Tom saw there was no hope for him. For a moment he struggled, drawing a long breath in pitiful little gulps. If he had followed Mr. Conne’s advice he would not be in this predicament. But where then might the great transport be? Who but he, captain’s mess boy, had saved the ship and showed these people how the light——
“It makes me feel like——” he began. “Can’t I—please—can’t I not be arrested—please?”
Neither man answered him. Presently the door opened and four soldiers entered. One of them was “Pickles,” who had nicknamed Tom “Tombstone,” because he was so sober. But he was not Pickles now; he was just one of a squad of four, and though he looked surprised he neither smiled nor spoke.
“Pickles,” said Tom. “I ain’t—You don’t believe——”
But Pickles had been too long in training camp to forget duty and discipline so readily and the only answer Tom got was the dull thud of Pickles’ rifle butt on the floor as the officer uttered some word or other.
That thud was a good thing for Tom. It seemed to settle him into his old stolid composure, which had so amused the boys in khaki.
Side by side with his brother, whom so long ago he could not bear to see “licked,” he marched out and along the passage, a soldier in front, one behind and one at either side. How strange the whole thing seemed!
His brother who had gone out to Arizona when Tom was just a bad, troublesome little hoodlum! And here they were now, marching silently side by side, on one of Uncle Sam’s big transports, with four soldiers escorting them! Both, the nephews of Uncle Job Slade who had died in the Soldiers’ Home and had been buried with the Stars and Stripes draped over his coffin.
Two things stood out in Tom Slade’s memory, clearest of all, showing how unreasonable and contrary he was. Two lickings. One that made him mad and one that made him glad—and that he was proud of. The licking that his brother had got, when he could, as he had told honest Pete Connigan, “feel the madness way down in his fingers.” And the licking his father had given him for not hanging out the flag.
“Zey must be all fine people to haf’ such a boy,” Frenchy had said. He hoped he would not see Frenchy now.