On the Saturday before Christmas our four Khaki Boys departed in high glee on a four-days’ furlough, to be spent with the Blaise family. Only one regret lurked beneath their exuberant joy. It had to do with a forlorn comrade, shut in the guard house, and apart from all Christmas cheer. Schnitzel was still awaiting trial, due to numerous halts in the machinery of military law, occasioned by the thoroughness of the investigation. Once definitely established that Company E’s men had been the victim of arsenic poisoning, instead of powdered glass, it became less easy to establish Schnitzel’s guilt.
Grilled over and over again as to where he had obtained the arsenic, his undaunted protest of innocence was not without effect. Undoubtedly he could not hope to escape trial. He was the only man in camp against whom anything incriminating had been discovered. Rigid testings of supplies in the commissary departments had yielded no further traces of poison. This did away with the theory of outside agency, and fastened the opprobrium more strongly on the German-American.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Shut off from any possible opportunity to see Schnitzel, the four Khaki Boys did not forget him. Many verbal battles were fought by them in his behalf. Few others beside themselves believed him innocent.
Each of the quartette, including Iggy, had written to Schnitzel cheerful, hopeful letters, breathing firm belief in his innocence. All had planned to buy him some token of remembrance as soon as they went on their furlough.
Bob’s secret campaign to gain information concerning Bixton, Eldridge and the kitchen men on duty with Schnitzel at the time of the poisoning had not been specially fruitful. He gathered considerable data concerning Bixton, not specially useful to his purpose, in that it had no bearing on the mystery. What Bob burned to know was the origin of the tabulated list of poisons. He was now certain that Bixton had not compiled it. He suspected Eldridge, but of the latter he could find out little. He was considerably older than Bixton, fairly well-educated, but most uncommunicative except to his bunkie. He claimed Buffalo as his home town, but Bob believed him to be from the middle West. His walk, voice and mannerisms smacked faintly of the Hoosier.
On the Wednesday after Christmas, the noon train into Camp Sterling unloaded its freight of returned soldier boys, the four Brothers a part of the throng that passed through the big gates, and tramped the snowy roads to their various barracks.
Much to his disgust, Bob found himself “settling down” a good deal sooner than suited him. According to the cold information of Sergeant Dexter, a quantity of discarded wrapping paper, together with numerous ends of string, had been found under his cot on the previous Saturday evening. Rebuked for untidiness, he was condemned to a detail of policing barracks that filled him with righteous wrath.
“I can guess who was to blame for that,” he sputtered angrily to Jimmy. “Eldridge put up that job on me. Bix went away on the same train we did. The other sneak didn’t. It’s up to him. I know it.”
“Funny he didn’t do the same to the rest of us,” commented Jimmy.
“Oh, he wasn’t particular as to which of us got it,” snapped Bob. “Probably he just dumped those papers and beat it in a hurry. Makes me sick. It’s the first time I’ve got it in the neck since I came to Sterling. I don’t mind the detail. It’s being dished that makes me sore. The worst of it is, I couldn’t say a word. Just had to stand and take it from the Sarge.”