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CHAPTER XIX
A FRUITFUL RUBBISH CAN

December heralded many comings and goings at Camp Sterling. With almost every day, a detachment of soldiers marched to the station to return no more. Traveling seaward by circuitous routes, the waiting transports claimed them and bore them away to “Over There.” The draft now in full swing, hundreds of men constantly arrived to replace them. Soldiering went on with a rush. Across the water had come the Allies’ cry, “More Men!” and Uncle Sam did not propose to be behindhand in furnishing his trench quota.

On the Saturday before Christmas our four Khaki Boys departed in high glee on a four-days’ furlough, to be spent with the Blaise family. Only one regret lurked beneath their exuberant joy. It had to do with a forlorn comrade, shut in the guard house, and apart from all Christmas cheer. Schnitzel was still awaiting trial, due to numerous halts in the machinery of military law, occasioned by the thoroughness of the investigation. Once definitely established that Company E’s men had been the victim of arsenic poisoning, instead of powdered glass, it became less easy to establish Schnitzel’s guilt.

Grilled over and over again as to where he had obtained the arsenic, his undaunted protest of innocence was not without effect. Undoubtedly he could not hope to escape trial. He was the only man in camp against whom anything incriminating had been discovered. Rigid testings of supplies in the commissary departments had yielded no further traces of poison. This did away with the theory of outside agency, and fastened the opprobrium more strongly on the German-American.

“A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Shut off from any possible opportunity to see Schnitzel, the four Khaki Boys did not forget him. Many verbal battles were fought by them in his behalf. Few others beside themselves believed him innocent.

Each of the quartette, including Iggy, had written to Schnitzel cheerful, hopeful letters, breathing firm belief in his innocence. All had planned to buy him some token of remembrance as soon as they went on their furlough.

Bob’s secret campaign to gain information concerning Bixton, Eldridge and the kitchen men on duty with Schnitzel at the time of the poisoning had not been specially fruitful. He gathered considerable data concerning Bixton, not specially useful to his purpose, in that it had no bearing on the mystery. What Bob burned to know was the origin of the tabulated list of poisons. He was now certain that Bixton had not compiled it. He suspected Eldridge, but of the latter he could find out little. He was considerably older than Bixton, fairly well-educated, but most uncommunicative except to his bunkie. He claimed Buffalo as his home town, but Bob believed him to be from the middle West. His walk, voice and mannerisms smacked faintly of the Hoosier.

On the Wednesday after Christmas, the noon train into Camp Sterling unloaded its freight of returned soldier boys, the four Brothers a part of the throng that passed through the big gates, and tramped the snowy roads to their various barracks.

Much to his disgust, Bob found himself “settling down” a good deal sooner than suited him. According to the cold information of Sergeant Dexter, a quantity of discarded wrapping paper, together with numerous ends of string, had been found under his cot on the previous Saturday evening. Rebuked for untidiness, he was condemned to a detail of policing barracks that filled him with righteous wrath.

“I can guess who was to blame for that,” he sputtered angrily to Jimmy. “Eldridge put up that job on me. Bix went away on the same train we did. The other sneak didn’t. It’s up to him. I know it.”

“Funny he didn’t do the same to the rest of us,” commented Jimmy.

“Oh, he wasn’t particular as to which of us got it,” snapped Bob. “Probably he just dumped those papers and beat it in a hurry. Makes me sick. It’s the first time I’ve got it in the neck since I came to Sterling. I don’t mind the detail. It’s being dished that makes me sore. The worst of it is, I couldn’t say a word. Just had to stand and take it from the Sarge.”

“Oh, well, it’s no great disgrace,” comforted Jimmy. “Think of poor Schnitz.”

“I am and I have. Do you realize that his trial is bound to come off before long? According to our manual, thirty days, with an additional ten added if approved by military authorities, is the longest a case can hang fire. I don’t know whether that holds good in Schnitz’s case. I should think so, though. Anyhow, we’ve not done a thing for him. We’ve got to get busy and do something.”

“What?” Jimmy made a gesture of despair.

“I don’t know yet, but I do know that it’s got to be done mighty soon.” Bob shot a baleful glance across the squad room toward Eldridge, who was seated cross-legged on his cot, undoing a small package. “Look at him!” muttered Bob, as the man proceeded to tear the outside wrapper into strips. “More rubbish for Bobby to cart away.”

Jimmy’s eyes followed Bob’s. Suddenly he gripped the latter’s arm. “Maybe he got that package in the mail. Maybe it’s from his home. Maybe – ”

“Great guns!” exclaimed Bob softly, and swung round, his back toward Eldridge. “Don’t let him see you rubbering, Blazes. You’ve given me a jolt, though. I’m going to watch what he does with those strips of paper and nab ’em. Oh, boy! Why is Bobby on police duty?”

The paper presently went into a receptacle at one end of the squad room, provided for that purpose. When supper call sounded, Bob declined to answer it. “You fellows go ahead,” he directed. “I don’t want any supper. Later on I’ll go down to the canteen, and fill up on cakes and milk. This is my chance, and I’m going to take it.”

The moment the squad room had emptied itself, Bob sped to the rubbish can. Fortunately for him, the scraps of paper he sought were of a dull grayish green, and thus easily distinguished from the rest of the can’s contents. Quickly, but thoroughly, he searched, making sure that he had every scrap of the paper he sought in his possession. Too shrewd to attempt to piece them together in the squad room, he wrapped them in a handkerchief, and hurried off to the Y. M. C. A.

It was over an hour later when he returned to barracks, his black eyes snapping with triumph.

“I know what I know,” he exulted, dropping down beside Jimmy, who was seated on his cot. “Come on outside and I’ll show you something. Where are the fellows?”

“They just went over to the canteen. Rodge wanted to buy some soap to do his family washing with. I told ’em I’d wait here for you.”

“Let’s find ’em. I’m going canteenwards myself to feed. We’ll probably meet ’em there.”

“Now show me,” demanded Jimmy, the moment they were out in the company street.

Bob took a small flashlight and something else from a trouser’s pocket. The “something else” was a half-sheet of paper. Training the flashlight upon it, he read, “‘Alice E. Eldridge, 1205 N. Clark St., Chicago, Illinois.’ That’s a return address. I copied it, then got rid of the papers. Had a great time piecing them together. Regular Chinese puzzle. Now this is what I’m going to do. I’ve a friend on the Chicago American. As soon as I feed, I’m going back to barracks and write to him. I’ll send him this address, and ask him to get me all the data he can about the Eldridge family.”

CHAPTER XX
A LEAP IN THE DARK

Thursday, the day following the writing and mailing of Bob’s letter, brought its own surprises. Came the order that a part of Company E’s men, along with a number housed in other barracks, were to be transferred to a camp many miles south of Sterling. This in itself was to be expected. The majority of the men ordered to pack received the command with admirable tranquillity. It threw the four Khaki Boys into panic, however. Not because, with the exception of Jimmy, they were to be among those to go. Even Jimmy was to return. He was to have the proud honor of going along merely to help escort the detachment to their new quarters. What upset the equanimity of the four Brothers was the fact that Bixton was among the number to be transferred. Fate had evidently elected that Bixton should not suffer for his villainy.

Corporal Jimmy was divided between pride in the coming detail and discouragement of the defeat of their crusade of Justice.

“I’d be all puffed up with pleasure over this trip if it weren’t for this business about poor Schnitz,” he confided to his bunkies on the Friday night before the start.

“I never thought I’d hate to see the last of Bixton,” grumbled Bob, “but I certainly do. It puts a crimp in the Slippery Sleuths’ Society, all right, all right. Anyhow, Eldridge is left. We may be able to tree him. Keep your eye on Bixton, Blazes, all the way down. You might just happen to stumble upon something.”

“I would by Jimmy go, the care to him take,” broke in Ignace. Up to this point, he had watched his favorite Brother’s preparing for sleep in round-eyed, gloomy silence. “You take the good care yoursel’, Jimmy,” he anxiously enjoined. “You get the hurt never I smile more.”

“You never smile anyway, you old sobersides.” Jimmy flashed him an amused, but affectionate glance. “Don’t you worry about me, Iggy, ’cause I’ll come back safe and sound. I’m not going across. I’ll only be gone four days.”

“We’ll sure miss you,” declared Bob. “Now I move that we turn in, too, and let Blazes alone. He has a hard trip ahead of him, and he needs a long night’s rest. You’ll be up first in the morning, old man. If we’re asleep, waken us so we can say good-bye and good luck.”

Bob and Roger were awake as soon as Jimmy. Ignace, however, slept peacefully on until Jimmy roused him to say a hasty good-bye. Three pairs of affectionate eyes watched Corporal Jimmy to the stairway, their owners sincerely glad that they had the assurance of his return. There was but one Jimmy Blaise.

Marched to the station under the graying light of a cloudy dawn, the majority of the departing soldier boys were in good spirits. The detachment numbered a little over three hundred men, including a sergeant and two other corporals besides Jimmy, who would return to Camp Sterling with him once their detail had been accomplished. Brimming with the adventurous spirit of youth, the travelers were, for the most part, exultant to be at last on the way “to the front.”

Yet in the breast of one of the gallant little company, mingled fear and resentment raged. Bixton was taking the removal very badly, though no one save himself and Eldridge knew it. On the previous night he had unburdened himself to his bunkie in a bitter denunciation against the Service.

“Once they get you in the Army, they use you like a dog,” he had savagely asserted. “Expect you to crawl to every smarty that wears chevrons, treat you as if you were dirt, and then think you ought to run all the way to France to get croaked. It would serve this country right if it lost out in this war. I was a fool to enlist. I could have side-stepped the draft. A lot of fellows have. Don’t see why I should make a target of myself for a government that don’t care a hoot about me. I don’t want to die. I want to live.”

Now started on his way toward the thing he most dreaded, Bixton had determined to take the bit in his teeth and bolt. From the time he entered the train he busied himself with concocting schemes for a successful get-away.

As the day wore on toward evening, Bixton grew desperate. He had managed on entering the train to place himself in a seat near the rear end of the last car. Only a few feet from the rear platform, it seemed impossible to win it without being observed. To add to his difficulties, Jimmy Blaise was also in the same car as himself. To be sure, he made frequent trips to and through the two cars ahead, specially reserved for the detachment. Still, he appeared to be spending most of his time in the last one. Bixton regarded this merely as a “happen-so.”

Following Christmas, the weather had moderated. A thaw had set in on the Wednesday afterward that had rapidly turned the recent snowfall to slush. Two days of brilliant sunshine had left the ground fairly bare of white. Dawn that morning had hinted of rain before evening. Bixton fervently hoped that it would rain. Given an early twilight, and a pitch-black night, he could make good use of it.

By nine o’clock that evening the rain had come – a slow, dispiriting mist, reinforced later by a heavy fog. It was an ideal night for a deserter. Hunched in his seat, Bixton feigned a drowsiness he was far from feeling. From under his half-closed lids his pale blue eyes divided their vigil between his companions and the foggy world glimpsed through the car windows. As time dragged on the low hum of voices around him began to die out. One after another grew sleepy and dozed off. By ten o’clock comparative silence reigned. Occasionally a soldier roused himself with a jerk to make a trip to the water cooler directly behind Bixton.

At five minutes to eleven o’clock, Jimmy Blaise walked through the car, and dropped rather wearily into a vacant seat on the opposite side from Bixton, but a little ahead. Jimmy was beginning to feel the strain of the long day’s responsibility. Still wide awake, he felt very tired, but well content. Everything was moving along smoothly. Half the trip had been made, and all was well. Not a man had yet attempted to desert. He doubted if anyone would. Even Bixton had behaved like a lamb. Small chance now of doing anything for Schnitz. With this thought Jimmy’s contentment vanished in a rise of bitter reflection against the injustice of Fate. Poor Schnitz! How terribly he had been already misjudged! And the worst was yet to come! With a deep sigh, Jimmy closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, sick at heart.

For perhaps ten minutes he remained thus, eyes closed, but otherwise keenly aware of his surroundings. Due to increasing fog, the train was running more slowly over a flat stretch of country, the roadbed of which was almost level with the rails. Alert to catch every sound, the monotonous hum of the train itself, as it sped along through the night, had a slightly blurring effect on his acute hearing powers – not great enough, however, to prevent him from distinguishing above it a faint click from behind him. It brought him instantly to an erect sitting posture, his head turned in the direction whence it had come.

There came a muffled cry, a flash of olive-drab down the aisle, the reverberating slam of a door; then silence. At intervals throughout the car, drowsy heads bobbed up, the glances of their owners sleepily directed toward the rear door. Several of their comrades nearer to the door than themselves were up, and making for it. Undoubtedly, something unusual had happened. But what? They could not then know that already some distance behind them, two soldiers, mud-plastered, and shaken by their mad leap in the dark, were, nevertheless, engaged in the fight of their lives. A battle in which Honor strove against Dishonor; a conflict between Loyalty and Disloyalty.

CHAPTER XXI
THE FIGHT

Shut in on all sides by the fog, ankle deep in the mud, Corporal Jimmy Blaise and Private Bixton were locked in a savage grip, from which one of them fought desperately to free himself. Bixton had no will to fight – he wanted to run. Once clear of his hated antagonist, he could dash off into the blackness, and defy pursuit. Only one man stood between him and liberty. He had risked too much already to endure defeat and capture. He must break away.

Jimmy was as fully determined in an opposite direction. Reckless disregard for himself had caused him to act with his usual impetuosity. He had reached the door just in time to see Bixton about to swing off the train. In the next instant he had followed his quarry. Luckily for him, the force of Bixton’s descent had sent him sprawling in the mud, for an instant stunned. Had the train been going at full speed, he must undoubtedly have been killed. Jimmy, on the contrary, had landed on his feet like a cat. Turning instantly, he ran back to where Bixton was just picking himself up.

With a hoarse shout of triumph, Jimmy leaped upon Bixton and slammed him back to earth. Simultaneously with the onslaught, Bixton’s brain began to act. His long, wiry arms flung about Jimmy, he put his full strength into use. Over and over in the mud they rolled, neither able to gain the advantage.

It was a sickening struggle, calculated to wear out both combatants in short order. The collapse of one meant the supremacy of the other. Evenly matched in sheer brute strength, it soon became a test of which could endure longest.

Forced by the growing knowledge that he was beginning to weaken, Jimmy came into a last fierce rush of strength that tore him free of that devastating hold. Before Bixton could rise, Jimmy was upon him like a whirlwind, striking ferociously in the dark. His first blow landed full on the deserter’s chest, eliciting from him a deep groan. It was followed by a rain of blows planted with all the strength that Jimmy had left in him. Nor did his arm cease to descend until it began to dawn upon him that he was having things all his own way. He had won; knocked out Bixton. Perhaps he had killed the man. He hoped not. If he had – Jimmy slid off his foe’s motionless body, and groped in his trousers’ pocket for his flashlight. It had no doubt been wrecked, he thought. He found it, fumbled it over in the dark. A white light sprang into being. Turning it directly on Bixton, Jimmy proceeded to make investigation.

He finally raised up with a relieved sigh. Bixton was breathing. Now came the question of what to do next. Bixton would have to be put past the power of doing further fighting that night. Perhaps he was, already. Jimmy intended to take no chances as to that. Bixton must be tied. But with what? Hastily rising, Jimmy went through his pockets, producing two handkerchiefs. Studying for a moment, he bent down and turned Bixton over. With one handkerchief he bound the man’s hands tightly behind his back, with a secureness that was warranted to hold. This finally done, he again paused to consider.

His money belt next went to decorate Bixton. Of soft, pliable leather, he managed with some difficulty to tie it about Bixton’s neck, allowing sufficient laxity for breathing, but that was all. Tearing the other handkerchief diagonally across, he knotted it together, twisted it into a rope, and knotted one end of it around the belt. Now he had a halter by which he purposed to lead Bixton, provided he was able to walk. It would not be a pleasant business, but it was the only way. All he could now do was to await the awakening of his captive.

That awakening took place about ten minutes after Jimmy had concluded his preparations. It began with moans, was succeeded by indistinct mutterings, and ended in a volley of curses, as Bixton endeavored to sit up, only to find that something peculiar had happened to his arms. Promptly getting behind him, Jimmy helped him to his feet, not forgetting to obtain a good grip on the improvised halter.

“Now listen to me, you deserter,” he began sternly, still behind his man. “I’ve got you where I want you. You can’t get away from me. If you try to you’ll only succeed in shutting off your own wind. So don’t start anything. I’ve put your arms out of business, too. You’ve still got a pair of legs, though, and you’re going to use ’em. We’re going to start now for somewhere. You’ll be ahead and I’ll be about two feet behind you, treading on your heels. We’ll follow the railroad track until we get to some place where I can hand you over as a deserter. But before we start you’re going to tell me a few things.”

Bixton’s only reply was a series of violent jerks that soon ceased. Half-strangled by his efforts, and still groggy from his recent punishment, he soon ceased struggling, and stood still.

“Thank you.” Jimmy’s voice quivered with irony. “Now I guess we’re ready for our talk. First, where did you get that list of poisons, and that bottle of powdered glass that you put in Schnitzel’s suitcase? I know you stole our letters, and put ’em with the other stuff.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie. You do know. Answer me with the truth.” Jimmy jerked the halter.

“Stop that! Do you want to kill me?”

“You won’t die. Don’t worry about that. Now tell me quick, or I’ll repeat my little halter stunt.” Realizing that he had a coward, as well as a villain to deal with, Jimmy pretended a cold-bloodedness which he did not feel. He had no desire to do Bixton personal injury. He was merely set on wringing a confession from him.

“I don’t know anything about a poison list,” quavered Bixton. “I pounded up the glass myself, and put it in that Fritzie’s suitcase for a joke. I took your letters to get even with you. I kept ’em till I got a chance to stick ’em onto Schnitz when they’d raise a fuss.”

“It’s a pretty streaked joke that will put a man in prison on a murder charge. Anyway, you’ve admitted it. You’ll do it again as soon as we get to where you can make a full confession and sign it. After that you can answer to a charge for deserting from the Service. Now, Forward March, and remember I’m right with you. The track’s straight ahead.”

It is difficult for one man, wholly unimpeded, to travel sure-footedly in the darkness. A journey such as Jimmy made that night, in company with Bixton, he regarded ever afterward as the supreme feat of his military career. The night wore on, and the fog lifted, but still that strangely assorted pair tramped the ties, stepping off twice to let trains go by them, which Jimmy vainly hailed. Toward five o’clock the myriad lights of a large town began to gleam ahead of them. Traveling with such painful slowness, Jimmy had no idea of how far they had walked. Neither did he care. All he wanted was to reach some place where he could rid himself of his detested captive.

It was half-past five when they entered the railroad yards of the town. Dawn just beginning to show in the east, their first encounter was with a railroad policeman who stood transfixed in the middle of a yawn at sight of them.

“Hello, there!” hailed Jimmy. “I need you. This fellow is a deserter. He was on the way to Camp Abbott and jumped the train. I jumped after him and nailed him.”

“It’s a lie,” shrieked Bixton. “He’s the deserter. It’s the other way round. He deserted and I jumped off after him. We had a fight and he nailed me. I – ”

“I’m Corporal Blaise from Camp Sterling.” Jimmy pointed to the insignia on his sleeve. “I was sent to help conduct a detachment of men to Camp Abbott. What I want to do is to turn this man over to you, so that I can telegraph my K. O. After that he has a confession to make that I want taken down before proper authorities and signed.”

“You’re a pretty smart Sammy.” The policeman viewed Jimmy with admiration. “Now you just let me handle this. I’ll run this yellow dog in while you go and get cleaned up and do your telegraphing. You’d better take time to eat a bite, too. Afterward you take a hike up to Station House No. 10. It’s about three blocks from here. You can find it. That’s where this un’s going on the jump. Some harness you put on him! Guess you give him a mud bath and took one yourself. You’re a good ’un, blessed if you ain’t.”

“Oh, I’m not so much.” Jimmy grinned, his face flushing under its liberal coating of mud. “Well, I’m going to beat it. So long.”

Heading on a run for the nearby railroad station, Jimmy felt in a pocket and fished up the little wad of notes he had extracted from his money belt before decorating Bixton with it. Entering the station telegraph office, he sent his message.

“Guess that’ll give ’em a surprise at headquarters,” he reflected as he left the telegraph office. “It’s been some night and it’s going to be some day. A fine, peaceful, quiet Sunday at that. I’ll have to stay here, I guess, until I’m told what to do next. But, oh, boy! Wait till I get back to Sterling!”