Chapter XI: The Result of Staying Awake

"So long, Iggy, old top. We'll be back by midnight," called out Jimmy Blazes from the front seat of the automobile which was to take Roger, Bob and himself into Tremont for their Wednesday outing.

"You'll never know when midnight comes, Iggy." Bob leaned out of the tonneau of the machine, his black eyes twinkling. "Better watch yourself to-night, or you'll be dropping off at eight o'clock, sitting up straight, and morning'll find you flopped over still in your uniform. You won't have any nice kind brothers around this evening to shake you awake before Taps." Bob teasingly referred to Ignace's tendency to doze off early in the evening while sitting on his cot. "Why not be a hero and stay awake for once just to see that your little Buddies get back O. K.?"

"So will I," assured Ignace with deep decision. "Goo'-bye." The automobile now starting, he nodded solemnly and raised his hand in a familiar gesture of farewell which Bob always called "Iggy's benediction style."

"I believe he will, at that," remarked Roger, as the car rolled down the company street. "You shouldn't have told him to do it, Bob."

"Oh, he understood this time that I was only kidding him," was the light rejoinder. "Look who's here!" he exclaimed, as the car stopped at a hail from a waiting group of six soldiers.

Crowded into the tonneau with strangers, neither Bob nor Roger saw fit to continue the subject of Ignace. Both were soon exchanging good-humored commonplaces with their soldier companions of the ride.

Once fairly outside camp limits, the load of rollicking soldier boys were soon raising their voices in a lusty rendering of "Where Do We Go From Here?" With the prospect of an afternoon and evening of freedom before them, they were all in high spirits. Traveling a somewhat rough road, the frequent jolting they met with whenever the car went over a bump merely added to their hilarity. An unoffending motorist ahead of them, driving along in a somewhat rickety runabout, presently became an object of marked concern. A running fire of military commands gleefully shouted out at the swaying machine as it lurched along soon caused its luckless driver to speed up and scuttle out of sound of the derisive calls which greeted him from the rear. Uncle Sam's boys were out for fun and intended to have it.

An hour's ride brought the revelers into Tremont. Arrived in the heart of the city, which boasted a population of about one hundred thousand, Jimmy, Bob and Roger took friendly leave of their noisy fellow travelers.

"Now where do _we_ go from here?" asked Roger, as the trio halted together on a corner of Center Street, Tremont's main thoroughfare, and looked eagerly about them.

"To a restaurant for grub," was Bob's fervent response. "I know a place where the eats are O. K. I told you fellows that the first newspaper job I ever tackled was on a morning paper in this town. I lived here about three months. Just long enough to make good on the paper. Then I beat it back to the big town and landed with the _Chronicle_. I know every historic cobblestone in this lovely burg."

As none of the three had stopped for the noon meal at Camp Sterling, they lost no time in patronizing the restaurant of Bob's choice.

After weeks of uncomplainingly accepting in their mess kits the wholesome though monotonous rations of the Army, a real bill of fare to choose from was a rare treat. In consequence they lingered long at table and, according to Jimmy, "filled up for a week," before starting out to "see the sights." This last consisted of a stroll through the principal streets, with stops along the way at various shops, there to purchase a few trifles, such as had caught their fancy while pausing to stare into attractive show windows. Then followed a visit to a motion-picture theater, where a feature photoplay was going on. From there they drifted into another "movie palace," and so amused themselves until supper time. The evening was devoted to witnessing a "real show" at Tremont's largest theater. It was a lively farce comedy and the boys enjoyed it.

Meanwhile, Ignace So Pulinski was putting in a most lonely afternoon and evening at Camp Sterling. Temporarily deprived of the lively society of his Brothers, he was at a loss to know what to do with himself. Part of the afternoon he spent in wandering gloomily about camp, frequently consulting the dollar watch he carried, in a wistful marking of the slow passing of the time. Aside from his bunkies, few of the men in his barrack had ever taken the trouble to cultivate his acquaintance. During his first days in camp they had regarded him as "a joke," privately wondering what three live fellows like Jimmy, Bob and Roger could see in "that slow-poke" to make a fuss over. After his wrathful descent upon bullying Bixton, he had undoubtedly risen in estimation. He had signally proved his ability to take care of himself. No longer classed as "a joke" he achieved the title of "that wild Poley" and was accorded a certain amount of grudging respect that made for civil treatment but little friendliness.

By the time the supper call sounded that evening Ignace had reached a stage of loneliness that caused him to sigh gustily as he stood in line at the counter with his mess kit to receive his portion of food.

His china-blue eyes roving mournfully over the long room in search of companionship while eating, they came to rest on the man Schnitzel. The latter looked equally lonely, as he arranged his meal at an unoccupied table at the far end of the room. Owing to the fact that it was a half-holiday, the mess hall was minus at least a fourth of its usual throng. Obeying a sudden impulse Ignace made his way to where Schnitzel sat, and asked half-hesitatingly, "You care I sit here by you?"

"Help yourself," was the laconic response. Nevertheless the German-American's eyes showed a trace of inquiring surprise at this sudden invasion.

"Thank." Ignace carefully set his meat can and cup on the table, and solemnly seated himself beside the other.

"Too much quiet, so is because the many get the pass," ventured the Pole. "I no like ver' well."

"It's all the same to me." There was a note of bitterness in the replying voice. "I haven't any kick coming. I suppose you miss your bunkies," he added, making an indifferent effort at civility. "They're a lively bunch of Sammies."

Ignace stopped eating and stared fixedly at his companion. The latter's dark, rugged features wore an expression of melancholy that woke in him a peculiar feeling of friendliness. "Y-e-a," he nodded. "I miss. Them ver' good my frens, all. I call my Brothar. You speak the American good. You have go by American school?"

Having never before exchanged a word with Schnitzel, Ignace had fully expected to hear the man use broken English.

Schnitzel's fork left his hand and clattered angrily on the bare table. "Why shouldn't I speak English well?" he burst forth, scowling savagely. "I was born in this country. My parents came from Germany, but my father's an American citizen. He hates the Kaiser like poison. I'm an American, not a Fritzie, as a lot of fellows here seem to think. If I wasn't I wouldn't be in this camp training to go over. I enlisted because I wanted to fight for my country. Some people act as if they didn't believe it, though. There's been a lot of lies started about me right in our barrack. I know who to thank for it, too. I've stood it without saying a word. But if it goes on----" He stopped, one strong brown hand clenching. "I was glad you jumped that hound the other day," he continued fiercely. "Wish you'd hammered him good!"

"So-o!" Ignace was not too slow of comprehension to put two and two together. Here it seemed was a man with whom he had something in common. "You see me do him?" he asked.

"Yes. I was there that day and saw the whole thing! I didn't blame you. I hate the sight of him. He bunks next to me, you know. I wish he didn't. But then, what do I care? I can take care of myself. Don't let's talk about him. It makes me sore just to think of him. Those three fellows you run with are good chaps. You were lucky to get in with them. They all treat me fine, though I hardly know them."

Praise of his Brothers caused Ignace to launch forth into the story of his first meeting with them, and of all they had done for him. Schnitzel listened without comment, merely repeating, "You were lucky," when Ignace had finished. With that he relapsed into taciturn silence, hurriedly finished his meal, and with a brief "So long" rose and left Ignace to himself.

The latter, however, was not concerned by his table-mate's sudden relapse into uncommunicativeness. He watched Schnitzel walk away, a gleam of interest in his round, childlike eyes. He would have something pleasant to tell his Brothers on their return. They would be surprised to learn that the "so quiet fellow who never talk" had said so much to him.

His letter to his mother still unwritten, Ignace decided to begin it directly he had cleansed and put away his mess kit. Seven o'clock saw him established at a desk in the Y. M. C. A., laboriously wielding a stubby pencil. This time he wrote in Polish and at some length. It was almost nine o'clock when he finished amid frequent yawns. Realizing that he was getting very sleepy, he took a brisk walk up and down the company street on which his barrack was situated. He was determined to fight off sleep, so as to stay awake until his bunkies' return.

He lingered outside in the crisp night air until call to quarters drove him reluctantly indoors. After Taps, however, his struggle began in earnest.

From the sounds of deep breathing about him he guessed that he alone was still awake. By the time that eleven o'clock had actually arrived he was sure that it was past twelve, and that his bunkies had overstayed their leave of absence. The setting in of this dire conjecture roused him in earnest. He had now no further need to fight off sleep.

His face turned anxiously in the direction of the stairway; he was not aware that across the squad room a man had noiselessly left his cot and was slipping along cat-footed toward one of the three vacant bunks just beyond Ignace's own. Though he heard no sound, that inexplicable sense that warns of stealthy approach wrenched the Pole's straying gaze from the direction of the stairway.

A sudden echoing yell of mingled surprise and anger was followed by the smack of a bare fist against flesh. Came a scuffle of feet and a resounding thump as two bodies hit the floor. The racket aroused the peacefully dreaming occupants of the squad room to startled awakening. As the thumping continued, mingled with hoarse exclamations, enraged sputterings, and the thudding impact of blows, a babble of voices rose on all sides. With it came lights and an exasperated top sergeant bearing down upon the combatants with fire in his eye.

He might have been a thousand miles away so far as the fighters were concerned. They had now gained their feet, and were engaged in battle royal.

"Stop it!" bellowed the sergeant. "Break away! Get back to your bunks, both of you."

Despite his stentorian commands, the fight went on. Clad only in his undergarments, his long fair hair wildly tousled, eyes two blue flames, blood trickling from his nose, Ignace was a sight to be remembered, as he launched a powerful blow at Bixton, his hated antagonist. Bixton looked even worse. The coat of his pajamas hung on him in shreds. His left eye was closed, and his nose was bleeding also. His face was a livid, infuriate mask against which the freckles stood out darkly.

The sergeant now took a hand in the fight. Leaping behind Ignace he wrapped both arms about the Pole's body, and, exerting all his strength, jerked the belligerent violently backward. Beginning dimly to realize what was happening to him, Ignace retained just enough common sense not to resist, but allowed himself to be flung unceremoniously down on his cot.

"This is a nice state of affairs," lashed out the sergeant, glaring down at Ignace, who had now raised himself to a sitting posture. "Now you stay where you're put. Don't you dare move an inch off that cot." With this he whirled and bore down upon Bixton, who had been dragged to his own cot by another non-com.

"You're a nice-looking specimen," he blared forth at Bixton. "Get those rags off you quick, and go and wash your face. Move lively. Go with him, Quinn," he directed, turning to the corporal, who stood at his elbow. "He's not to be trusted. Get him back here on the jump, and don't let him open his head. The nerve of two rowdies like that setting the squad room in an uproar at this time of night! Not another sound from you, you ruffian," he warned Bixton. "You'll get yours to-morrow."

"It wasn't my fault," began Bixton hotly. "I started to get a drink of water and----"

"Hold your tongue!" roared the sergeant. "See to him, Quinn." Turning on his heel the sergeant took the center of the floor, and issued a succession of sharp commands that sent the men to their bunks, and brought order and quiet out of the humming confusion. Finally satisfied with the result, he next took Ignace in tow and marched him off for repairs, sternly refusing to allow him to offer a word of explanation. "You can say what you've got to say at headquarters to-morrow," was his grim ultimatum.

When at five minutes to twelve Roger, Jimmy and Bob stole quietly into the squad room, it was apparently wrapped in its usual midnight silence. Nor were any of the three aware of the many pairs of bright eyes that marked their entrance and followed them to their cots.

"Are you asleep, Iggy?" whispered Jimmy softly, as, smiling to himself, he bent over the Pole's cot. He was wondering if Ignace had really taken Bob seriously.

In the darkness an arm reached out and drew his head down to a level with the Pole's own. Into his ear was breathed the amazing words: "I have give Bixton the strong poonch. To-morrow mebbe no more solder. You no speak me more now. Morning I tell you." The voice ceased and the grip suddenly relaxed, as Ignace flopped over on his side with a faint sigh.

Jimmy repressed the amazed ejaculation that sprang to his lips as he straightened up. Before sitting down on his own cot, he slid quietly over to Roger, who was engaged in removing his shoes. "Listen. Iggy's done it," he whispered. "Given Bixton a trimming. He doesn't dare open his head. He's in bad. Pass it on to Bob. I don't know what started it, but, oh, Glory, I wish I'd been here!"