Tom Slade on a Transport Part 23

"Don't you see, if I try to break the wires before they're ready, we'll be worse off than ever?" he said. "Leave it to me."

At last there came a dark night when Tom announced in a whisper that he had used the last of the sal ammoniac.

"The wires are all white," he said, "and you can sc.r.a.pe into them with your finger-nails. It's good and dark to-night. If you want to back out you can. I won't be sore about it. Only tell me again about the road to Dundgardt."

"Didn't I tell you I was with you strong as mustarrd? I don't want to back out."

A while after dark Tom went down to the bushes. It was understood that Archer should follow him, timing his coming according to the sentry's rounds. Meanwhile Tom, not without some misgivings, bent the thick wire in one of the weakened spots and it broke. He paused and listened. Then he broke another strand, trembling lest even the breaking might cause a slight sound. The life had been eaten out of the wires and they parted easily.

By the time Archer arrived he had opened a way through the thick entanglement large enough to crawl through. His nerves were on edge as he wriggled far enough through to peer about in the dark outside.

"Anyway, your head has escaped," said Archer.

"Shh," whispered Tom.

Far down the side of the long fence he could see a little glint bobbing in the darkness.

"Shh," he whispered. "I don't know which way he's going. Keep your feet still."

For a few seconds more he waited, his heart in his mouth and every nerve tense.

The tiny bobbing glint disappeared.

"Is he there?" Archer whispered.

"Shh! No, he's gone around the end."

"He won't go all the way round; he'll turn back when he gets to the gate. Go on, make a break----"

"Shh!" said Tom, straining his eyes in all directions.

For one moment of awful suspense he waited, his thumping heart almost choking him. Then he moved silently out into the night, and paused again, holding a deterring hand up to keep his companion back until he knew the way was clear.

Then he moved his hand.

"Come on," he whispered, his whole frame trembling with suspense. "Let's get away from the fence. Don't speak."

There was something of the old stalking and trailing stealth about his movements now as he hurried across the field adjacent to the camp.

"Follow me," he whispered, "and do just what I do. What's that you've got in your hand?"

"Nothin'. Where you goin'? The road ain't over there."

"Shhh!"

Silently Tom stole across the field.

"You're goin' out of your way," whispered Archer again.

"I don't want the road, I only want to know where it is," Tom answered; "I know what I'm doing."

He had never dreamed that his tracking and trailing lore would one day serve him in far-off Germany and help him in so desperate a flight.

Never before had he such need of all his wit--and such an incentive.

Archer followed silently. Presently Tom paused and listened.

"Anybody comin'?"

"No, I was listenin' for--it's down there."

He turned suddenly and grabbing Archer around the waist, lifted him off his feet and ran swiftly down a little slope and into the brook which in its meanderings crossed an end of the prison grounds. Then he let Archer down.

"They'll never track us here," he panted, and felt for his precious b.u.t.ton to make sure that Archer's body had not pulled it off. "They'll think only one came this way, maybe, and they won't know which way to go--Shh!"

Archer held his breath. There was no sound except that of the water rippling at their feet.

"Is that upstream?" Tom asked. "It ought to be shallow all the way. Keep in the water."

"Step on that sh.o.r.e and you're in Alsace," said Archer.

"Don't step on it," said Tom. "Sh.o.r.es are tell-tales. Which is the hill?"

"That one with the windmill on it."

"That black thing?"

"The road runs around that," said Archer, "the other side."

"We'll follow the road," said Tom, "but we'll keep in the brook till we get about a couple of hundred feet from the road. Come on."

"You heading for Dundgardt?" Archer whispered.

"Don't talk so loud. Yes--I got to find some people there named Leture--I can't p.r.o.nounce it just right. That's nothin' but a tree----"

"I thought it was a man," said Archer.

"We ought to be there in an hour," and again Tom felt for his precious b.u.t.ton. "If they'll keep us till to-morrow night we can get a good start for the Swiss border; I--I got some--some good ideas."

"For traveling?"

"Yes--at night. They'll do--anything after I tell 'em about Frenchy.

Quiet. Bend your toes over the pebbles like I do."

But did they ever reach Dundgardt--once Leteur? Did they make their way through fair Alsace, under the shadow of the Blue Alsatian Mountains, to the Swiss border? Did Tom's "good ideas" pan out? Was the scout of the Acorn and the Indian head, to triumph still in the solitude of the Black Forest, even as he had triumphed in the rugged Catskills roundabout his beloved Temple Camp?

Was he indeed permitted to carry out his determination to fight for two?

Ah, that is another story.