"Yes, kind sir," said Roscoe; "don't try to change the subject. Here, I'm going to try you out—one, two, three."
"You can put it around four times, if you want," said Tom. "Do you know how to tie a brig knot?"
"Me? I don't know anything—except how to be a fool. There!"
Tom slowly bent his bared arm as the resistant cord cut the flesh; for a second it strained, seeming to have withstood the full expanse of his muscle. Then he closed his arm a little more, and the four strands of cord snapped.
"Christopher!" said Roscoe. He towselled Tom's rebellious shock of hair. "Wouldn't it be good if we could go together—to the war, I mean!"
"If it keeps up another year, I'll be eighteen," said Tom. "Maybe I'll meet you there—you can't tell."
"In that little old French town called—— Do you know the most famous town in France?" Roscoe broke off.
Tom shook his head.
"Give it up? Somewhere—the little old berg of Somewhere in France. Wee, wee, messeur—polly voo Fransay?"
Tom laughed. "There's one thing I wish you'd do," he said. "When I go through Leeds on the way home, I'll stop in the postoffice and you can send me a note to say you registered and everything's all right. Then I'll enjoy the ride in the train better."