“Well, it was to be a combination of that and a vacation,” laughed Jack, and he told something of their adventures on board the “Gold Ship.”
“My word, you fellows are always having adventures,” said Tom, with a smile on his good-looking face. “The fact is, I guess reading of your exploits made me stay over here when this row started to see if I couldn’t have some of my own. I’m staying with Belgian friends, about half a mile from here, and so far I haven’t done much but get ready to help in Red Cross work and so on. But now I guess it’s up to me to get back to the U. S. A.”
“If we can,” said Jack. “I don’t know where the ship we came over on, the St. Mark, has been sent to. London and Paris are overrun with American refugees. When we were there, hundreds of them were unable to get passage, or even change their money.”
“Oh, the whole world seems to have been shuffled in this thing,” frowned Tom, “but let me introduce my friend, Philander Pottle. He’s a photographer for a New York newspaper.”
The boys shook hands with Pottle, a dark young fellow who talked as explosively as a machine gun.
“Glad to meet you—fine fight—be here soon—great pictures—snap! bang!—action—that’s the stuff!”
“We’re going out toward the front, that is, if we can get by,” declared Tom; “want to come along?”
The boys looked rather dubious.
“I don’t know what your father——” began Jack doubtfully.
Tom interrupted him impulsively.