Chapter XIII: As Others Saw Him

In Leeds Tom left his companion sitting on a carriage step in the main street while he went over to the postoffice. As soon as he was out of young Archer's presence the tempter who had been pulling at his elbow left him, and his thoughts flew back to Roscoe and home.

He asked if there was a letter for him, and eagerly took the envelope which the clerk handed out. It was addressed in an unfamiliar, neat bank hand. Anxiously he stepped over to the better light near the window and read:

"DEAR TOM:

"Here I am, and it's twenty-three for mine." (Tom paused in
suspense at this ominous phrase.) "My registration card is numbered
twenty-three, so I'm the only original skiddoo soldier--take it
from your Uncle Dudley.

"When I toddled up to Doc Fuller and told him that I was out of
town Wednesday and just couldn't get back, you ought to have
seen the look he gave me--over the top of those spectacles of his.
I just stood there as if I was on the firing-line facing German
clam-shells, and never flinched. I wouldn't mind a few Krupp guns
now--not after that look.

"But Doc's a pretty good skate--I'll say that for him. He was
better than the other members of the Board, anyway.

"Well, I got away with it, all right, only it's good another day
didn't slip by, for then my name would have gone in
and--g-o-o-d-ni-ight!

"Tommy, you're one brick! When I think of that old towhead of yours
and that scowl and that old mug, I know we'll win the war. You'd
walk right through that Hindenburg line if you ever got started.

"I've got to hand it to you, Tom--you brought me to my senses, all
right, and I won't forget it in a hurry.

"But, Tommy boy, _you're_ in Dutch down here--I might as well tell
you the truth. And it makes me feel like a criminal. Old Man Temple
has got the knife in you. _Greatly disappointed in him_--that's
what he told Ellsworth and Pop Burton. Can't you see the old man
frowning?

"I went in to put some mail on his desk and the whole three of them
were in there pounding away with their little hammers. The old man
was as nice as pie to me--patted me on the shoulder and gave me the
glad hand. Said I was Uncle Sam's boy now. They didn't even know I
wasn't registered Wednesday."

Tom was glad of that. He had succeeded better than he had dreamed. His awe of Roscoe Bent had not entirely vanished, and he was proud to receive so familiar a letter from him. He was so generously pleased that for the moment he did not think of much else. Then he read on:

"Ellsworth said he'd been afraid you would do just what you had
done--run off and join the army. He said you promised him you
wouldn't, but he guessed you couldn't stand the strain when you saw
the fellows lining up to register.

"A couple of Boy Scouts told Ellsworth they saw you coming out of a
pawnshop, and they were chewing that over in the old gent's office.
But I guess those kids were dreaming, hey?

"The old gent said he guessed you were afraid to go up on the
platform at the rally but didn't like to tell him so. Tom, I never
knew you were scheduled for that--why didn't you tell me? You're
aces up--you're one bully old trump. I never even knew you till now.
You're a brick, you stubborn, tow-headed old forest fighter! You're
fourteen-karat and you don't even know it yourself--you're so blamed
stupid!"

Tom gulped slightly as he read this and his eyes glistened, but he read on with a kind of stolid indifference:

"I was going to tell them the whole thing, Tom, but I guess I was
too mean and too much of a coward. Anyway, I promised you I
wouldn't. I hope your ankle is better, and if you can't get home,
let me know and I'll come up after you.

"In a hurry,
"Rossie."

"P.S. When Pop Burton told Margaret E. that you had run off to join
the army, she said that was splendid. He told her you'd have to lie
about your age, and she said that was _glorious_. Can you beat
that? Old Man Temple went to Chicago to-night, thank goodness, to
buy some railroads and things. So long--see you soon."

Tom was glad, he was even proud, that the letter was signed by the familiar nickname, and he was glad of the friendly "So long."

Before he allowed himself to think of anything else he read the letter over again, lingering upon the familiar and humorous phrases which seemed to constitute himself and Roscoe as close friends. The part pertaining to himself he read in a half daze. It seemed to knock the bottom out of his whole theory that he who does right is always safe. Tom's mind, in some ways, was very, very simple, and now that he read the letter in relation to himself it was a knockout blow.

For a few minutes he stood gazing out of the postoffice window, watching two men who were taking down the registration-day decorations from the hotel opposite. A soldier in khaki went by and stopped to chat with them. A farmer came in for his mail, and Tom heard his voice as in a dream.

Then suddenly he shook off his abstraction and walked back to the little grated window.

"I want to get a stamped envelope," he said.

At the writing shelf he tore a sheet out of his scout blank book and wrote:

"DEAR ROSCOE:

"I got your letter and I'm glad you got registered and that nobody
knows. If you had told, it would have spoiled it all.

"I see I did get misjudged, and if they want to think that I tell
lies and break promises, let them think so. As long as they think
that, anyway, I've decided I will go and help the government in a
way I can do without breaking my word to anybody.

"You can see, yourself, I'm not one of the kind that tells lies.

"I've got my mind made up now; I made it up all of a sudden like,
as long as that's what they think. So I'm not coming back to
Bridgeboro. I'm going away somewhere else. The thing I care most
about is that you got registered. And next to that I'm glad because
it helped us to get to be friends, because I like you and I always
did, even when you made fun of me.

"Your friend,
"TOM."

He put the letter in his pocket, thinking it would be better to mail it from New York. Then he went out and over to where young Archer was sitting.

"I've decided I'll go if you can get me a job," he said "and if you're sure I don't have to tell them I'm eighteen. Maybe you wouldn't call it being in the war exactly, but----"

"Sure you would," Archer interrupted, with great alacrity, "I'll tell you something I didn't tell you before, but you have to keep your mouth shut. We're going to be a transport pretty soon--as soon as the boys begin coming out of the camps. We'll be taking them over by the thousands around next November--you see!"

"Do you think they'll take me?" Tom asked.

"They'll grab you--you see!"

To be sure, this assurance of a job was not on very high authority, but it was quite like Tom to place implicit confidence in what this engaging young stranger told him. His faith in people was unbounded.

He sat down on the carriage step beside Archer as if there were nothing extreme or unusual in his momentous decision, and with his usual air of indifference waited for the trolley car which would take them to the station at Catskill Landing.

"What d'you say we hit up a couple more apples?" said Archer.

"Will you have plenty left for Tommy Walters?" said Tom.

"Sure! I got enough to last him right through the danger zone."

"Through the danger zone," Tom mused.

For a few minutes they sat munching their apples in silence.

"There's two reasons," said Tom abruptly. "One is because I just got a letter that shows people think I'm a liar and break promises. The other is on account of what you told me about that little girl. If we take food and things over now and take soldiers over later, I guess that's helping, all right. Anyway, it's better than making badges. In another year I'll be eighteen, and then----"

"Here comes the car," said Archibald Archer.