Tom looked at a distant range of blue-gray heights. Crossing those somewhere was the battle line—the long, sweeping line which began far off at the Belgian coast. How lonesome and romantic it must be for the soldiers up in those wild hills. Somewhere through there years ago Frenchy had fled from German tyranny and pursuit, away from his beloved ancestral home. Funny, thought Tom, that he should see both the eastern and western extremities of France without ever crossing it.
He was much nearer the front than he had been when he talked with Mr. Conne in the little French cemetery. Yet how much farther away! A prisoner in Germany, with a glowering, sullen Prussian guard at his very elbow!
“We used to sing about them when I went to school,” he said. “‘The Blue Alsatian Mountains.’”
“I’d jolly well like to be on the other side o’ them,” said Freddie.
Tom clutched the little iron button in his pocket. Something prompted him to pull a button off his trousers and to work his little talisman into the torn place so that it would look like a suspender button. Then he turned again to gaze at the fair country which he supposed to be one of France’s lost provinces—the home of Frenchy.
“There ain’t much trouble crossing mountains,” said he; “all you need is a compass. I don’t know if they have tree-toads here, but I could find out which is north and south that way if they have.”
“Blimy, if we don’t listen and see if we can ’ear ’em s’ying ‘polly voo Fransay’ in the trees!” said Tennert.
“But a feller could never get into France that way,” said Tom. “’Cause he’d have to cross the battle line. The only way would be to go down around through Switzerland—around the end of the line, kind of.”
“Down through Alsice,” grunted Tennert.
“’E’d ’ave a ’underd miles of it,” said Freddie.