hich was hardly
more than a whitewashed cabin with two small windows, one door and a
disheveled roof, entirely too big for it as it seemed to Tom. The odd
conceit occurred to him that it ought to be brushed and combed like a
shocky head of hair. Within there was a dim light, and protecting each
window was a rough board shutter, hinged at the top and held open at an
angle by a stick.

He crept cautiously up and examined these shutters with minutest care.
He even felt of one of them and found it to be old and rotten. Then he
felt to see if his precious button was safe in his pocket.

Evidently the dilapidated shutter suggested something to him, for he
glanced about as if looking for something else, and seemed encouraged.
Now he stole a quick look this way or that to anticipate the approach of
any one, and then looked carefully about again.

At last his eyes lit upon the flagpole which was projected diagonally
from the house, with the flag, which he knew must be the German flag,
depending from it. The distant sight of this flag had quite discouraged
Archer's hopes, but Tom knew that the compulsory display of the Teuton
colors was no indication of the sentiment of the people.

He was more interested in the rough, home-made flagpole which he
ventured to bend a little so as to bring its end within reach. This he
examined with a care entirely disproportionate to the importance of the
crude, whittled handiwork. He pushed the drooping flag aside rather
impatiently as it fell over his face, and felt of the end of the pole
and scrutinized it as best he could in the darkness.

It was roughly carved and intended to be ornamental, swelling into a
kind of curved ridge surmounted by a dull, dome-like point. He felt it
all over, then cautiously bending the pole down within reach of his
mouth, he bit into the wood and deposited the two or three loose
splinters in his pocket.

Then he hurried back up the hill to rejoin Archer.

"Let me have the flashlight," he said with rather more excitement than
he often showed. And he would say no more till he had examined the
little splinter of wood in its glare.

"It's all right," he said; "we're safe in going there. See this? It's a
splinter from the flagpole----"

"A souveneerr!" Archer interrupted.

"There you go again," said Tom. "Who's talking about souvenirs? See how
white and fresh the wood is--look. That's off the end of the pole where
it's carved into kind of a fancy topknot. And