“Shh,” cautioned Freddie.
“We m’y be ible to s’y ‘Owdy’ to General ’Aig yet.”
“Shh! We aren’t even there yet.”
Tom listened eagerly to this talk and thought much about it afterward. For one whole year he had longed to get into the war. He had waited for his eighteenth birthday as a child waits for Christmas. He had gone on the transport with the one thought of its bringing him nearer to military service. He was going to fight like two soldiers because his brother was—was not a soldier.
And now it appeared that his part in the great war, his way of doing his bit, was to lie in a prison camp until the whole thing was over. That was worse than boring sticks in Bridgeboro and distributing badges. Tom had never quarreled with Fate, he had even been reconciled to the thought of dying as a spy; but he rebelled at this prospect.
Instinctively, as he and his two philosophical companions were placed aboard the train, he reached down into his trousers pocket and found the little iron button which Frenchy had given him. He clutched it as if it were a life preserver, until his hand was warm and sweaty from holding it.
It seemed his last forlorn hope now.