tom dully. "But besides that, I want to hear you."
Roscoe held his hand tight for a full minute. Then they parted and he hurried along the River Road.
He was already late, but he would probably have hurried anyway, for when the heart is dancing it is hard for the feet to move slowly. And Roscoe's heart was dancing. He could "see straight" now, all right. To be a soldier you must see straight as well as shoot straight.
He swung along the River Road with a fine air, as if he owned it, and passing a small boy (bound across the river, perhaps) he lifted the youngster's hat off and handed it to him with a laugh. When he reached the Ellison cottage he deliberately kept pushing the bell button again and again, just out of sheer exuberance, until Margaret herself threw the door open and exclaimed,
"What in the world is the matter?"
"Nothing; can't you take a joke?"
"You're late," she said.
"Sure; I'm a punk soldier. That's a swell hat you've got on. Can you hustle? If you don't mind, we'll take the short cut through the grove."
It was a swell hat, there is no denying that, and she looked very pretty in it.
"I'm taking my knitting," she said, handing him one of those sumptuous bags with two vicious-looking knitting needles sticking out of it.
"I hate to go through the grove, it's so spooky," she said, as they hurried along. "I'm always seeing things there. Do you, ever?"
"Oh, yes."
"Really? What?"
"Oh, lions and tigers and things."
"Now you make me afraid," she shuddered.
"I met a lion in there to-night," he said; "that's what delayed me. If I see another one, I'll jab him with one of these knitting needles. Hear that screech-owl? He sounds like the Kaiser'll feel next year.—Do you know that Blakeley kid?"
"Roy? Surely I do. Everybody knows him."
"He's all wool and a yard wide, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's fine."
"Look out you don't trip on that rock.—He walked down the street with me last night and talked about—about that Slade fellow."
"Yes; he's a staunch believer in Tom, even yet."
She made no answer.
"I think you kind of liked that fellow," said Roscoe teasingly.
"I always said if he ever made up his mind to do a thing he'd do it."
"Well, I guess he went and done it, as my old school grammar used to say."
"I don't like to hear you speak flippantly about him."
"How about me? Suppose I should make up my mind to do a thing——"
"Here we are at the bridge already," she said.
The new Y. M. C. A. Assembly Hall presented a gay scene, and they pushed through the crowd, Roscoe opening a way for the girl to pass, greeted on both hands by his friends and former companions. It seemed as if all the young people of the town were on hand; scouts were conspicuously in evidence, and among them all Mr. Ellsworth hustled genially about attending to a hundred and one duties.
"There you are," said Roscoe; "take that seat. Reminds you of that meeting on June fifth last when I wasn't with you—and Slade didn't show up either. Now, don't forget to clap when I stand up, will you?"
He swung up onto the platform, where Roy and Pee-wee and Doc Carson and Connie Bennett and the whole tribe of Silver Foxes clustered about him, helping him out of his big military coat and hovering about the chair he sat in. Even Dr. Wade, of the Y. M. C. A., and the gentlemen of the Local Scout Council received less attention.
As he sat there waiting, one or two of the scouts noticed (for scouts are nothing if not observant) that he craned his neck and looked far back into the lobby. If they thought twice about it, however, they probably attributed it to nervousness.
At last, after much impatient handclapping, all except the stage lights were dimmed, and Roy noticed again how the soldier peered searchingly into the back of the hall.
"Your mother and father coming?" he asked.
"They might stroll around."
"You look dandy," Roy whispered.
Roscoe grabbed him by the neck pleasantly and winked as he reached slyly over and pulled Pee-wee's belt axe from its martial sheath, to the amusement of some boys in the audience. But it was no matter for laughing, for if the Germans should break through the French lines at Verdun, say, and push through to Bordeaux, capture all the French transports, run the British blockade and make a sudden flank move against Bridgeboro, Pee-wee would be very thankful that he had his belt-axe along.
It was a great affair—that meeting. Dr. Wade told of the aims of the new Y. M. C. A.; the Methodist Scouts' gave an exhibition of pole jumping; the Elks (one member short) gave a demonstration of First-Aid bandaging, and a Red Cross woman gave a demonstration of surgery, for (as Roy said) she extracted one bone from everybody in the audience. Oh, it was a great affair! They had a movie play, Scouts in Service; the Bridgeboro Quartette sang Over There; a real, live Belgian refugee told how the gentle, kind Germans burned his little home and sent his sisters and brothers into slavery.
Perhaps it was this tragic story fresh in their minds which caused the crowd to clap vigorously when Private Bent, Second Infantry, U. S. A., jumped to his feet as Mr. Ellsworth finished introducing him and stood, feet close together, straight as an arrow, a little flush of embarrassment upon his handsome face, and threw his head back suddenly to get his little forelock of wavy hair out of the way.
It is no discredit to Dr. Wade or to Mr. Perry, of the Local Council, that Roscoe caught the audience with his first words. He was so young and fresh, so boyishly off-hand—so different from the others who had spoken. And then his straight young figure and his uniform!
"I don't know exactly why I'm here," he said; "I got this thing wished on me and you've got me wished on you. I'm sorry for you. So far as I'm concerned I guess I don't deserve any sympathy. I ran right into Scoutmaster Ellsworth with my eyes wide open [laughter] and he nabbed me. I should have kept my fingers crossed when I came back to Bridgeboro. He took me to his house and fed me on sugar——"
"You're lucky," some one called.
"And what could I do after that?"
"If I ever get clear of the Boy Scouts, believe me, I'll never get tangled up with them again. [Laughter.] But they tell me I'll see more of them in England and still more of them in France—so I guess there's no hope of getting away from them. [Laughter and applause.]
"If this thing keeps up we'll have to start a campaign to swat the scout, and see if we can't exterminate them in that way. [Uproarious shouts from Pee-wee.]
"But, ladies and gentlemen and scouts—not that scouts aren't gentlemen [laughter]—I don't think soldiers ought to be expected to make speeches. Actions speak louder than words, as the Kaiser will find out—— [Pee-wee was restrained with difficulty.] So I'm just going to do something instead of standing here talking. Scoutmaster Ellsworth said for me to put plenty of pep into my little performance. And I'm going to put some tabasco sauce in it [Pee-wee again] and I hope it will hold him for a while.
"He introduced me as an enlisted soldier. Two thousand eight hundred and fifty-seven times in the last two days, he's called me that. It's a base libel! I didn't enlist; I was drafted. [Laughter.]
"And now I'm going to let you into a secret. Before Registration Day I felt pretty much as I felt about coming here to-night—I had cold feet. I have only the one thought now," he added, speaking more earnestly, "and that is to get over there and get one good whack at that crew of bandits and murderers! [Loud cheering.]
"But before Registration Day I was scared—just plain scared. You soon get rid of that when you get into the uniform. [Applause.] Well, I'm ashamed to say it, but I ran away. I had a crazy notion I could get away with it. I went up to a lonely place on a mountain near that big scout camp."
You could have heard a pin drop in the hall now.
"And one of these fellows—these scouts—suspected where I had gone and came up there after me and brought me to my senses." Roscoe's voice had grown gradually lower, and he spoke hesitatingly now, but the silence was so intense that every word was audible. "He pawned a gold medal he had to pay his way up there and he made me come back here. He missed his part in the big rally. He couldn't come back himself because he'd hurt his ankle.—He made me come back here where I belonged—to register!
"And then when he found—— No, wait a minute, I'll read you the letter!"
He was in a fine frenzy of enthusiasm again now that he had finished the recital of his own shameful part in the affair. He took out Tom's letter and read it—read every word of it—and finished it with his cheeks flushed and his voice ringing:
"... so I'm going away to help in a way I can do without breaking my word to anybody. The thing I care most about is that you got registered. And next to that I'm glad because I like you"—Roscoe shook his head hastily and stopped for a second to control his voice—"because I like you and I always did—even when you made fun of me——"
"What he liked me for, I'm hanged if I know—but that's the kind of a fellow Tom Slade is——"
"Whatever became of him?" some one on the platform whispered to some one else.
There was a slight sound back in the lobby of the hall.
"Somebody down there head him off; don't let him get away!" called Roscoe, stepping right to the front of the platform. "Start him down here! He didn't get away, did he?"
Roy Blakeley, vaulting over two rows of chairs, was in the aisle in three seconds. Everybody turned and looked toward the back of the hall. Some stood, peering cautiously into the dim lobby, where a little scuffle seemed to be going on. Then Roscoe himself leaped straight over the orchestra's space and started up the aisle.
But he was not needed. For Mr. Ellsworth himself had caught Tom by the collar, thrusting him out into the aisle, where Roy clutched aim by the arm.
And then the crowd saw him; saw him standing shamefacedly there as if still inclined to break away and run for it; his head hanging down, his big hand moving nervously on the old book-strap which he wore for a belt. The necktie, which presumably Mrs. O'Connor had furnished him, was all awry, and in the half light they could see, too, that his old clothes were faded and torn. He seemed quite indifferent to everybody and everything—even to Mr. Ellsworth—though he smiled nervously at Roscoe.
But Roy Blakeley, clinging to his arm, could feel what no one else could feel or see—Tom's hand pressing his wrist like a wireless signal, and Roy, like the bully scout he was, understood the code, took the message, and was silent.