"Why should I be?" said literal Tom. "It was only because the feller I was with was born lucky; he always said so."
"Oh, yes, of course," said Roscoe sarcastically. "I say he was mighty lucky to be with you. Feel like eating?"
It was delightful to Tom sitting there in their leafy concealment, waiting for any other hapless German emissaries who might come, bent on the murderous defilement of that crystal brook, and eating of the rations which Roscoe never failed to have with him.
"You're kind of like a pioneer," he said, "going off where there isn't anybody. They have to trust you to do what you think best a lot, I guess, don't they? A feller said they often hear you but they never see you. I saw you riding on one of the tanks, but I didn't know it was you. Funny, wasn't it?"
"I usually hook a ride. The tanks get on my nerves, though, they're so slow."
"You're like a squirrel," said Tom admiringly.
"Well, you're like a bulldog," said Roscoe. "Still got the same old scowl on your face, haven't you? So they kid you a lot, do they?"
"I don't mind it."
So they talked, in half whispers, always scanning the woods about them, until after some time their vigil was rewarded by the sight of three gray-coated, helmeted figures coming up the bank of the stream. They made no pretence of concealment, evidently believing themselves to be safe here in the forest. Roscoe had hauled the body of the dead German under the thick brush so that it might not furnish a warning to other visitors, and now he brought his rifle into position and touching his finger to his lips by way of caution he fixed his steady eye on the approaching trio.
One of these was a tremendous man and, from his uniform and arrogant bearing, evidently an officer. The other two were plain, ordinary "Fritzies." Tom believed that they had come to this spot by some circuitous route, bent upon the act which their comrade and the mechanism had failed to accomplish. He watched them in suspense, glancing occasionally at Roscoe.