Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his surprise and feeling deeply chagrined, walked over and stood in front of Tom.
"Why didn't you show me that compass, Tom?" he asked.
"Because it was wrong, just like you were," Tom answered frankly, but without any trace of resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd have thought it proved you were right. It was marked, crazy like, by that feller I told you about. I knew all the time we were coming to Cantigny."
There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe, his voice full of feeling, said simply,
"Tom Slade, you're a wonder."
"Hear that, Paul Revere?" one of the soldiers said jokingly. "Praise from the Jersey Snipe means something."
"No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-distrust. "You've saved me from a Hun prison camp and while you were doing it you had to listen to me—Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he broke off.
"I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his expressionless way. "If I'd had my way we'd have made a detour when I saw those broken branches, 'cause I knew it meant people were there, and then we wouldn't have got those fellers as prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more than me."
This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was Tom Slade all over.
"Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom, you're the same old hickory nut. Forgive me, old man, if you can."