le Sam_. A French child
who sat upon the step had one of his wooden shoes full of smoky, used
bullets, which he seemed greatly to prize. Several "flivver" ambulances
stood across the way, new and roughly made, destined for the front.
American naval and military officers were all about.

"We haven't got much time to spare, Tommy," said Mr. Conne, resuming
his former seat and glancing at his watch.

"It's only a second. I just got to turn the grease cup."

He hurried down past the child, who called him "M'sieu Yankee," and
elbowed his way through the group of soldiers who were standing about
_Uncle Sam_.

"Your timer bar's bent," one of them volunteered.

Tom did not answer, but knelt and turned the grease cup, then wiped the
nickel surfaces, bent and dented though they were, with a piece of
cotton waste. Then he felt of his tires. Then he adjusted the position
of the handle-bar more to his liking and as he did so the poor, dented,
glassless searchlight bobbed over sideways as if to look at the middle
of the street. Tom said something which was not audible to the curious
onlookers. Perhaps _Uncle Sam_ heard.

The local rider came jogging around the corner on his way back. His
machine was American-made and a medley of nickel and polished brass. As
he made the turn his polished searchlight, with a tiny flag perched
jauntily upon it, seemed to be looking straight at _Uncle Sam_. And
_Uncle Sam's_ green-besprinkled,[3] glassless eye seemed to be leering
with a kind of sophisticated look at the passing machine. It was the
kind of look which the Chicago Limited might give to the five-thirty
suburban starting with its load of New York commuters for East Orange,
New Jersey.

[3] The effect of water on brass is to produce a greenish, superficial
erosion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"MADE IN GERMANY"

"Now, Tommy, let's hear your idea," said Mr. Conne, indulgently, as he
worked his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "I find
there's generally a little fire where there's a good deal of smoke.
There's somebody or other, as you say, but the trouble is we don't know
who he is. We think maybe he looks like someone you've seen. We think he
may have a patent ear." He looked at Tom sideways and Tom could not help
laughing. Then he looked at the mysterious letter with a funny,
ruminating look.

"What can we--you--do?" Tom ventured to ask, feeling somewhat squelched.

Mr. Conne screwed up his mouth with a dubi