Tom Slade with the Boys Over There | Page 3

patient. We do not even know all
that her great president said. We are fed with lies----"
"Sh-h-h!"
"And how can we hear from Armand, my dear, when the Prussians do
not even let us know what America's president said? All will be well in
good time."
"He is dead," said the girl, uncomforted. "I have had a dream that he is
dead. And it is I that killed him."
"This is a silly child," said old Pierre.
"America is full of Prussians--spies," said the girl, "and they have his
name on a list. They have killed him. They are murderers!"
"Sh-h-h," warned her mother again.
"Yes, they are murderers," said old Pierre, "but this is a silly child to
talk so. We have borne much silently. Can we not be a little patient
now?"
"I hate them!" sobbed the girl, abandoning all caution. "They drove

him away and we will see him no more,--my brother--Armand!"
"Hush, my daughter," her mother pleaded. "Listen! I heard a footstep.
They are spying and have heard."
For a moment neither spoke and there was no sound but the girl's quick
breaths as she tried to control herself. Then there was a slight rustling
in the shrubbery and they waited in breathless suspense.
"I knew it," whispered Madame; "we are always watched. Now it has
come."
Still they waited, fearfully. Another sound, and old Pierre rose, pushed
his rustic chair from him and stood with a fine, soldierly air, waiting.
His wife was trembling pitiably and Florette, her eyes wide with grief
and terror, watched the dark bushes like a frightened animal.
Suddenly the leaves parted and they saw a strange disheveled figure.
For a moment it paused, uncertain, then looked stealthily about and
emerged into the open. The stranger was hatless and barefoot and his
whole appearance was that of exhaustion and fright. When he spoke it
was in a strange language and spasmodically as if he had been running
hard.
"Leteur?" he asked, looking from one to the other; "the name--Leteur? I
can't speak French," he added, somewhat bewildered and clutching an
upright of the arbor.
"What do you wish here?" old Pierre demanded in French, never
relaxing his military air.
The stranger leaned wearily against the arbor, panting, and even in the
dusk they could see that he was young and very ragged, and with the
whiteness of fear and apprehension in his face and his staring eyes.
"You German? French?" he panted.
"We are French," said Florette, rising. "I can speak ze Anglaise a

leetle."
"You are not German?" the visitor repeated as if relieved.
"Only we are Zherman subjects, yess. Our name ees Leteur."
"I am--American. My name--is Tom Slade. I escaped from the prison
across there. My--my pal escaped with me----"
The girl looked pityingly at him and shook her head while her parents
listened curiously. "We are sorry," she said, "so sorry; but you were not
wise to escape. We cannot shelter you. We are suspect already."
"I have brought you news of Armand," said Tom. "I can't--can't talk.
We ran----Here, take this. He--he gave it to me--on the ship."
He handed Florette a little iron button, which she took with a trembling
hand, watching him as he clutched the arbor post.
"From Armand? You know heem?" she asked, amazed. "You are
American?"
"He's American, too," said Tom, "and he's with General Pershing in
France. We're goin' to join him if you'll help us."
For a moment the girl stared straight at him, then turning to her father
she poured out such a volley of French as would have staggered the
grim authorities of poor Alsace. What she said the fugitive could not
imagine, but presently old Pierre stepped forward and, throwing his one
arm about the neck of the young American, kissed him several times
with great fervor.
Tom Slade was not used to being kissed by anybody and he was greatly
abashed. However, it might have been worse. What would he ever have
done if the girl who spoke English in such a hesitating, pretty way had
taken it into her head to kiss him?
CHAPTER III

TOM'S STORY
"You needn't be afraid," said Tom; "we didn't leave any tracks; we
came across the fields--all the way from the crossroads down there. We
crawled along the fence. There ain't any tracks. I looked out for that."
Pausing in suspense, yet encouraged by their expectant silence, he
spoke to some one behind him in the bushes and there emerged a young
fellow quite as ragged as himself.
"It's all right," said Tom confidently, and apparently in great relief. "It's
them."
"You must come inside ze house," whispered Florette fearfully. "It is
not safe to talk here."
"There isn't any one following us," said Tom's companion reassuringly.
"If we can