Presently the soldiers began coming down the gangplank.
"You watch for resemblances and I'll do the rest," said Mr. Conne in a low tone. "Give yourself the benefit of every doubt. Know what I mean?"
"I can't help you there."
Tom felt a certain compunction at scrutinizing these fine, American fellows as they came down with their kits—hearty, boisterous, open-hearted. He felt that it was unworthy of him to suspect any of this laughing, bantering army, of crime—and such a crime! Treason! In the hope of catching one he must scrutinize them all, and in his generous heart it seemed to put a stigma on them all. He hoped he wouldn't see anyone who looked like Major von Piffinhoeffer. Then he hoped he would. Then he wondered if he would dare to look at him after—— And suppose he should be mistaken. He did not like this sort of work at all now that he was face to face with it. He would rather be off with Uncle Sam, riding along the French roads, with the French children calling to him. For the first time in his life he was nervous and afraid—not of being caught but of catching someone; of the danger of suspecting and being mistaken.
Mr. Conne, who never missed anything, noticed his perturbation and patted him on the shoulder saying,
"All kinds of work have to be done, Tommy."
Tom tried to smile back at him.
Down the long gangplank they came, one after another, pushing each other, tripping each other—joking, laughing. Among them came a young private, wearing glasses, who was singing,
"Good-bye, Broadway. Hello, France!"