ful manipulating and squeezing and pressing of it enabled him
to break it and force it open.

"There you are," he said, removing the handkerchief so as to get a
better look at the cruel sore beneath; "didn't hurt much, did it? That's
what Uncle Sam's trying to do for all the rest of you fellers--only you
haven't got sense enough to know it."

CHAPTER THREE

THE OLD COMPASS

Tom took the limping Boche, his first war prisoner, to the Red Cross
station at Vivieres where they had knives and scissors and bandages and
antiseptics, but nothing with which to remove Prussian manacles, and all
the king's horses and all the king's men and the willing, kindly nurses
there could have done little for the poor Boche if Tom Slade, alias
Thatchy, had not administered his own particular kind of first aid.

The French doctors sent him forth with unstinted praise which he only
half understood, and as he sped along the road for Compiegne he wondered
who could have been the allied gunner who at long range had cut Fritzie
loose from the piece of artillery to which he had been chained.

"That feller and I did a good job anyway," he thought.

At Compiegne the whole town was in a ferment as he passed through.
Hundreds of refugees with mule carts and wheelbarrows laden with their
household goods, were leaving the town in anticipation of the German
advance. They made a mournful procession as they passed out of the town
along the south road with babies crying and children clamoring about the
clumsy, overladen vehicles. He saw many boys in khaki here and there and
it cheered and inspired him to know that his country was represented in
the fighting. He had to pause in the street to let a company of them
pass by on their way northward to the trench line and it did his heart
good to hear their cheery laughter and typical American banter.

"Got any cigarettes, kiddo?" one called.

"Where you going--north?" asked another.

"To the billets west of Montdidier," Tom answered. "I'm for new service.
I came from Toul sector."

"Good-_night_! That's Sleepy Hollow over there."

From Compiegne he followed the road across the Aronde and up through
Mery and Tricot into Le Cardonnois. The roads were full of Americans and
as he passed a little company of them he called,

"How far is ----?" naming the village of his destination.

"About two miles," one of them answered; "straight north."

"Tell 'em to give 'em Hell," another called.

This la