The Boy Scouts In Russia | Page 8

Fred was
finishing his meal, with a pompous looking, superannuated policeman,
recalled to duty since the younger men had all gone to war. This man
asked many questions which Fred answered.
"You are American?" asked the policeman, finally. "You are sure you
are not English?"
All at once the truth came over Fred. They thought he was English!
Then England must have entered the war! They would think that he
was an enemy, perhaps a spy! Yet, though he knew now the cause of
the suspicious looks, the mutterings, he couldn't utter a word in his
defence. He hadn't been formally accused of anything.
"Yes, I'm an American," he said, quietly. "I'm not English. I've no
English blood in me."
He had intended to try to get a place to sleep in the village, but now he
decided that it would be better to get away as soon as he could. If there
had been soldiers about, or any really responsible police officials, he
would not have been at all disturbed. But these people were nervous
and ignorant; the best men of the place had gone, the ones most likely
to have a good understanding. So he paid his little reckoning, and
started to walk on.
They followed him as he started. As soon as he was in the open road
again, a new idea came to him. Why not try the great house on the hill?
There certainly someone would know the difference between an
American and an Englishman. He was very tired. He knew that, even if
he went on, he would have to stop at some village sooner or later. And
if he was suspected here, he would be at the next place.
And so, trying to ignore the little crowd that was following him, he
turned off and began climbing toward the mansion above the village.

It was like a signal. From behind him there rose a dull murmur. A lad
not much older than himself raced up and stood threateningly in his
path.
"If you are an American and honest, why are you going there?" asked
this boy, a peasant, and rather stupid in his appearance.
"None of your business!" said Fred, aroused. He didn't think that the
advice of his friend Lieutenant Ernst to answer questions covered this.
"You can't go there. There are spies enough there already!" cried the
other.
And then without any warning, he lunged forward and tried to grapple
with Fred.
That aroused all the primitive fight in Fred. He met the attack joyously
for wrestling was something he understood very well. And in a moment
he had pinned the peasant boy, strong as he was, to the earth.
But he had got rid of one opponent only to have a dozen others spring
up. There was a throng about him as he shook himself free, a throng
that closed in, shouting, cursing. For a moment things looked serious.
Fred now understood these people thought he was a spy. And he could
guess that it would go hard with him if he didn't get away. He forgot
everything but that, and he fought hard and well to make good his
escape. But they were too many for him. Try as he would, he couldn't
get clear, although he put up a fight that must have been a tremendous
surprise to his assailants. In the end, though, they got him down, with
cries of triumph.
And then there came a sudden diversion from outside the mob. Down
the road from the great house, shrieking a warning, came a flying motor
car. Its siren sounded quick, angry blasts, and the mob, terrified, broke
and scattered to get out of the way of the car. Fred, stupefied, didn't run.
He had to jump quickly to one side to get out of the car's path. Then he
saw that it was slowing down, and that it was driven by a boy of his
own age. This boy leaned toward him.

"I'm going to turn and go back. Jump aboard as I come by--I won't be
going very fast!" he cried.
Fred didn't stop to argue or to wonder why this stranger had come to his
aid in such a sensational and timely fashion. Instead, he gathered
himself together and, as the car swung about and passed him, leaped in.
As he grasped the seat, the driver shot the car forward and it went
roaring up the hill, pursued by a chorus of angry cries from the crowd,
utterly balked of its prey.
"That was a close call for you!" said the driver, in German.
But something in his tone made Fred look at him sharply. And then part
of the mystery was solved. For the driver was not a German at all, but
plainly and unmistakably