udden fear seized upon Tom.

"They--they ain't going to arrest me, are they?" he asked, with alarm in
every line of his ordinarily expressionless face.

"Put you both in the guardhouse," said the captain briefly.[2]

"Didn't you--didn't you--believe me?" Tom pleaded simply and not without
some effect.

"You and your brother get your jobs together?" the captain asked.

"Mr. Conne, who's in the Secret Service, got me mine," Tom said.

"Who did he recommend you to?" asked the detective.

Tom hesitated a moment. "To Mr. Wessel, the steward," he said.

"Humph! Too bad Mr. Wessel died. You'll both have to go to the
guardhouse."

Tom saw there was no hope for him. For a moment he struggled, drawing a
long breath in pitiful little gulps. If he had followed Mr. Conne's
advice he would not be in this predicament. But where then might the
great transport be? Who but he, captain's mess boy, had saved the ship
and showed these people how the light----

"It makes me feel like----" he began. "Can't I--please--can't I not be
arrested--please?"

Neither man answered him. Presently the door opened and four soldiers
entered. One of them was "Pickles," who had nicknamed Tom "Tombstone,"
because he was so sober. But he was not Pickles now; he was just one of
a squad of four, and though he looked surprised he neither smiled nor
spoke.

"Pickles," said Tom. "I ain't--_You_ don't believe----"

But Pickles had been too long in training camp to forget duty and
discipline so readily and the only answer Tom got was the dull thud of
Pickles' rifle butt on the floor as the officer uttered some word or
other.

That thud was a good thing for Tom. It seemed to settle him into his
old stolid composure, which had so amused the boys in khaki.

Side by side with his brother, whom so long ago he could not bear to see
"licked," he marched out and along the passage, a soldier in front, one
behind and one at either side. How strange the whole thing seemed!

His brother who had gone out to Arizona when Tom was just a bad,
troublesome little hoodlum! And here they were now, marching silently
side by side, on one of Uncle Sam's big transports, with four soldiers
escorting them! Both, the nephews of Uncle Job Slade who had died in the
Soldiers' Home and had been buried with the Stars and Stripes draped
over his coffin.

Two things stood out in Tom Slade's memory, clearest of all, showing how
unreasonable and contrary he was. Two lickings. One