Then he moved his hand.
“Come on,” he whispered, his whole frame trembling with suspense. “Let’s get away from the fence. Don’t speak.”
There was something of the old stalking and trailing stealth about his movements now as he hurried across the field adjacent to the camp. “Follow me,” he whispered, “and do just what I do. What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“Nothin’. Where you goin’? The road ain’t over there.”
“Shhh!”
Silently Tom stole across the field.
“You’re goin’ out of your way,” whispered Archer again.
“I don’t want the road, I only want to know where it is,” Tom answered; “I know what I’m doing.”
He had never dreamed that his tracking and trailing lore would one day serve him in far-off Germany and help him in so desperate a flight. Never before had he such need of all his wit—and such an incentive.
Archer followed silently. Presently Tom paused and listened.