Tom Slade, Motorcycle Dispatch Bearer Part 23

So he had one companion. Several times Mr. Conne looked back at him and smiled. And once he said in that funny way of his,

"All right, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, trudging along. He had been greatly agitated, but his wonted stolidness was returning now. Probably he felt more comfortable and at home coming along behind with _Uncle Sam_ than he would have felt in the midst of this group where the vilest treason walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of Uncle Sam.

Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom were following. His cigar was stuck up in the corner; of his mouth as usual and he gave Tom a whimsical look.

"You hit the Piff family at both ends, didn't you, Tommy."

"Y-yes, sir," said Tom.

CHAPTER THIRTY

HE DISAPPEARS

Swiftly and silently along the quiet, winding road sped the dispatch-rider. Away from the ocean he was hurrying, where the great s.h.i.+ps were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge; away from scenes of debarkation where Uncle Sam was pouring his endless wealth of courage and determination into bleeding, suffering, gallant France.

Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant villa, through village and hamlet, and farther and farther into the East, bound for the little corner of the big salient whence he had come.

He bore with him a packet and some letters. One was to be left at Neufchatel; others at Breteuil. There was one in particular for Cantigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did not know that. He never concerned himself with the contents of his papers.

So he sped along, thinking how he would get a new headlight for _Uncle Sam_ and a new mud-guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny would wonder what had happened to his machine. He had no thought of telling them. There was nothing to tell.

Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had come from the blue hills of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon the handle-bar of _Uncle Sam_, which the rider held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they knew so well. Back from the coast they sped, those two, along the winding road which lay on hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow of the first twilight. Swiftly and silently they sped. Hills rose and fell, the fair panorama of the lowlands with its quaint old houses here and there opened before them. And so they journeyed on into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy and Flanders--for service as required.

(END)

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BARTLEY, FRESHMAN PITCHER William Heyliger

BE PREPARED, THE BOY SCOUTS IN FLORIDA A. W. Bimock

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THE BOY SCOUTS OF BLACK EAGLE PATROL Leslie W. Quirk

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From the Diary of Number Five of the After Port Gun

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JEB HUTTON; THE STORY OF A GEORGIA BOY James B. Connolly

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JIM DAVIS John Masefield

KIDNAPPED Robert Louis Stevenson

LAST OF THE CHIEFS Joseph A. Altsheler

LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN Zane Grey