His eyes glistened and he paused.
“I go wiz Uncle Sam! My seester will sing ze Marsellaise!”
“Yes,” said Tom. “She can sing it all she wants.”
“If zey are not yet killed,” Frenchy added, looking intently out upon the ocean.
“I kind of feel that they’re not,” said Tom simply. “Sometimes I have feelings like that and they usually come out true.”
Frenchy looked suddenly at him, then embraced him. “See, I will give you ziss,” he said, handing Tom the little iron button. “I haf’ two—see? I will tell you about zis,” he added, drawing close and holding it so that Tom could see. “It is made from ze cannon in my pappa’s regiment. Zis is when Alsace and Lorraine were lost—you see? Zey swear zey would win or die together—and so zey all die—except seventy. So zese men, zey swear zey will stand by each other, forever—zese seventy. You see? Even in poor Alsace—and in Lorraine. So zese, ze haf’ make from a piece of ze cannon. You see? If once you can get across ze Zherman lines into Alsace, zis will find you friends and shelter. Ah, but you must be careful. You see? You must watch for zis button and when you see—zen you can show zis. You will know ze person who wears ze button is French—man, woman, peasant, child. Ze Zhermans do not know. Zey are fine spies, fine sneaks! But zis zey do not know. You see?”
It was as much to please the generous Frenchy as for any other reason (though, to be sure, he was glad to have it) that Tom took the little button and put it in his pocket.
“Ze iron cross—you know zat?”
“I’ve heard about it,” said Tom.
“Zat means murder, savagery, death! Zis little button means friendship, help. Ze Zhermans do not know. You take this for—what you call—lucky piece?”