rst, and he shuddered, thinking
of the end of that sprightly little race to the awful goal....

His lip curled a little as he looked at the now harmless piece of junk
and as his eyes wandered to the impenitent clock which, without any
vestige of remorse or contrition, was ticking merrily up there on the
shelf, out of harm's way between the sentinels of cans.

"Huh, I don't call that fighting!" he said.

Tom's knowledge of war was confined to what he had learned at school. He
knew about the Battle of Bunker Hill and that ripping old fight, the
Battle of Lexington. These two encounters represented what he understood
war to be.

When Mr. Ellsworth had taken him in hand, he had told him a few things
known to scouts: that it was cowardly to throw stones; that it was
contemptible to strike a person in the back or below the waist; that
fighting was bad enough, but that if fights must be fought they should
be fought in the open. That a boy should never, _never_ strike a
girl....

And what kind of fighting was this? thought Tom. Was it not exactly like
the boy who sneaks behind a fence and throws stones?

"That ain't fighting," he repeated.

Methodically he went upstairs. His immediate superior was "Butch," but
his ultimate superior was Mr. Cressy, the steward; and to him he now
went.

"I got somethin' to tell you, Mr. Cressy," he said hurriedly. "I made a
mistake and went into the wrong room, and there's a bomb there. It was
set for nine o'clock. I fixed it so's it can't go off."

"What?" ejaculated the steward.

"I fixed it so it can't go off," Tom repeated dully. "If I'd waited till
I told you, it might 'a' gone off by mistake."

His manner was so entirely free from excitement that for a moment the
steward could only stare at him.

"There ain't any danger now," said Tom.

The steward whistled to himself thoughtfully.

"Go down there and wait till I come, and don't say anything about this
to anybody," said he.

Tom went down, feeling quite important; he was being drawn head and
shoulders into the war now. Once the thought occurred to him that
perhaps he would be suspected of something. For he thought he knew now
how easily people did "get misjudged." But that seemed absurd, and he
dismissed the thought of it--just as he had dismissed the thought of
Roscoe Bent's really doing anything wrong or cowardly.

But still a vague feeling of uneasiness held him....

CHAPTER XVIII

SHERLOCK NOBODY HOLMES