extraordinary affair.
He followed because he did not know what else to do, and he supposed
they wished him to follow. Outside the wharf he got _Uncle Sam_ and
wheeled him along at a respectful distance behind these high officials.
So he had one companion. Several times Mr. Conne looked back at him and
smiled. And once he said in that funny way of his,

"All right, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, trudging along. He had been greatly agitated,
but his wonted stolidness was returning now. Probably he felt more
comfortable and at home coming along behind with _Uncle Sam_ than he
would have felt in the midst of this group where the vilest treason
walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of Uncle Sam.

Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom were following. His cigar was stuck
up in the corner; of his mouth as usual and he gave Tom a whimsical
look.

"You hit the Piff family at both ends, didn't you, Tommy."

"Y-yes, sir," said Tom.

CHAPTER THIRTY

HE DISAPPEARS

Swiftly and silently along the quiet, winding road sped the
dispatch-rider. Away from the ocean he was hurrying, where the great
ships were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge; away from
scenes of debarkation where Uncle Sam was pouring his endless wealth of
courage and determination into bleeding, suffering, gallant France.

Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant villa, through village and
hamlet, and farther and farther into the East, bound for the little
corner of the big salient whence he had come.

He bore with him a packet and some letters. One was to be left at
Neufchatel; others at Breteuil. There was one in particular for
Cantigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did not know that. He
never concerned himself with the contents of his papers.

So he sped along, thinking how he would get a new headlight for _Uncle
Sam_ and a new mud-guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny would
wonder what had happened to his machine. He had no thought of telling
them. There was nothing to tell.

Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had
come from the blue hills of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated
France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon the handle-bar of _Uncle
Sam_, which the rider held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they
knew so well. Back from the coast they sped, those two, along the
winding road which lay on hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow
of the first