More leisurely now, but quickly still, rode the dispatch-rider through this narrow, surging way which had all the earmarks of the shore—damp-smelling barrels, brass lanterns, dilapidated ships' figureheads, cosy but uncleanly drinking places, and sailors.
And of all the sights save one which Tom Slade ever beheld, the one which most gladdened his heart was a neat new sign outside a stone building,
Office of United States Quartermaster.
Several American army wagons were backed up against the building and half a dozen khaki-clad boys lounged about. There was much coming and going, but it is a part of the dispatch-rider's prestige to have immediate admittance anywhere, and Tom stopped before this building and was immediately surrounded by a flattering representation of military and civilian life, both French and American.
To these he paid not the slightest heed, but carefully lowered Uncle Sam's rest so that his weary companion might stand alone.
"You old tramp," he said in an undertone; "stay here and take it easy. Keep away," he added curtly to a curious private who was venturing a too close inspection of Uncle Sam's honorable wounds.
"What's the matter—run into something?" he asked.
"No, I didn't," said Tom, starting toward the building.
Suddenly he stopped short, staring.
A man in civilian clothes sat tilted back in one of several chairs beside the door. He wore a little black moustache and because his head was pressed against the brick wall behind him, his hat was pushed forward giving him a rakish look which was rather heightened by an unlighted cigar sticking up out of the corner of his mouth like a piece of field artillery.