Читать книгу Tom Slade on a Transport - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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Tom found Mr. Conne poring over a scrapbook filled with cards containing finger-prints. His unlighted cigar was cocked up in the corner of his mouth like a flag-pole from a window, just the same as when Tom had seen him last. It almost seemed as if it must be the very same cigar. He greeted Tom cordially.

“So they didn’t manage to sink my old chum, Sherlock Nobody Holmes, eh? Tommy, my boy, how are you?”

“Did the spy get rescued?” Tom asked, as the long hand-shake ended.

“Nope. Went down. But we nabbed a couple of his accomplices through his papers.”

“I got a new mystery,” said Tom in his customary blunt manner. “I was going to give these papers to my boss, but when I got your letter I decided I’d give ’em to you.”

He told the detective all about Adolf Schmitt and of how he had discovered the papers in the chimney.

“You say the place had already been searched?” Mr. Conne asked.

“Yes, but I s’pose maybe they were in a hurry and had other things to think about, maybe. A man came there again just the other day, too, and said he wanted to read the gas-meter. But he looked all ’round the cellar.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Conne said dryly. “Tom, if you don’t look out you’ll make a detective one of these days. I see you’ve got the same old wide-awake pair of eyes as ever.”

“I learned about deducing when I was in the scouts,” said Tom. “They always made fun of me for it—the fellers did. Once I deduced an aeroplane landed in a big field because the grass was kind of dragged, but afterwards I found the fellers had made tracks there with an old baby carriage just to fool me. Sometimes one thing kind of tells you another, sort of.”

“Well, whenever you see something that you think tells you anything, Tommy, you just follow it up and never mind about folks laughing. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve made a haul here.”

“There was one of ’em that interested me specially,” ventured Tom; “the one about motors.”

Mr. Conne glanced over the papers again. “Hmm,” said he, “I dare say that’s the least important of the lot—sort of crack-brained.”

Tom felt squelched.

“Well, anyway, they’ll all be taken care of,” Mr. Conne said conclusively, as he stuffed the papers in his pocket.

Tom could have wished that he might share in the further developments connected with those interesting papers. But, however important Mr. Conne considered them, he put the matter temporarily aside in the interest of Tom’s proposed job.

“I just happened to think of you,” he said, as he took his hat and coat, “when I was talking with the steward of the Montauk. He was saying they were short-handed. Come along, now, and we’ll go and see about it.”

Mr. Conne’s mind seemed full of other things as he hurried along the street with Tom after him. On the ferryboat, as they crossed to Hoboken, he was more sociable.

“Don’t think any more about those letters now,” he said. “The proper authorities will look after them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And whatever they set you to doing, put your mind on your work first of all. Keep your eyes and ears open—there’s no law against that—but do your work. It’s only in dime novels that youngsters like you are generals and captains and famous detectives.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom.

“What I mean is, don’t get any crazy notions in your head. You may land in the Secret Service yet. But meanwhile keep your feet on the earth—or the ship. Get me?”

Tom was sensible enough to know that this was good advice.

“Your finding these letters was clever. If there are any spies in the camps they’ll be rounded up double quick. As for spy work at sea, I’ll tell you this, though you mustn’t mention it, there are government sleuths on all the ships—most of them working as hands.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom.

“I’m going across on a fast ship to-morrow myself,” continued Mr. Conne, greatly to Tom’s surprise. “I’ll be in Liverpool and London and probably in France before you get there. There’s a bare possibility of you seeing me over there.”

“I hope I do,” said Tom.

The transport Montauk was one of the many privately owned steamers taken over into government service, and Tom soon learned that outside the steward’s department nearly all the positions on board were filled by naval men. Mr. Conne presented him to the steward, saying that Tom had made a trip on a munition carrier, and disappeared in a great hurry.

Tom could not help feeling that he was one of the least important things among Mr. Conne’s multitudinous interests, and it must be confessed that he felt just a little chagrined at finding himself disposed of with so little ceremony.

But, if he had only known it, this good friend who stood so high in that most fascinating department of all Uncle Sam’s departmental family, had borne him in mind more than he had encouraged Tom to think, and he had previously spoken words of praise to the steward, which now had their effect in Tom’s allotment to his humble duties.

He was, in a word, given the best position to be had among the unskilled, non-naval force and became presently the envy of every youngster on board. This was the exalted post of captain’s mess boy, a place of honor and preferment which gave him free entrance to that holy of holies, “the bridge,” where young naval officers marched back and forth, and where the captain dined in solitary state, save for Tom’s own presence.

Now and then, in the course of that eventful trip, Tom looked enviously at the young wireless operators, and more particularly at the marine signalers, who moved their arms with such jerky and mechanical precision and sometimes, perhaps, he thought wistfully of certain fortunate young heroes of fiction who made bounding leaps to the top of the ladder of fame.

But he did his work cheerfully and well and became a favorite on board, for his duties gave him the freedom of all the decks. He was the captain’s mess boy and could go anywhere.

Indeed, with one person he became a favorite even before the vessel started.

It was well on toward dusk of the third day and he was beginning to think they would never sail, when suddenly he heard a tramp, tramp, on the pier and up the gangplank, and before he realized it the soldiers swarmed over the deck, their tin plates and cups jangling at their sides. They must have come through the adjoining ferry house and across a low roof without touching the street at all, for they appeared as if by magic and no one seemed to know how they had got there.

Their arrival was accompanied by much banter and horseplay among themselves, interspersed with questions to the ship’s people, few of which could be answered.

“Hey, pal, where are we going?”

“Where do we go from here, kiddo?”

“Say, what’s the next stop for this jitney?”

“We don’t know where we’re going,

but we’re on our way,”

someone piped up.

“We’re going to Berlin,” one shouted.

The fact that no one gave them any information did not appear to discourage them.

“When do we eat?” one wanted to know.

Tom saw no reason why he should not answer that, so he said to those crowded nearest to him, “In about half an hour.”

“G-o-o-d-ni-ight!”

“When are we going to start? Who’s running this camp anyway?”

“Go and tell the engineer we’re here and he can start off.”

“Fares, please. Ding ding!”

“Gimme me a transfer to Berlin.”

And so it went. They sprawled about on the hatches, perched upon the rail, leaned in groups against the vent pipes; they covered the ship like a great brown blanket. They wrestled with each other, knocked each other about, shouted gibberish intended for French, talked about Kaiser Bill, and mixed things up generally.

At last they were ordered into line and marched slowly through the galley where their plates and cups were filled and a butcher was kept busy demolishing large portions of a cow. They sprawled about anywhere they pleased, eating.

To Tom it was like a scout picnic on a mammoth scale. Here and there was noticeable a glum, bewildered face, but for the most part the soldiers (drafted or otherwise) seemed bent on having the time of their lives. It could not be said that they were without patriotism, but their one thought now seemed to be to make merry. Tom’s customary stolidness disappeared in the face of this great mirthful drive and he sat on the edge of the hatch, his white jacket conspicuous by contrast, and smiled broadly.

He wondered whether any other country in the world could produce such a slangy, jollying, devil-may-care host as these vociferous American soldiers. How he longed to be one of them!

A slim young soldier elbowed his way through the throng and, supper in hand, seated himself on the hatch beside Tom. He had the smallest possible mustache, with pointed ends, and his demeanor was gentlemanly and friendly. Even his way of stirring his coffee seemed different from the rough and tumble fashion of the others.

“These are stirring times, hey, Frenchy?” a soldier said.

“Yess—zat is verry good—stirring times,” the young fellow answered, in appreciation of the joke. Then, turning to Tom, he said, “Zis is ze Bartholdi statue, yess? I am from ze West.”

“That’s the Statue of Liberty,” said Tom. “You’ll see it better when we pass it.”

“Ah, yess! zis is ze first; I haf’ nevaire seen. I zank you.”

“Do you know why the Statue of Liberty looks so sad, Frenchy?” a soldier asked. “Because she’s facing Brooklyn.”

“Do you know why she’s got her arm up?” another called.

Frenchy was puzzled.

“She represents the American woman hanging onto a strap in the subway.”

“Don’t let them jolly you, Frenchy,” another said.

Frenchy, a little bewildered, laughed good-humoredly as the bantering throng plied him with absurdities.

“Are you French?” Tom asked, as some new victim diverted the attention of the boys.

“Ah, no! I am Americ’.”

“But you were born in France?”

“Yess—zey call it Zhermany, but it is France! I take ze coat from you. Still it is yours. Am I right? I am born in Alsace. Zat is France!”

“Doncher believe him, kiddo!” said a soldier. “He was born in Germany. Look on the map.”

“He’s a German spy, Whitey; look out for him.”

“Alsace—ziss is France!” said Frenchy fervently.

“Ziss is the United States,” shouted a soldier derisively.

“Ziss is Hoboken!” chimed in another.

“Vive la Hoboken!” shrieked a third.

Tom thought he had never laughed so much in all his life.