"He's American, too," said Tom, "and he's with General Pershing in France. We're goin' to join him if you'll help us."
For a moment the girl stared straight at him, then turning to her father she poured out such a volley of French as would have staggered the grim authorities of poor Alsace. What she said the fugitive could not imagine, but presently old Pierre stepped forward and, throwing his one arm about the neck of the young American, kissed him several times with great fervor.
Tom Slade was not used to being kissed by anybody and he was greatly abashed. However, it might have been worse. What would he ever have done if the girl who spoke English in such a hesitating, pretty way had taken it into her head to kiss him?
CHAPTER III
TOM'S STORY
"You needn't be afraid," said Tom; "we didn't leave any tracks; we came across the fields—all the way from the crossroads down there. We crawled along the fence. There ain't any tracks. I looked out for that."
Pausing in suspense, yet encouraged by their expectant silence, he spoke to some one behind him in the bushes and there emerged a young fellow quite as ragged as himself.
"It's all right," said Tom confidently, and apparently in great relief. "It's them."