He had managed to wriggle into military service without the customary delays, and in the capacity of messenger he had ridden a motorcycle between various headquarters and the front until he had been caught by the Germans in a raid while he was engaged in giving an imitation of Charlie Chaplin in the French trenches. He spoke of General Haig as “Haigy;” of General Byng as “Bing Bang;” and his French was a circus all by itself. According to his account, he had been a prime favorite with all the high dignitaries of the war, and he attributed this to the fact that he was not afraid of them. In short, it was the same old flippant, boastful, R-rolling Archibald Archer who had won many a laugh from sober Tom Slade. And here he was again as large as life—larger, in fact.
It was a long time before they got down to the subject of the engine, but when they did they discussed it for the greater part of the night, for, of course, they bunked together.
“First I thought it was the triphammer,” said Archer; “then I thought it was the mixing valve; then I thought it was bronchitis on account of the noise it made, and after that I decided it was German measles. Blamed if I know what’s the matter with it. It’s got the pip, I guess. I was going to file a nick in the make-and-break business but they’re too foxy to give me a file. Now I wish I had a hammer and I’d knock the whole blamed business to smithereens.”
“Have a heart,” laughed Tom. “And keep still, I want to go asleep. We’ll look at it in the morning.”
“Did I tell you how we made a hand grenade full of old tomatoes near Rheims?”
“No, but I want to go to sleep now,” said Tom.
“It landed plunk on a German officer’s bun; Charlie Waite saw it from his plane.”
“Good night,” laughed Tom.