“This school girl was making marks on paper,” Alice went on. “Four marks, then one across, four more and one across.”
“Keeping track of the taps. I could do that.” Tillie was growing excited again.
“When all the trains had passed,” Alice whispered, “Louise counted up all the marks. Then she multiplied that by the number of wounded men in each car, and so she knew how many thousands had been badly wounded. But how was she to get that number across the line?”
“Paste it on her spectacle,” suggested Tillie.
“Not this time, she didn’t,” Alice smiled. “She wrote it on a paper and hid it. You’d never guess where.”
“In her shoe—in her glove—in her hair,” Tillie exploded.
“Nope. None of these.” Alice shook her head. “Let me tell you all about it, then you may guess.”
“Al—all right.” Tillie drew a long breath as she settled back.
“You see,” said Alice, “Louise was going down a dark road in the night. In one hand she carried her bag of laces, in the other a lantern. It was a tin lantern. The tin was all full of holes. Inside a candle flickered. It didn’t give much light, just enough. Suddenly a gruff voice commanded:
“‘Halt!’