Left alone, and kind of shaky, too, in the separation, I got my nose against the window, as the leader had said. I was careful, though, not to show myself any more than I could help. For I didn’t want the spy to get hep to the fact that I was watching him, while he in turn watched the house.
Poppy had said to give him ten minutes. So I started counting off the seconds. When I came to sixty that meant a minute, and I crooked a finger. Pretty soon I had all ten fingers and thumbs crooked. So I got ready with my flashlight.
The man hadn’t moved. That is, he was still behind the bush where we first had seen him. So I gave one flash. I did it in the dark, of course, though it wasn’t dark very often, for the lightning, like an octopus, was swinging a hundred fiery tails.
Watching the road beyond the stone wall, I presently got sight of Poppy, a sort of skulking black spot in the continued storm. He was waving his cap, showing that my first signal had gotten to him all right. I was glad to see him. I felt safer in knowing that he was safe. Then, on the job, I gave him two quick up-and-down flashes, for the sharp-eyed spy, as though alarmed by the window signal, was heading for the road, and that, as I say, is where my chum was.
But pretty soon the man stopped short and sort of crouched behind another bush, of which a dozen or more were scattered, to a fancy plan, up and down the edges of the graveled drive. Poppy was inside the stone wall now. He was getting closer and closer to the spy, so I kept on with the two up-and-down flashes. The signals were working as slick as a button. I thought how easily I could yank my chum out of danger—three twitches of my thumb, as it rested on the switch, and the trick would be done. He could scoot to cover before the man caught him. Easy.
And now comes a part of my story that I hate to write down. The recollection of it gives me cold shivers. Talk about trapped people turning gray-headed over night! The wonder to me is that my hair didn’t turn green.
The flashlight suddenly went on the bum. There you are! You can see what a fix I was in, or, rather, what a fix Poppy was in. Getting no signals from me, he would think that everything was lovely. He’d keep on. And how was I going to warn him if the spy took after him?
Matches! As the thought jumped into my head, I ran to the dresser. But to no success. Then, sort of crazy, I began to go through my clothes, though I should have known that I would find no matches there—for what few matches we carried were in a waterproof case in Poppy’s hip pocket. In dividing our truck he had taken the matches and I had taken the cake of soap.
I remembered then that there were matches galore in the kitchen. I had seen them in a little box near the stove. To get a handful wouldn’t take more than a minute or two. Hot dog, was my great joy. I could save old Poppy yet.
I was out of the room and down the hall like a streak. Nor did I miss a lamp, for by fits and jerks, as the lightning came and went, the hall, with its big end windows, was almost as bright as day.