eneral Pershing?"

"The same. You've heard of him, haven't you? Very muchly, huh?"

"Why don't you wear it?" Tom asked.

"Why? Well, I'll tell you why. When your friend, Thatchy, followed me on
that crazy trip of mine he borrowed some money for railroad fare, didn't
he? And he had a Gold Cross that he used to get the money, huh? So I
made up my mind that this little old souvenir from Uncle Samuel wouldn't
hang on my distinguished breast till I got back and paid Tom Slade what
I owed him and made sure that he'd got his own Cross safely back and was
wearing it again. Do you get me?"

"I got my Cross back," said Tom, "and it's home. So you can put that on.
You got to tell me how you got it, too. I always knew you'd make a
success."

"It was _Tommy Slade_ helped me to it, as usual. I beaned nine Germans
out in No Man's Land, and got away slightly wounded--I stubbed my toe.
Old Pop Clemenceau gave me a kiss and the old gent slipped me this for
good luck," Roscoe said, pinning on the Cross to please Tom. "When
Clemmy saw the name on the rifle, he asked what it meant and I told him
it was named after a pal of mine back home in the U.S.A.--Tom Slade.
Little I knew you were waltzing around the war zone on that thing of
yours. I almost laughed in his face when he said, 'M'soo Tommee should
be proud.'"

So the Premier of France had spoken the name of Tom Slade, whose father
had had a mud hole in Barrell Alley named after him.

"I _am_ proud," he stammered; "that's one sure thing. I'm proud on
account of you--I am."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE FOUNTAINS OF DESTRUCTION

As Tom had the balance of the day to himself he cherished but one
thought--that of remaining with Roscoe as long as his leave would
permit. If he had been in the woods up at Temple Camp, away back home in
his beloved Catskills, he could hardly have felt more at home than he
felt perched in this tree near the headwaters of the running stream; and
to have Roscoe Bent crouching there beside him was more than his fondest
dreams of doing his bit had pictured.

At short intervals they could hear firing, sometimes voices in the
distance, and occasionally the boom of artillery, but except for these
reminders of the fighting the scene was of that sort which Tom loved. It
was there, while the sniper, all unseen, guarded the source of the
stream, his keen eye alert for any stealthy approach, that Tom told him
in hushed tones the story of his own experiences; ho