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."