Both boys were passionately fond of outdoor life, but fortune had allowed Jack to spend several years on a Western ranch, where he accumulated a fund of knowledge through actual experience; while Amos had to be content with what he could pick up through reading, theorizing, and association with a Boy Scout troop.
Jack had been left with independent means, and chanced to be visiting at the home of Colonel Turner, his uncle, at the time a strange event took place which resulted in the dispatch of the two boys across the ocean, bent upon an errand of mercy. Just what that mission was the reader will learn by listening to the conversation between the two boys after they reached the top of the windmill tower. Day and night it bore heavily on the mind of Amos, so that he frequently found himself sighing, and seeking consolation in the reassuring words his cousin was so ready to pour out.
After some little effort they managed to pull themselves up and land on the top of the windmill base. Roughly treated under the bombardment to which, as a fortress, it had been subjected, the material was crumbling in numerous places. The boys, however, had no trouble in finding room on the top. Overhead arose one of the gaunt arms with its tattered sail; another had been shattered by the same shell that had torn the corner away, and lay in a heap close by.
Taking a hasty look all around, the two boys quickly discovered several things that held their interest.
“Amos,” said Jack, gravely, “you were wondering what had become of the Germans who defended this place against all opposition. If you will look down there where that willow tree grows alongside the brook you’ll understand.”
“Fresh-made graves, sure enough, Jack!” exclaimed the other, with a quick intake of his breath. “Like as not they held out till the last man went under. And some of their comrades passing this way stopped long enough to cover the brave fellows with two feet of earth. That’s about all a soldier can expect these days.”
“I can guess what’s in your mind when you sigh that way, Amos. You’re wondering whether your brother Tom is still alive, or has found a grave like hundreds of thousands of others in this terrible war.”
“We’ve reason to believe he changed his name and joined the British forces, not caring much whether he survived or perished,” said Amos, with a look of pain on his young face. “You know he always was a reckless fellow. He is nearly ten years older than I. Father was very strict, and couldn’t understand that high-spirited Tom was one of those who could be led, but never driven. Then came that awful accusation—oh! it makes me shiver to think of that time.”
“Your father accused Tom of taking his pocketbook from a drawer of his desk, and everything seemed to point to him as the thief. You say Tom denied being guilty but was too proud to say anything more. And so he was driven from home, and has never been seen since that time—is that it, Amos?”
“Yes, though I’ve had a few lines from him about once in six months,” replied the other boy, slowly. “First he went to California; then I heard from him in Japan; and the last time it was in England, where he said he had enlisted under another name, and meant to fight for the Allies, not caring much what happened.”