Tom Slade on a Transport Part 4

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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p 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 demolis.h.i.+ng 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 pa.s.s 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.

CHAPTER V