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CHAPTER VI
THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE
Hastily tucking his letter into its envelope, Jim noiselessly trailed Roger to the top of the hill. Looking down, they beheld a most remarkable sight. Back and forth in the hollow, for a distance of about twenty feet, marched, or rather pranced, Ignace. His shoulders rigidly forced back by means of a long stick, thrust under his arms, he was giving an exhibition of high stepping that would have filled Bob with joy. Lifting first one foot, then the other, to a height of at least two feet, he traversed the hollow with the airy steps of a circus pony.
“Let’s beat it before I howl,” begged Jimmy, shaking with suppressed mirth.
As stealthily as they had come, the two beat a quick retreat down the hill and out of sight of their industrious Brother, where they could have their laugh out.
“I never thought he’d do it,” gasped Jimmy.
“We won’t let him know we saw him. It would be a shame to kid him when he’s so dead in earnest. But won’t Bob howl? Oh, wait till I tell him!”
“It was certainly rich.” Roger’s boyish laugh rang out afresh. “It’ll do him good, though. I’ll bet he keeps it up every day. He’s afraid of being put in the awkward squad. I like his grit. He’ll get there. Now if Bob can fix him up on the rest. We’d better be hiking, Jimmy Blazes. It must be nearly time for Retreat.”
“Four-thirty.” Jimmy consulted a gunmetal wrist watch. “I wouldn’t wear one of these at home,” he added, half apologetically. “They’re too girly-girly. But they’re all O. K. out here.”
“Wish I had one.” Bob eyed the little watch with approval. “I think I’ll buy one when I get my first pay. It would be a great convenience.”
Jimmy agreed that it would. He also made mental note that he would write certain things to his mother at once. Well supplied with pocket money, he decided that he would surprise his bunkie with a present of a wrist watch long before pay-day arrived. Roger would value it doubly as a gift from a Brother.
“What if poor old Iggy forgets to come out of the woods in time for Retreat?” Having now descended the slope and almost reached the company street on which their barrack was situated, Roger paused to glance anxiously back toward the woods.
“Think we’d better skate back after him?” Jimmy’s gaze followed Roger’s.
As they stared toward the woods, a familiar figure came loping down to the stump fence. Iggy was still decorated with his makeshift shoulder brace. Scrambling over the fence, the Pole stopped and laboriously divesting himself of the stick, tucked it under a projecting stump. Straightening up, he threw back his shoulders and came slowly forward, careful to lift his heavy feet well from the ground, though in a now-modified fashion.
“Did you see him tuck away his shoulder brace?” snickered Jimmy. “That means to-morrow same time, same place. No awkward squad for Iggy. It’s Jimmy’s little old bunch for him. Ignace So Pulinski’s going to stick by his brother James, if he has to step clear over the barracks to do it. Let’s hustle, so we can tell old Bob before Iggy comes.”
Vastly amused by what they had so lately witnessed, the two strode rapidly along toward their barrack, to acquaint Bob with the exploits of Ignace before that aspirant toward military proficiency should put in an appearance.
“Well, how’s the great stunt?” inquired Jimmy. On entering the barrack, he had hurried ahead of Roger, who had stopped to speak to a comrade, up the short flight of steps to the second floor squad room, where the four Khaki Boys bunked.
Seated cross-legged on his cot, a quantity of loose sheets of paper scattered broadcast about him, Bob was making a fountain pen fairly fly over a pad, braced against one knee. Raising his head from his writing he grinned amiably. “Oh, fine, fine,” he declared. “Bobby has certainly been the busy little rookie. I’m not done yet, by a long shot. After mess I’m going to see if I can’t borrow the loan of a typewriting machine and type this copy.” He waved a careless hand over the wide-strewn sheets of paper.
“But what’s that got to do with the great stunt? Or maybe this is the stunt?” Jimmy guessed, nodding toward the papers.
“Clever lad,” commented Bob. “This is it. Mustn’t touch,” he warned, as Jimmy reached out a mischievous hand to gather them in. “Can your impetuosity, Jimmy Blazes. Now watch me rake in the results of two hours’ genius.” Bob whisked the papers together in a jiffy and began patting them into an even pile.
“All right, stingy. Just for that I shan’t tell you Iggy’s latest.” Jimmy turned away, smiling to himself. He was not in the least peeved. He merely wanted to arouse Bob’s curiosity.
“It’ll keep,” was the unconcerned answer. “It’s almost time for Retreat, anyhow. I’ll hear the terrible tale of illustrious Iggy later, all right. Better still, I’ll ask Iggy about it.”
“You needn’t.” Jimmy swung round with a jerk. “Don’t say a word to him. He doesn’t know we know it.”
“We? H-m! That’s you and Ruddy, I suppose. Then I’ll quiz old Roger. Here he comes now with our Polish brother at his heels. What’s happened to Iggy? He looks all braced up. Sort of a strait-jacket effect. What make of starch do you use, Iggy?” he waggishly hailed, as the Pole reached him, holding himself painfully erect.
“You see? You think him better?” Ignace asked anxiously. “Yes, but I am the tired!” Making a lunge for his cot he bundled himself upon it in a heap.
“Complete collapse of the left line,” murmured Bob.
Now grown used to the sight of their comrades, the other occupants of the barrack had paid small attention to the trio who had just arrived. Bixton, however, the talkative rookie whom the four “Brothers” so disliked had been aware of the Pole’s sudden change of carriage. A member of the same squad, he had heard the drill sergeant’s reprimand of Ignace that afternoon and accordingly took his cue from it.
“Hey, Poley, what’s the matter?” he called in a purposely loud tone. Ignace had now risen from his cot and reassumed his strait-jacket appearance. “Are you practicing for the awkward squad? You’ll get there if you live till to-morrow.”
“You too much speak.” A slow red had crept into the Pole’s cheeks. His mild blue eyes held an angry glint as he turned on his tormentor who had swaggered up to him. “I no like you. You no let me ’lone I give you the strong poonch.” Ignace clenched his right hand menacingly.
“Oh, you will, will you? Better not try it. You’ll – ”
“Let him alone,” ordered Jimmy hotly. “He’s minding his own business. Now mind yours.”
“Who asked you to butt in?” sneered Bixton. “’Fraid I might give your Poley pet a trimming?”
The appearance at the head of the stairs of the acting first sergeant of the squad-room put an end to the budding altercation. The men who had begun to gather about the wranglers prudently left the scene of discord, and promptly busied themselves with their own affairs.
Almost immediately afterward the call for Retreat formation sounded and the recruits were marshalled out into the company street, where they stood at attention while the daily ceremony of lowering the Flag was conducted, a regimental band in the distance playing the “Star Spangled Banner.” Everywhere in Camp Sterling at this hour all soldiers not on detail were expected to stand at attention during this impressive ceremony, saluting as the band played the final note.
Our four Khaki Boys found themselves thrilling in response to the sonorous notes of their country’s chosen anthem. All watched with reverent eyes the dignified descent of that red, white and blue banner, the sacred emblem of “Liberty and Union; Now and Forever; One and Inseparable.”
CHAPTER VII
CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP
Call to mess followed at 5:30. It was not until the four Khaki Boys had performed their usual stunt of climbing over several tables with their portions of food, and were seated in a row along a wall bench, that Bob reopened the subject of Bixton.
“The next time that Bixton smarty tries to jump you, Iggy, don’t act as though he was alive,” was his wrathful advice. “He’s a talker and a trouble maker. Don’t let him get your goat. That’s what he’s trying hard to do. He thinks you are easy.”
“I give him the good lick,” threatened Ignace, still ruffled.
“I don’t doubt you could wipe up the squad-room floor with him. But what’s the use of spoiling the floor?” Bob demanded whimsically. “Let him babble. He likes it.”
“I no like,” came the sullen protest.
“Neither do I,” sputtered Jimmy. “He was trying to make a show of Iggy. I’ll hand him one myself some of these fine days.”
“Ruddy and I’ll come to see both our brothers when they land in the ‘jug’ for scrapping,” offered Bob, affably sarcastic. “Won’t we, Rud?”
“No, I won’t.” Roger looked severe. “If you two are going to let that Bixton fellow rattle you, then I can’t say much for your good sense. Give him the icy stare a few times and he’ll stay in his own corner. Just as long as he sees he can bother you, he’ll do it. When he finds he can’t, he’ll quit and start on somebody else. But that won’t be your lookout.”
“I try’t,” promised Ignace. His scowling features clearing, he proceeded to devote himself sedulously to the savory portion of stew in the meat can before him. Nor were his companions loath to drop the unpleasant subject of Bixton for a hungry appreciation of their food.
The meal finished, the four dutifully cleansed their mess-kits, returning with them to their barrack. The evening meal over, the pleasantest relaxation period of their camp day lay before them. Until the 9:45 call to quarters they were free to follow their own bent, so long as it did not take them beyond camp limits.
After putting away his mess-kit, Bob’s first move was to reach under his cot for the suitcase in which he had deposited his precious papers. A respectful audience of three stood watching him, mildly curious as to what he intended to do next.
“Does the great stunt come off now?” smiled Roger.
“Not yet, my boy. I’m going out on the trail of a typewriter first. It breaks my heart to leave you, but it must be did. Half an hour’s clickety-clicking and you’ll see me back here in all my glory. If the machine downstairs isn’t working overtime, maybe I can grab it for a while.”
“Let’s go over to the ‘Y’ and write letters,” proposed Jimmy. “Our room’s better than our company with old Mysterious Myra here. If I don’t answer mine bang-up quick, I’ll never write ’em. Here’s enough paper and envelopes for the bunch.” Reaching under his cot he held up a good-sized box of stationery.
“I would to poor my mother a letter in American write, but she can no read that write,” offered Ignace sadly. “I can the American read and write but no my family. My mother un’erstan’ American little but no read.”
“Write it in Polish, then,” suggested Jimmy. “You don’t have to write it in English, do you?”
“But I want show poor my mother how that I am smart it to do.” Ignace was bent on distinguishing himself. “She it would much please.”
“Couldn’t someone read it to her, then?” asked Bob. “One of her neighbors; or maybe your groceryman.” Familiar with the Polish section of the city from whence Ignace had come, Bob was somewhat acquainted with the ways of the clannish Poles. He knew that they were prone to gravitate to the grocery store in their neighborhood for everything from merchandise to general information.
“S-o-o! I have no think to that.” Ignace brightened. “I write him American anyhow!”
“Drop in about eighty-thirty and watch Mysterious Myra conduct a seance.” Bob cast a withering glance at Jimmy. “You ought to be ashamed to ticket a bunkie with such a handle,” he added severely. “Now get out of here quick before I smite you.” He made a playful pass at Jimmy.
Equally in fun, the latter raised an arm as though to return it.
A sudden cry of, “Fight! Fight!” echoed through the room, and caused both Jimmy and Bob to whirl. Directly across from them Bixton had been morosely watching the quartette. Aware that the bit of by-play was merely fun, he had called out “Fight!” with malicious intent. Knowing the acting first sergeant to be at one end of the room, he had shouted with a view toward creating trouble. His essay succeeded so far as to bring the officer to the group on the run.
“What’s this?” he questioned, sternly surveying four very calm but very injured young men. “What’s the trouble here?”
“None that we know of,” answered Roger respectfully.
“Then who called out ‘Fight!’?” snapped the non-com.
“It was not one of us.” Roger evaded a direct reply.
“Humph!” The sergeant shot a quick glance about the almost empty room. His keen eyes coming to rest on Bixton he made directly for him. “Did you call out ‘Fight!’?” he queried sharply.
Caught in his own trap, the color mounted to Bixton’s freckled face. “Yes.” The reply was grudgingly made.
“Why did you do it? Did you see anyone fighting?” demanded the sergeant satirically.
“I thought I did,” mumbled the man.
“You thought you did,” emphasized the non-com. He thereupon launched into a tirade of sarcastic rebuke that fell like verbal hailstones on the would-be trouble-maker’s ears.
“Come on, let’s beat it,” muttered Jimmy. “I’m so happy I could hug that sergeant.”
Leaving Bob to smile seraphically as he busied himself with his papers, the three made a discreet exit, the voice of the nettled non-com still beating upon their ears as they scampered down the stairs.
“That’s the time he got his,” exulted Jimmy as they emerged from the barrack.
“He must have been watching us,” commented Roger. “When he saw Bob and you making passes at each other he thought he’d start something.”
“He get the fool,” chuckled Ignace.
“He certainly did,” agreed Jimmy joyfully. “If he gets off with a call-down, he’ll do well. I’ll bet that sergeant has him spotted for a talker. Hope he has. Then Smarty Bixton’ll get the worst of it if he tries to queer us again. Maybe he’s learned something by this time that wasn’t down in his books.”
“He’s heading for the rocks,” Roger said soberly. “Somebody ought to try to set him straight. I wish he hadn’t started on Iggy the way he has. We couldn’t say a word to him now. It would only make things worse. We’ll just have to do as we agreed and not notice him.”
The looming up of a second lieutenant in their path brought three hands up in smart salute and temporarily closed further discussion of Bixton. Reaching the Y. M. C. A., Jimmy distributed note-paper with a lavish hand and soon the trio had settled themselves on hard benches before the primitive-looking desks to write their letters.
Provided with an extra fountain pen of Jimmy’s, Ignace stared blankly at the wall, sighed profoundly, gingerly tried the pen, and finally gave himself up to the painful throes of composition. Jimmy dashed into his letter-writing with his usual reckless impetuosity, his pen tearing over the paper at a rapid rate. In consequence he was triumphantly signing “Jimmy” to his second letter before Roger had half finished his carefully worded note to Mrs. Blaise.
“Hurry up, slow-pokes. It’s eight-ten,” adjured Jimmy, as he scrawled an address across an envelope.
“Him is done,” proudly announced Ignace, holding up his epistolary effort. Undated and unpunctuated, it began at the very top of the sheet and ended halfway from the bottom of the first page. “Now you read.” He proffered it to Jimmy.
The latter took it and with difficulty kept a sober face as he read:
“poor mi mothar so am i the bad son wen i run away but i can no stan the bete my fathar giv all tim now am i the solder an he can no get mor i sen you the monee wen i get som tim i hav the 3 brothar now i hapee but no wen think you poor mi mothar from you son Ignace.”
“That’s a good letter, Iggy.” Jimmy had lost his desire to laugh as he handed it back. It had begun to strike him as pathetic. He was wondering how it had happened that before meeting the poor Polish boy he had never credited that humbler half of the world, in which Ignace had lived, with human emotions.
“I can the read better the write,” assured Ignace grandly, well pleased with the other’s praise. “I write the name, the street my mother, you write again this?” he asked, holding up an envelope.
Much amused, Jimmy complied. Ignace surveyed the envelope with admiration. “How gran’ is the write my brother,” he commented.
“Some compliment. Here’s a stamp, Iggy. Stick it on and away we go. Finished yet, old top?” This to Roger.
“Yes.” Methodically Roger sealed and stamped the envelope he had just addressed.
“Look who’s here!” exclaimed Jimmy. His gaze roving idly down the big room, he had spied Bob Dalton just entering it.
Discovering his chums in the same instant, Bob steered straight for them, his black eyes twinkling with mischief. “Three whoops for Mysterious Myra,” he hailed, waving a little sheaf of papers above his head. “Got through typing sooner than I expected, so I beat it over here in a hurry. This is an exclusive stunt. It calls for an exclusive place. Too much publicity at the barrack. Come on over in that corner and help yourself to a front seat while I read you Dalton’s Marvelous Military Maneuvers in Rhyme, respectfully dedicated to the daily use of Ignace So Pulinski.”
CHAPTER VIII
A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
“You ought to be grateful to me for the rest of your life, Iggy,” was Bob’s bantering peroration when the four had taken possession of the deserted and therefore desirable corner.
“Y-e-a. So am I.” Ignace looked more dazed than grateful. He had not the remotest idea of what Bob was driving at.
“Now listen hard, Iggy, and try to get this. Ahem!” Clearing his throat the rhymster shot a mirthful glance at Ignace and began to read, emphasizing each word for the Pole’s benefit.
“‘Attention,’ means, ‘Eyes to the Front.’
Stand on both feet to do this stunt.
Your hands at sides; keep straight your knees;
Feet out at forty-five degrees.
Thumbs on your trouser seams must rest;
Hold up your head; throw out your chest.”
By the time he had reached the middle of the jingle, Jimmy and Roger were smiling broadly. They, at least, had come into complete understanding of the “great stunt.” The Pole’s stolid face was a study. Light was just beginning faintly to dawn upon him.
“Did you get it?” Bob asked him, his black eyes dancing.
“Y-e-a. Som I get. You read him ’gain.”
“No. I’m going on to the next. When I’m through, I’m going to give you these rules for your own. You must study ’em and learn ’em. See?”
“Y-e-a. Thank.” Ignace beamed seraphic joy at his poetic benefactor. “So will I,” he vowed fervently.
“Go ahead and tear off some more,” begged Jimmy impatiently. “Myra’s sure some poet.”
“I’ll give you a few of ’em just to be obliging and to show I don’t mind being called Myra. You can read the rest yourselves. When you get enough, snap the lever and the talking machine will go dead. All right, Mr. Dalton. So kind of you.” Bob smirked, grimaced, then continued:
“‘Parade!’ This second of commands
Means Iggy quick must join his hands
At center-front, below the waist,
Right thumb and index fingers placed
To gently clasp his own left thumb
And show the sergeant he knows some.
“To ‘Rest,’ your left knee slightly bend;
Your right foot quick behind you send,
Pick it up smartly; swing it clear,
A straight six inches to the rear.
“All officers you must ‘Salute.’
Your right hand to your head now shoot,
Straight hand and wrist o’er your right eye,
Fingers and thumb must touching lie.
“‘Right’: Turn your head to ‘right oblique,’
And don’t you dare toward ‘left’ to peek.
‘Left’ means don’t rubber toward the ‘right,’
‘Front,’ look ahead with all your might.
“‘Right Face!’ On your right heel swing round,
Ball of your left foot pressed to ground,
Your left foot place beside your right
And do it quick: Don’t wait all night.
‘Left Face’: Your left heel does the work,
Turn easily without a jerk.
“At ‘Forward March!’ your left knee’s straight;
Upon your right leg rest your weight.
Left foot advancing to the front
To do your little marching stunt.
“Anybody want to snap the lever?” Bob looked up with an inquiring grin.
“Not yet.” Roger eyed the rhymster with genuine admiration. “It’s bully. Go on.”
“I like. Much I un’erstan’. You read him more. Byme by you give me I stoody all time.” The Pole showed actual signs of enthusiasm.
“That’s the idea, else why is Bobby a bum poet?” Pleased, nevertheless, at his success, Bob resumed.
“For ‘Quick Time’ thirty inches step —
Lift up your feet and show some pep.
The ‘Double Time’ is thirty-six;
Now practice this until it sticks.
“‘Halt!’ when you’re told; don’t keep on going,
Unless you want to get a blowing;
Stop in your tracks, your feet together
And show your brain’s not made of leather.
“To ‘March to Rear’ turn right on toes.
Then ‘Left Foot!’ ‘Right Foot!’ here he goes.
For ‘Change of Step’ right foot’s first used,
So swing your right, or get abused.”
With this last line of sage advice, Bob stopped reading. “This talking machine has an automatic brake,” he declared. Deftly shuffling the typed sheets into numerical order he handed them to Ignace with a flourish. “Now go to it, old chap. Stay on the job until you can say ’em backward. There are about a dozen more that I didn’t read out loud. If you don’t understand ’em trot ’em around to me and I’ll set you straight. Practice every move as you say it and you’ll soon be O. K. After you get them learned, the rest will come easier to you.”
“Thank! Thank!” Ignace clutched the papers gratefully. Pride of his new acquisition made him reluctant to let Roger and Jimmy take them long enough to read the balance of the verses.
“Show’s over. We’d better be moving along. It’s twenty-five to ten,” warned Jimmy at last. “You’re all to the good, Bob. Wish I could write like you can.”
“Forget it.” Bob waved an inconsequential hand. “You’ve got me beaten already when it comes to soldiering. So honors are more than even, I guess. A lot they care up here whether you wrote the Declaration of Independence or the latest best seller. You’re in the Army now, and in bad, too, unless you can show the drill sergeant that you’re a live one.”
“Soon I show,” broke in Ignace eagerly. “Here have I the rule. What more?”
“What indeed?” murmured Bob, winking solemnly at Roger.
Leaving the Y. M. C. A., the four Brothers started briskly toward their barrack, which was no farther away than would be two ordinary blocks in a city. Call to quarters sounded just as they entered the building. During the short walk Ignace had ambled along in happy silence, holding tightly to his treasure trove. He was secretly wondering which of his three Brothers he liked best and what he could do for them to prove his loyalty. Just now he could think of nothing to do that seemed worth while, except to work hard and show them that he could be a good “solder.” He resolved to study night and day the “fonny” rules Bob had written for him. Could Bob have foreseen the outcome of this firm resolve, he might have considered well before supplying Ignace with the rhymed record of instruction he had just delivered into his Polish bunkie’s keeping with the advice, “Stay on the job until you can say ’em backward.”
“There! We forgot to mail our letters,” commented Roger regretfully to Jimmy as he began removing his shoes.
“Too late now. Taps’ll sound in a minute. I’ll mail ’em all the first thing in the morning, right after breakfast. Give me yours now. I’ll get Iggy’s and put ’em all together on the top of my shelf. If you happen to think of it first, remind me of them.”
Collecting from Ignace the one letter he had written, Jimmy placed it, together with his own and Roger’s, on top of a little folding shelf above his bunk. He had brought it from home and it held his father’s and mother’s photographs. It also boasted of several kodak prints. There was one of the girl friend with whom he had grown up, another of Buster, his dog, and still another of himself, seated in ‘Old Speedy.’ “They’re all here,” he had remarked to Roger as he had set them in place, “even to Old Speedy.”
Sleep soon visited the eyelids of the four Khaki Boys. Having been more active than usual that day they were quite ready for a good night’s rest. The last to drop into slumber, Roger was the first to awaken the next morning. Long accustomed to rising at a few minutes past five o’clock, he had found himself awake before first call blew each morning since his arrival in camp. His eyes opening to greet the daylight pouring in at the windows, his gaze roved idly over the rows of sleeping soldier boys. Remembrance of Jimmy’s request concerning the letters sent his glance next straying toward the shelf where he had seen his bunkie place them. They were not there now. Roger stared frowningly at the shelf, then his face cleared. Jimmy had evidently taken them from there and put them elsewhere. Perhaps in his suit-case. As soon as Jimmy was awake he would ask about them. He was sleeping so peacefully now. It would be a shame to disturb him before first call. Jimmy always slept until the last minute, then fairly dashed into his uniform.
Deciding that he would begin to dress, Roger slipped quietly from his cot and began methodically putting on his clothing. When the clarion notes of the bugle, sounding first call, split the drowsy air, he was fully dressed and seated on the edge of his cot, watching with quiet amusement the orderly flurry that had commenced all around him.
“Where’s my shoe?” came presently in desperate tones from Jimmy, thus centering Roger’s attention upon his friend. “It was right beside the other last night. I’ll swear to it that I put it there. Now it’s gone!” Jimmy’s voice rose anxiously on the last word. By this time the call of “I can’t get ’em up” was echoing through the barrack.
“Here is him.” From under his own cot, where Ignace was just snatching his own shoes, he drew Jimmy’s missing one and slid it along the bare floor.
Jimmy swooped down upon it with a gurgle of relief. Not stopping to inquire how it had wandered there, he hastily put it on and went on dressing at breakneck speed, barely finishing before Reveille, the third and last warning before roll call.
Concern for his bunkie’s loss drove the subject of the letters from Roger’s mind. Returning into the barrack after roll call to make themselves presentable before breakfast, recollection of the missing letters came back to Roger with dismaying force.
“Don’t forget your letters, Jimmy,” he reminded.
“Much obliged. I had forgotten. That shoe business rattled me. I’ll cinch them now before I visit the sink to make myself beautiful.”
A few quick strides and he had reached his cot. Following, Roger heard him exclaim: “What in Sam Hill!” Whirling with a grin he called out, “You old fake! You’ve got those letters! All right. You can just mail ’em.”
“But I haven’t,” came the earnest denial. “When I first woke up this morning I looked at the shelf and saw they were gone. I thought you’d put them in some other place.”
“I put them on that shelf,” emphasized Jimmy. “What’s the matter, I’d like to know? First my shoe turns up under Iggy’s cot and then away go all our letters. There’s something queer about this. Shoes without feet can’t walk off alone. Letters can’t disappear without hands. What’s the answer?”
“Maybe Iggy or Bob took the letters to mail for you,” hazarded Roger. “They’ve gone ahead to scrub up for breakfast and we’d better do the same. You can ask them about it in the mess hall. Don’t bother any more about it now. Come on.”
Frowning, Jimmy obeyed, feeling a trifle nettled over the fact of a second annoying disappearance on the heels of the first.
“Did either of you fellows take those letters to mail?” was his initial remark to Bob and Iggy as they met at mess.
Receiving a surprised “No” from both, Jimmy turned to Roger with: “What do you know about that?”
“Not much.” Roger grew grave as he explained the situation to Bob and Iggy.
“Someone got away with them,” asserted Bob cheerfully. “Must be a mighty small someone who’d stoop to lift a bunch of letters to the home folks. Stealing anything from another fellow is a serious offense in the Army.”
“Why should anybody want to do a thing like that?” demanded Roger. “We don’t know the fellows in our barrack well enough yet for any of them to do it for a joke.”
“It’s no joke,” was Jimmy’s savage opinion. “It was done for pure meanness. How’d my shoe get away down under Iggy’s bed? Some fellow in the squad-room has it in for me. If you don’t know who he is, well – I do. I’ll bet you my hat Bixton did it to spite me for jumping him yesterday. Just wait till I see him! I’ll – ”
“No, you won’t,” interposed Bob. “You’d only get in wrong unless you had proof. You can’t accuse a fellow offhand of anything like that and get away with it. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. The only way to land a criminal is to get evidence that he is one. The same thing applies to a mischief-maker. Whoever he is, I’m not saying it’s Bixton, he’ll think he’s put one over on you, and so pretty soon he’ll try it again. It’s up to you to pussy-foot around and catch him at it. Now mind your Uncle Bob, not a word about these letters to anyone. You can write some more to your folks. Just act as if nothing had happened and do a little watchful waiting. There’s a time to speak, but it isn’t now. So bottle your wrath, Blazes, and do the Sherlock Holmes act. With the four Brothers on the job, all keeping a starboard eye out, believe me, whoever cribbed those letters will wish sooner or later that he’d let ’em alone.”
