Out of the bag he drew a photograph. "There; that's our gun crew; that's Tommy Walters—he's the one says I'm a mascot. I'm taking him some apples now. That feller there is Hobart. And that's old Billy Sunday himself, right in the middle," he added, pointing to a long, horizontal object concealed by a canvas cover; "that's him, the bully old boy!"
"You'd say so if you heard it pop and saw it jump—that's how it got its name."
In the photograph three young men in khaki, one with his sleeves rolled up, were leaning against a steamer's rail.
"Are they Americans?" Tom asked, for he was puzzled about his new friend's nationality.
"You said it."
One of the gun crew was smiling straight at Tom so that he almost smiled back, and the lump came up higher in his throat and his eyes glistened.
"Do you live around here?" he asked. "I'd like to know what your name is and what—and how you——" he broke off.
"You see that house over the hill? I live there. And I'm going back on the job now. What d'ye say we move along?"
They lifted the valise and started along the road.