Chapter VIII: A Mysterious Disappearance

"You ought to be grateful to me for the rest of your life, Iggy," was Bob's bantering peroration when the four had taken possession of the deserted and therefore desirable corner.

"Y-e-a. So am I." Ignace looked more dazed than grateful. He had not the remotest idea of what Bob was driving at.

"Now listen hard, Iggy, and try to get this. Ahem!" Clearing his throat the rhymster shot a mirthful glance at Ignace and began to read, emphasizing each word for the Pole's benefit.

"'Attention,' means, 'Eyes to the Front.'
Stand on both feet to do this stunt.
Your hands at sides; keep straight your knees;
Feet out at forty-five degrees.
Thumbs on your trouser seams must rest;
Hold up your head; throw out your chest."

By the time he had reached the middle of the jingle, Jimmy and Roger were smiling broadly. They, at least, had come into complete understanding of the "great stunt." The Pole's stolid face was a study. Light was just beginning faintly to dawn upon him.

"Did you get it?" Bob asked him, his black eyes dancing.

"Y-e-a. Som I get. You read him 'gain."

"No. I'm going on to the next. When I'm through, I'm going to give you these rules for your own. You must study 'em and learn 'em. See?"

"Y-e-a. Thank." Ignace beamed seraphic joy at his poetic benefactor. "So will I," he vowed fervently.

"Go ahead and tear off some more," begged Jimmy impatiently. "Myra's sure some poet."

"I'll give you a few of 'em just to be obliging and to show I don't mind being called Myra. You can read the rest yourselves. When you get enough, snap the lever and the talking machine will go dead. All right, Mr. Dalton. So kind of you." Bob smirked, grimaced, then continued:

"'Parade!' This second of commands
Means Iggy quick must join his hands
At center-front, below the waist,
Right thumb and index fingers placed
To gently clasp his own left thumb
And show the sergeant he knows some.

"To 'Rest,' your left knee slightly bend;
Your right foot quick behind you send,
Pick it up smartly; swing it clear,
A straight six inches to the rear.

"All officers you must 'Salute.'
Your right hand to your head now shoot,
Straight hand and wrist o'er your right eye,
Fingers and thumb must touching lie.

"'Right': Turn your head to 'right oblique,'
And don't you dare toward 'left' to peek.
'Left' means don't rubber toward the 'right,'
'Front,' look ahead with all your might.

"'Right Face!' On your right heel swing round,
Ball of your left foot pressed to ground,
Your left foot place beside your right
And do it quick: Don't wait all night.
'Left Face': Your left heel does the work,
Turn easily without a jerk.

"At 'Forward March!' your left knee's straight;
Upon your right leg rest your weight.
Left foot advancing to the front
To do your little marching stunt.

"Anybody want to snap the lever?" Bob looked up with an inquiring grin.

"Not yet." Roger eyed the rhymster with genuine admiration. "It's bully. Go on."

"I like. Much I un'erstan'. You read him more. Byme by you give me I stoody all time." The Pole showed actual signs of enthusiasm.

"That's the idea, else why is Bobby a bum poet?" Pleased, nevertheless, at his success, Bob resumed.

"For 'Quick Time' thirty inches step--
Lift up your feet and show some pep.
The 'Double Time' is thirty-six;
Now practice this until it sticks.

"'Halt!' when you're told; don't keep on going,
Unless you want to get a blowing;
Stop in your tracks, your feet together
And show your brain's not made of leather.

"To 'March to Rear' turn right on toes.
Then 'Left Foot!' 'Right Foot!' here he goes.
For 'Change of Step' right foot's first used,
So swing your right, or get abused."

With this last line of sage advice, Bob stopped reading. "This talking machine has an automatic brake," he declared. Deftly shuffling the typed sheets into numerical order he handed them to Ignace with a flourish. "Now go to it, old chap. Stay on the job until you can say 'em backward. There are about a dozen more that I didn't read out loud. If you don't understand 'em trot 'em around to me and I'll set you straight. Practice every move as you say it and you'll soon be O. K. After you get them learned, the rest will come easier to you."

"Thank! Thank!" Ignace clutched the papers gratefully. Pride of his new acquisition made him reluctant to let Roger and Jimmy take them long enough to read the balance of the verses.

"Show's over. We'd better be moving along. It's twenty-five to ten," warned Jimmy at last. "You're all to the good, Bob. Wish I could write like you can."

"Forget it." Bob waved an inconsequential hand. "You've got me beaten already when it comes to soldiering. So honors are more than even, I guess. A lot they care up here whether you wrote the Declaration of Independence or the latest best seller. You're in the Army now, and in bad, too, unless you can show the drill sergeant that you're a live one."

"Soon I show," broke in Ignace eagerly. "Here have I the rule. What more?"

"What indeed?" murmured Bob, winking solemnly at Roger.

Leaving the Y. M. C. A., the four Brothers started briskly toward their barrack, which was no farther away than would be two ordinary blocks in a city. Call to quarters sounded just as they entered the building. During the short walk Ignace had ambled along in happy silence, holding tightly to his treasure trove. He was secretly wondering which of his three Brothers he liked best and what he could do for them to prove his loyalty. Just now he could think of nothing to do that seemed worth while, except to work hard and show them that he could be a good "solder." He resolved to study night and day the "fonny" rules Bob had written for him. Could Bob have foreseen the outcome of this firm resolve, he might have considered well before supplying Ignace with the rhymed record of instruction he had just delivered into his Polish bunkie's keeping with the advice, "Stay on the job until you can say 'em backward."

"There! We forgot to mail our letters," commented Roger regretfully to Jimmy as he began removing his shoes.

"Too late now. Taps'll sound in a minute. I'll mail 'em all the first thing in the morning, right after breakfast. Give me yours now. I'll get Iggy's and put 'em all together on the top of my shelf. If you happen to think of it first, remind me of them."

Collecting from Ignace the one letter he had written, Jimmy placed it, together with his own and Roger's, on top of a little folding shelf above his bunk. He had brought it from home and it held his father's and mother's photographs. It also boasted of several kodak prints. There was one of the girl friend with whom he had grown up, another of Buster, his dog, and still another of himself, seated in 'Old Speedy.' "They're all here," he had remarked to Roger as he had set them in place, "even to Old Speedy."

Sleep soon visited the eyelids of the four Khaki Boys. Having been more active than usual that day they were quite ready for a good night's rest. The last to drop into slumber, Roger was the first to awaken the next morning. Long accustomed to rising at a few minutes past five o'clock, he had found himself awake before first call blew each morning since his arrival in camp. His eyes opening to greet the daylight pouring in at the windows, his gaze roved idly over the rows of sleeping soldier boys. Remembrance of Jimmy's request concerning the letters sent his glance next straying toward the shelf where he had seen his bunkie place them. They were not there now. Roger stared frowningly at the shelf, then his face cleared. Jimmy had evidently taken them from there and put them elsewhere. Perhaps in his suit-case. As soon as Jimmy was awake he would ask about them. He was sleeping so peacefully now. It would be a shame to disturb him before first call. Jimmy always slept until the last minute, then fairly dashed into his uniform.

Deciding that he would begin to dress, Roger slipped quietly from his cot and began methodically putting on his clothing. When the clarion notes of the bugle, sounding first call, split the drowsy air, he was fully dressed and seated on the edge of his cot, watching with quiet amusement the orderly flurry that had commenced all around him.

"Where's my shoe?" came presently in desperate tones from Jimmy, thus centering Roger's attention upon his friend. "It was right beside the other last night. I'll swear to it that I put it there. Now it's gone!" Jimmy's voice rose anxiously on the last word. By this time the call of "I can't get 'em up" was echoing through the barrack.

"Here is him." From under his own cot, where Ignace was just snatching his own shoes, he drew Jimmy's missing one and slid it along the bare floor.

Jimmy swooped down upon it with a gurgle of relief. Not stopping to inquire how it had wandered there, he hastily put it on and went on dressing at breakneck speed, barely finishing before Reveille, the third and last warning before roll call.

Concern for his bunkie's loss drove the subject of the letters from Roger's mind. Returning into the barrack after roll call to make themselves presentable before breakfast, recollection of the missing letters came back to Roger with dismaying force.

"Don't forget your letters, Jimmy," he reminded.

"Much obliged. I _had_ forgotten. That shoe business rattled me. I'll cinch them now before I visit the sink to make myself beautiful."

A few quick strides and he had reached his cot. Following, Roger heard him exclaim: "What in Sam Hill!" Whirling with a grin he called out, "You old fake! You've got those letters! All right. You can just mail 'em."

"But I haven't," came the earnest denial. "When I first woke up this morning I looked at the shelf and saw they were gone. I thought you'd put them in some other place."

"I put them on _that shelf_," emphasized Jimmy. "What's the matter, I'd like to know? First my shoe turns up under Iggy's cot and then away go all our letters. There's something queer about this. Shoes without feet can't walk off alone. Letters can't disappear without hands. What's the answer?"

"Maybe Iggy or Bob took the letters to mail for you," hazarded Roger. "They've gone ahead to scrub up for breakfast and we'd better do the same. You can ask them about it in the mess hall. Don't bother any more about it now. Come on."

Frowning, Jimmy obeyed, feeling a trifle nettled over the fact of a second annoying disappearance on the heels of the first.

"Did either of you fellows take those letters to mail?" was his initial remark to Bob and Iggy as they met at mess.

Receiving a surprised "No" from both, Jimmy turned to Roger with: "What do you know about that?"

"Not much." Roger grew grave as he explained the situation to Bob and Iggy.

"Someone got away with them," asserted Bob cheerfully. "Must be a mighty small someone who'd stoop to lift a bunch of letters to the home folks. Stealing anything from another fellow is a serious offense in the Army."

"Why should anybody want to do a thing like that?" demanded Roger. "We don't know the fellows in our barrack well enough yet for any of them to do it for a joke."

"It's no joke," was Jimmy's savage opinion. "It was done for pure meanness. How'd my shoe get away down under Iggy's bed? Some fellow in the squad-room has it in for me. If you don't know who he is, well--I do. I'll bet you my hat Bixton did it to spite me for jumping him yesterday. Just wait till I see him! I'll----"

"No, you won't," interposed Bob. "You'd only get in wrong unless you had proof. You can't accuse a fellow offhand of anything like that and get away with it. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. The only way to land a criminal is to get evidence that he is one. The same thing applies to a mischief-maker. Whoever he is, I'm not saying it's Bixton, he'll think he's put one over on you, and so pretty soon he'll try it again. It's up to you to pussy-foot around and catch him at it. Now mind your Uncle Bob, not a word about these letters to anyone. You can write some more to your folks. Just act as if nothing had happened and do a little watchful waiting. There's a time to speak, but it isn't now. So bottle your wrath, Blazes, and do the Sherlock Holmes act. With the four Brothers on the job, all keeping a starboard eye out, believe me, whoever cribbed those letters will wish sooner or later that he'd let 'em alone."