“Bad guess,” grinned Fred. “It’s Nick Rabig.”
The name acted like an electric shock on the three comrades.
“Rabig!” they exclaimed in the same breath.
“That’s what,” said Fred. “Seems to be popular with you fellows, I don’t think.”
“The yellow dog!” exclaimed Billy.
“The traitor!” growled Frank.
“Why haven’t they settled his case long ago?” gritted Tom. “He ought to have been stood up before a firing squad the day after they captured him the last time.”
“That’s what he deserved all right,” agreed Fred. “He’s the only fellow that ever disgraced the colors of the old Thirty-seventh. The fact is, I suppose, that we’ve been so busy chasing the Huns out of France that a court-martial hasn’t had time to attend to his case. But it’s a dead open and shut case and he’ll get his all right when the time comes.”
“It’s a long time coming,” grumbled Tom, who, as our readers will remember, had especial cause to despise the man whom he had caught in the very act of dealing with the enemy.
“Well, so long, old man,” said Frank, as the friends prepared to go on their way. “Sorry you got stuck with guard duty. Hope your time’s nearly up.”