He was glad he was not an adopted American like Frenchy, but that all his family had been Americans as far back as he knew. He was proud to “belong” to a country that other people wanted to “join”—that he had never had to join. And as he stood at the rail when his duties were finished that same night and gazed off across the black, rough ocean, he made up his mind that after this when he heard slurs cast upon his father and his uncle, instead of feeling ashamed he would defend them, and tell of the good things which he knew about them.
He stood there at the rail, quite alone, thinking. The night was very dark and the sea was rough. Not a light was to be seen upon the ship.
It occurred to him that it might be better for him not to stand there with his white steward’s jacket on. He recalled how, up at Temple Camp, one could see the white tents very clearly all the way across the lake.
There was no rule about it, apparently, but sometimes, when people forgot to make a good rule, Tom made it for them. So now he went down to his little stateroom (the captain’s mess boy had a tiny stateroom to himself) and put on a dark coat.
The second cabin dining saloon and dining room, which were below decks and had no outside ports, were crowded with soldiers, playing cards and checkers, and they did not fail to “josh” Whitey as he passed through. Frenchy was there and he waved pleasantly to Tom.
“Going to get out and walk, Whitey?” a soldier called. “I see you’ve got your street clothes on.”
“I thought maybe the white would be too easy to see,” Tom answered.
“Wise guy!” someone commented.
Reaching the main deck he edged his way along between the narrow passageway and the washroom to a secluded spot astern. He liked this place because it was so lonesome and unfrequented and because he could hear the whir and splash of the great propellers directly beneath him as each big roller lifted the after part of the vessel out of the water. Here he could think about Bridgeboro and Temple Camp, and Roy Blakeley and the other scouts, and of how proud he was that he was an American through and through, and of what he was going to say to people after this when they called his father a “no good” and Uncle Job a “rummy.” He was glad he had thought about that, for back in Bridgeboro people were always saying something.
Suddenly a stern, authoritative voice spoke just behind him. “What are you doing here?”