were some trusted living thing--an ally.

"Did you really mean you named it after me--honest?" he asked.

Roscoe laughed again silently. "See?" he whispered, holding it across,
and Tom could distinguish the crudely engraved letters, TOMMY.

"--Because I never had anything named after me," he said in his simple,
dull way. "There's a place on the lake up at Temple Camp that the
fellers named after Roy Blakeley--Blakeley Isle. And there's a new
pavilion up there that's named after Mr. Ellsworth, our scoutmaster. And
Mr. Temple's got lots of things--orphan asylums and gymnasiums and
buildings and things--named after _him_. I always thought it must be
fine. I ain't that kind--sort of--that fellers name things after," he
added, with a blunt simplicity that went to Roscoe's heart; and he held
the rifle, as the sniper started to take it back, his eyes still fixed
upon the rough scratches which formed his own name. "In Bridgeboro
there was a place in Barrell Alley," he went on, apparently without
feeling, "where my father fell down one night when he was--when he'd had
too much to drink, and after that everybody down there called it Slade's
Hole. When I got in with the scouts, I didn't like it--kind of----"

Roscoe looked straight at Tom with a look as sure and steady as his
rifle. "Slade's Hole isn't known outside of Barrell Alley, Tom," he said
impressively, although in the same cautious undertone, "but _Tom Slade_
is known from one end of this sector to the other."

"Thatchy's what they called me in Toul sector, 'cause my hair's always
mussed up, I s'pose, and----"

"The first time I ever saw you to really know you, Tom, your hair was
all mussed up--and I hope it'll always stay that way. That was when you
came up there in the woods and made me promise to go back and register."

"I knew you'd go back 'cause----"

"I went back with bells on, and here I am. And here's _Tom Slade_ that's
stuck by me through this war. It's named _Tom Slade_ because it makes
good--see? Look here, I'll show you something else--you old hickory
nut, you. See that," he added, pulling a small object from somewhere in
his clothing.

Tom stared. "It's the Distinguished Service Cross," he said, his longing
eyes fixed upon it.

"That's what it is. The old gent handed me that--if anybody should ask
you."

Tom smiled, remembering Roscoe's familiar way of speaking of the
dignified Mr. Temple, and of "Old Man" Burton, and "Pop" this and that.

"G