“Stick around with me,” said the ace. “Krause doesn’t quite know what to do about me yet, for I’ve got a pull in Paris, and he’s let me alone since I left the field.”
For three days Tommy did stick, and lived the life of Riley, sleeping in a good bed, eating good meals, drinking good wine and taking sulphur baths twice a day. At the end of that time his scabies was gone.
“I guess I’d better be getting back to the field,” he told the ace. “I want to get through there and get to the front. I took an awful chance going A. W. O. L, but maybe my little scheme will work on Krause. If it doesn’t, and he takes me off flying I’ll be sunk. Think I might as well go out and let that M.P. pick me up and give me a ride back to camp.”
He shook hands with the ace, and walked out and down the street alone.
He hadn’t gone far when a Ford drew up beside him and stopped. In the front seat was the M.P. lieutenant, and behind a hard-boiled sergeant with a .45.
“Hey,” said the lieutenant in rough tones, “let’s see your pass.”
“I ain’t got a pass,” the little man returned.
“All right, then, you’re under arrest. Get in here, and I’ll take you out to the field.”
Tommy obeyed meekly, and they rode along without conversation. Presently he was ushered into the presence of Major Krause.