Tom Slade on a Transport Part 2

"Huh," he thought, "whoever pulled that off must have been in a great hurry not to hammer the nails in or even pull them out."

As he twisted the nails out, one by one, it occurred to him to wonder why the heavy, clinging coat of damp dust which covered the rest of the cabinet was absent from this white unsoiled strip and shiny nails. The cabinet, he thought, must have been in the cellar for some time, whereas the molding must have been wrenched from it very recently, for it does not take long for a nail to become rusty in a damp cellar.

He struck another match and looked about near the chimney, intending, if the strip of molding were there, to take it upstairs and nail it on where it belonged, for one of the good things which the scout life had taught Tom was that broken furniture and crooked nails sticking out spell carelessness and slovenliness.

But the strip was not to be found. A less observant boy would not have given two thoughts to the matter, but in his hasty thinking Tom reached this conclusion, that some one had very lately pulled this strip of molding off of the cabinet and had used it for a purpose, since it was nowhere to be seen.

With Pete's tale fresh in his mind, he struck match after match and peered about the cellar. Against the opposite wall he noticed a stick with curved tongs on one end of it, manipulated by a thin metal bar running to the other end. It was one of those handy implements used to lift cans down from high shelves. It stood among other articles, a rake, an old broom, but the deft little mechanical hand on the end of it was bright and shiny, so this, too, had not been long in the damp cellar.

For a moment Tom paused and thought. It never occurred to him that momentous consequences might hang upon his thinking. He was simply curious and rather puzzled.

He picked up the can lifter and stood looking at it. Then with a sudden thought he went back to the chimney, struck a match and, thrusting his head into the sooty hole, looked up. Four or five feet above, well out of arm's reach, something thin ran across from one side to the other of the s.p.a.cious chimney. The can lifter was too long to be gotten wholly into the chimney, but Tom poked the end of it through the hole and upward until its angle brought it against the chimney wall.

It was right there that the crosspiece was wedged. In other words, it had been pushed as high, a little on this side, a little on that, as this handy implement would reach, and perhaps kept from falling in the process by the gripping tongs.

Not another inch could Tom reach with this stick. By hammering upward against the end of it, however, he was able to jam it up a trifle, thanks to its capacity for bending. Thus he dislodged the crosspiece and as it tumbled down he saw that it was the strip of molding from the cabinet.

But along with it there fell something else which interested him far more. This was a packet which had evidently been held against the side of the chimney by the stick. There were six bulging envelopes held together by a rubber band. The dampness of the chimney had not affected the live rubber and it still bore its powdery white freshness.

"I wonder if they looked there," Tom thought. "Maybe they just reached around--kind of. I should think they'd have noticed those shiny nails, though."

He put the packet safely in his pocket and, hauling the cabinet up on his back staggered up the stairs with it.

"What in the world took you so long?" said Mary Temple. "Oh, look at your face!"

"I can't look at it," said matter-of-fact Tom.

"It's too funny! You've got soot all over it. Come over here and I'll wash it off."

It was a curious thing about Tom Slade and a matter of much amus.e.m.e.nt to his friends, that however brave or n.o.ble or heroic his acts might be, he was pretty sure to get his necktie halfway around his neck and a dirty face into the bargain.

CHAPTER III

HE SCENTS DANGER AND RECEIVES A LETTER

Tom was greatly excited by his discovery. As he hurried to the office he opened the envelopes and what he found was not of a nature to modify his excitement. Here was German propaganda work with a vengeance. He felt that he had plunged into the very heart of the Teuton spy system.

Evidently the recipient of these doc.u.ments had considered them too precious to destroy and too dangerous to carry.

"He might still think of a way to get them, maybe," thought Tom.

There was a paper containing a list of all the American cantonments and opposite each camp several names of individuals. Tom thought these might be spies in Uncle Sam's uniform. There was some correspondence about smuggling dental rubber out of the United States to make gas masks in Germany. There were requests for money. There was one letter giving information, in considerable detail, about aeroplane manufacture.

Another letter in the same handwriting interested Tom particularly, because of his interest in gas engines--the result of his many tussles with the obstreperous motor of the troop's cabin launch, _Good Turn_.

Skimming hastily over some matter about the receipt of money through some intermediary, his interest was riveted by the following:

"... I told you about having plans of high pressure motor. That's for battle planes at high alt.i.tudes. I've got the drawings of the other now--the low pressure one I told you about at S----'s. That's for seaplanes, submarine spotting, and all that. Develops 400 H.P.

They're not putting those in the planes that are going over now, but all planes going over next year will have them. B---- told me what you said about me going across, but that's the only reason I suggested it--because the information won't be of any particular use to them after they bring down a plane. They'll see the whole thing before their eyes then. But suit yourself. There's a lot of new wrinkles on this motor. I'll tell you that, but there's no use telling you about it when you don't know a gas engine from a meat-chopper.

"Sure, I could tend to the other matter too--it's the same idea as a periscope. That's a cinch. I knew a chap worked on the _Christopher Colon_. She used to run to Central America. Maybe I could swing it that way. Anyway, I'll see you.

"If you have to leave in a hurry, leave money and any directions at S----'s.

"I'm going to be laid off here, anyway, on account of my eardrums.

"Hope B---- will give you this all right. Guess that's all now."

Tom read this twice and out of its sc.r.a.ppiness and incompleteness he gathered this much! that somebody who was about to be dismissed from an aeroplane factory for the very usual reason that he could not stand the terrific noise, had succeeded in either making or procuring plans of Uncle Sam's new aeroplane engine, the Liberty Motor.

He understood the letter to mean that it was very important that these drawings reach Germany before the motors were in service, since then it would be too late for the Germans to avail themselves of "Yankee ingenuity," and also since they would in all probability succeed in capturing one of the planes.

He gathered further that the sender of the letter was prepared to go himself with these plans, working his way on an American ship, and to do something else (doubtless of a diabolical character) on the way. The phrase "same idea as a periscope" puzzled him. It appeared, also, that the sender of the letter, whoever he was and wherever he was (for no place or date or signature was indicated and the envelopes were not the original ones) had not sent his communications direct to this alien grocer, but to someone else who had delivered them to Schmitt.

"It isn't anything for me to be mixed up in, anyway," Tom thought. He was almost afraid to carry papers of such sinister purport with him and he quickened his steps in order that he might turn them over to Mr.

Burton, the manager of Temple Camp office.

But when he reached the office he did not carry out this intention, for there was waiting for him a letter which upset all his plans and made him forget for the time being these sinister papers. It took him back with a rush to his experiences on shipboard and he read it with a smile on his lips.

"Dear Tommy--I don't know whether this letter will ever reach you, for, for all I know, you're in Davy Jones's locker. Even my memo of your address got pretty well soaked in the ocean and all I'm dead sure of is that you live in North America somewhere near a bridge."

Tom turned the sheet to look at the signature but he knew already that the letter was from his erstwhile friend, Mr. Carleton Conne.

"You'll remember that I promised to get you a job working for Uncle Sam. That job is yours if you're alive to take it. It'll bring you so near the war, if that's what you want, that you couldn't stick a piece of tissue paper between.

"If you get this all right and are still keen to work in transport service, there won't be any difficulty on account of the experience you've had.

"Drop in to see me Sat.u.r.day afternoon, room 509, Federal Building, New York, if you're interested.

"Best wishes to you.

"Carleton Conne."

So Mr. Conne was alive and had not forgotten him. Tom wished that the letter had told something about the detective's rescue and the fate of the spy, but he realized that Secret Service agents could hardly be expected to dwell on their adventures to "ship's boy" acquaintances, and was it not enough that Mr. Conne remembered him at all, and his wish to serve on an army transport?

He took the letter into the private office to show it to Mr. Burton, resolved now that he would say nothing about his discovery in Schmitt's cellar, for surely Mr. Conne would be the proper one to give the papers to.

"You remember," he began, "that I said if I ever heard from Mr. Conne and he offered me a job, I'd like to go. And you said it would be all right."

Mr. Burton nodded. "And the expected--or the unexpected--has happened,"

he added, smiling, as he handed Mr. Conne's letter back to Tom.

"It'll be all right, won't it?" Tom asked.

"I suppose it will have to be, Tom," Mr. Burton said pleasantly. "That was our understanding, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir--but I'm sorry--kind of."