He realized fully now that he had been caught in the meshes of his brother’s intrigue, and that there was no hope for him. To have saved himself he would have had to spare his brother and allow the intriguing to go on. Well, it made no difference—here he was. “And it ain’t so much, anyway,” he said, “if one boy like me does get misjudged, as long as the ship is saved and those papers about the motor were found.”
So he tried to comfort himself, sitting there alone, twisting his fingers and gulping now and then. All his fine, patriotic memories of the Slades were knocked in the head, but even in these lonely hours he was stanch for Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam might make a mistake—a terrible mistake, as he presently would do—“but anyway he’s more important than I am,” he said.
Occasionally he listened wistfully to the sounds outside and they made him wish he could see as well as hear. He heard the creaking of the busy pulleys, the men calling “Yo-o-ho!” as they handled the winch-ropes, the dull thud of the heavy bales upon the quay, the cheerful, lusty calls of the workers, the loud voices of the French people, and that incessant accompaniment of all, the clatter, clatter, clatter, of wooden shoes.
Sometimes he would lose his mastery of himself and regain it only to listen again, wistfully, longingly. He hoped those German prisoners who walked as if they were wound up with a key, noticed all this hurry and bustle. They would soon see what it meant for Uncle Sam.
There were voices outside and Tom’s heart beat like a hammer. Could it be over so soon? The door opened a little and he could see that someone was holding the knob, talking to a soldier. He breathed heavily, his fingers were cold, but he stood up and looked straight before him, bravely. They had come to get him.
Then the door opened wider and a familiar voice greeted him.
“H’lo, Tommy. Well, well! Adventures never cease, huh?”
Tom stood gaping. Through dimmed eyes he saw a cigar (it seemed like the same cigar) cocked up in the corner of Mr. Conne’s mouth and that queer, whimsical look on Mr. Conne’s face.
“Mr. Conne——” he stammered. “I didn’t know—you was—here. You don’t believe it, do you?”
Mr. Conne worked his cigar leisurely over to the other side of his mouth.