“Yes--and let him get clear away! Patrol couldn’t see him; he was hidden from them by that jutting sand-spit behind us. No search-lights playing over the bay either to-night! But they could see me--see me--if I signaled! I can! Iver taught me--Iver, over there!... I’ve got an honor-bead!”
“Oh-h! Where are you going?” Betty clutched wildly at the other’s short blue skirt; a flame--a soul--was in its narrow hem.
“The Bungalow! I can find something--Olive’s electric flash-light--signaling flash-light--she left it behind her; other girls took theirs, to light----”
“Door’s locked!” sobbed Betty. This was War--for the first time she realized it.
“Sure--sure to find a window--somewhere--open! If not--break a pane! He’s not going to get away--get away with it--his radio Wigwag! Was--was it his sister, maybe, up at Camp Evens--or him--himself, in woman’s dress? Oh-h, why on earth didn’t I catch on sooner?... Atlas held up shipping!”
CHAPTER XVII
A RADIO FREAK
Dim prints fluttered out from the varnished wall--the living-room wall--in the strong breeze blowing through an open window: Pershing, American Commander-in-chief; Foch, Marshal of France; Haig, who held the line; Cadorna, of Flamina’s Italy; Albert of Belgium, kingly of courage!
The Camp Fire Group had held an indoor guessing contest the night before, identifying these and lesser leaders of the Great War, without seeing the names. The pastime over, they had pinned the leaders up on the bare wall of that bungalow living-room.
Now the sea-breeze took its turn at identification as it crept through the window--in the wake of an excited girl whose wildly throbbing heart, like a lamp turned high within her, guided her straight to an adjoining dormitory, a glass-paneled sleeping-porch, closed at present, where was a long row of dim cots.