“What do you mean?” I asked with some stiffness.
“Don’t you see that it is more than likely, your friend and his brother are both in the secret service of our army? You know that Foch got information of the German plans, and has been posted from the first about what they were going to do. I shouldn’t wonder if your chum and his brother had a hand in it. From what you have told me I infer that they know how to keep their lips shut. And that dog and horse! My! If it is as I think, it’s fine! But still, it may possibly be the other way.”
I forgot my present troubles—even my hunger—as I grasped his hand. “By George!” I cried, and turned my head to hide the tears—but they were tears of joy.
He radiated an indefinable smile and said, “There’s nothing certain, but I reckon that your friend is white.” And then added, “You are a good deal of a child yet, Stark. Don’t mind if I tell you so. You see things more with your eyes than with your mind, and can’t understand a two-sided game—because you haven’t any two sides to yourself. You’re honest.”
I didn’t exactly understand his view, and asked: “How about this sprain, Gordon? Is that honest, too?”
But he only laughed one of his internal chuckles, and began talking of other things.
CHAPTER XXIII
A HAZARD OF FORTUNE
Again we found ourselves on the march.
The weather was warm and moist, something like our dog days, though cooler at night and during the morning hours. Our guard of six were old or war-worn soldiers, inclined to be ill-tempered, and disagreeable enough upon little provocation. One of them near me struck a lieutenant with the butt of his rifle because, having a head wound, he had become unsteady and had staggered against him. As he struck him the second time, I would have interfered, but for my comrade who, seeing my anger, restrained me. I uttered, however, an angry imprecation, which of course the guard did not comprehend, though he evidently did understand that I resented his brutality.