Tom watched the solitary figure through the heavy darkness. And he marvelled, as he had marvelled before, at the machine-like perfection of these minions of the Iron Hand. Even in the face of their awful danger and amid the solemnity of the black night, the odd thought came to him that this stiff form turning about like a faithful and tireless weathercock to peer into the darkness roundabout, might be indeed a huge carved toy fresh from the quaint handworkers of the Black Forest.
As he gazed he was sure that this lonely watcher danced a step or two. No laughter or sign of merriment accompanied the grim jig, but he was sure that the solitary German tripped, ever so lightly, with a kind of stiff grace. Then the freshening breeze blew Tom's rebellious hair down over his eyes, and as he brushed it aside he saw the German indeed dancing—there was no doubt of it.
Suddenly a cold shudder ran through him and he stepped out from his concealment as he realized that this uncanny figure was not standing but hanging just clear of the ground.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PRIZE SAUSAGE
"Come on out, Archy," said Tom with a recklessness which struck terror to poor Archer's very soul. "He won't hurt you—he's dead."
"D-e-a-d!" ejaculated Archer.
"Sure—he's hanging there."