the one called
Freddie. "We'll never get a good whack at Fritzie now."

Tom's heart fell.

"We'll be wittling souveneers out o' wood," Freddie concluded.

"We'll have plenty o' wood," said his comrade. "The old Black Forest's
down that w'y."

"It's just north of Alsice," Freddie said.

"A pair o' wire nippers and a bit o' French----"

"Shh," cautioned Freddie.

"We m'y be ible to s'y 'Owdy' to General 'Aig yet."

"Shh! We aren't even there yet."

Tom listened eagerly to this talk and thought much about it afterward.
For one whole year he had longed to get into the war. He had waited for
his eighteenth birthday as a child waits for Christmas. He had gone on
the transport with the one thought of its bringing him nearer to
military service. He was going to fight like two soldiers because his
brother was--was not a soldier.

And now it appeared that his part in the great war, his way of doing his
bit, was to lie in a prison camp until the whole thing was over. That
was worse than boring sticks in Bridgeboro and distributing badges. Tom
had never quarreled with Fate, he had even been reconciled to the
thought of dying as a spy; but he rebelled at this prospect.

Instinctively, as he and his two philosophical companions were placed
aboard the train, he reached down into his trousers pocket and found the
little iron button which Frenchy had given him. He clutched it as if it
were a life preserver, until his hand was warm and sweaty from holding
it.

It seemed his last forlorn hope now.

CHAPTER XXIII

HE MAKES A HIGH RESOLVE AND LOSES A FAVORITE WORD

Miss Margaret Ellison, the stenographer in the Temple Camp office, had
once pronounced judgment on Tom. It was that if he made up his mind to
do a thing he would do it. There was something about his big mouth and
his dogged scowl which made this prophecy seem likely of fulfilment.

And now, silently, he threw his challenge down before Fate, before
Germany, before barbed wire entanglements--before everything and
everybody. He did not know whether they ever paroled ordinary prisoners,
but he hoped they would not parole him, because then he would be bound
by honor. And he did not want to be bound by honor. He kept his hand in
his pocket, grasping his precious button, and it was well that the
German officials did not know what was in his mind.

"I ain't goin' to be cheated out of it now," he said to himself; "I
don't care what."

All day long they jou