t them, just like the statue of Nathan Hale which he had
seen....

He realized fully now that he had been caught in the meshes of his
brother's intrigue, and that there was no hope for him. To have saved
himself he would have had to spare his brother and allow the intriguing
to go on. Well, it made no difference--here he was. "And it ain't so
much, anyway," he said, "if one boy like me does get misjudged, as long
as the ship is saved and those papers about the motor were found."

So he tried to comfort himself, sitting there alone, twisting his
fingers and gulping now and then. All his fine, patriotic memories of
the Slades were knocked in the head, but even in these lonely hours he
was stanch for Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam might make a mistake--a terrible
mistake, as he presently would do--"but anyway he's more important than
I am," he said.

Occasionally he listened wistfully to the sounds outside and they made
him wish he could see as well as hear. He heard the creaking of the busy
pulleys, the men calling "Yo-o-ho!" as they handled the winch-ropes, the
dull thud of the heavy bales upon the quay, the cheerful, lusty calls of
the workers, the loud voices of the French people, and that incessant
accompaniment of all, the clatter, clatter, clatter, of wooden shoes.

Sometimes he would lose his mastery of himself and regain it only to
listen again, wistfully, longingly. He hoped those German prisoners who
walked as if they were wound up with a key, noticed all this hurry and
bustle. They would soon see what it meant for Uncle Sam.

There were voices outside and Tom's heart beat like a hammer. Could it
be over so soon? The door opened a little and he could see that someone
was holding the knob, talking to a soldier. He breathed heavily, his
fingers were cold, but he stood up and looked straight before him,
bravely. They had come to get him.

Then the door opened wider and a familiar voice greeted him.

"H'lo, Tommy. Well, well! Adventures never cease, huh?"

Tom stood gaping. Through dimmed eyes he saw a cigar (it seemed like the
same cigar) cocked up in the corner of Mr. Conne's mouth and that queer,
whimsical look on Mr. Conne's face.

"Mr. Conne----" he stammered. "I didn't know--you was--here. _You_ don't
believe it, do you?"

Mr. Conne worked his cigar leisurely over to the other side of his
mouth.

"Believe what?"

"That--I'm--a--a spy and--and a traitor." He almost whispered the
words.

Mr. Conne smiled