"Looks like a scout astronomy chart," said Tom. "It's all dots like the big dipper."
"Do you s'pose it means they're going to conquer the sky and all the starrs and everything?" Archer asked. "Here's a letter, it's dated about two weeks ago—I can make out the numbers all right."
The letter was in German, of course, and Archer, who during his long incarceration in the prison camp had picked up a few scraps of the language, fell to trying to decipher it. The only reward he had for his pains was a familiar word which he was able to distinguish here and there and which greatly increased their desire to know the full purport of the letter.
"Herre's President Wilson's name.—See!" said Archer excitedly. "And herre's America——"
"Yes, and there it is again," said Tom. "That must be Yankees, see? Something or other Yankees. It's about a mile long."
"Jim-min-nitty!" said Archer, staring at the word (presumably a disparaging adjective) which preceded the word Yankees. "It's got one—two—three—wait a minute—it's got thirty-seven letters to it. Go-o-od night!"
"And that must be Arracourt," said Tom. "I heard about that place—it ain't so far from Nancy. Gee, I wish we could read that letter!"
"I'd like to know what kind of a Yankee a b-l-o-e——"
But Archer gave it up in despair.