tells of my experience in the night, and brings my formal narrative to a close.
the household was gone to bed when i reached the little inn, but the fire had been left burning for me, and i hung my dripping garments before it and sank down on the massive settle. the candle was burning out but the blaze in the big fireplace diffused its grateful warmth and gave out a dim, fitful brightness. i remember how it checkered up the rough wainscot and low-raftered ceiling so that my eye was ever and again caught by moving figures which were nothing but the reflection of the dancing blaze. outside the blown rain beat against the little windows in intermittent splashes, which seemed to heighten the sense of comfort and security within.
but i took small comfort in the dim warmth, for i was sick at heart—sick with horror and disgust at the renewed memory of that creature’s deeds—treason—cowardly murder—but most of all at myself. i tried to console myself with the reflection that it was better so, that after all i had been giving aid and comfort to the enemy. we do not get much consolation from the mental comforts which we manufacture for ourselves, and the result of all this idle thinking was just to take me back home to bridgeboro and to conjure up thoughts of my young friend, roy blakeley. do a good turn daily, he had said. i could see him as he said it! two on sundays and holidays. get a turning lathe and turn out good turns. keep turning. i smiled at the recollection of all his nonsense.... a fine kind of a good turn i had done!
so i fell to thinking, or rather my mind wandered aimlessly back to that day when roy and i had stood outside the bridgeboro station, reading the account of tom slade’s last exploit. i recalled the little catch in his voice when he asked me if i was “sure it was really true,” and of how he looked across the street at the window of temple camp office, where hung the service flag with its single star. then i thought of the grave in pevy with its little wooden cross marked with rough lettering—absurdly german. i thought of how, even to the last moment of our parting, when he handed up my grips to the car platform, he clung staunchly to the hope that somehow his pal was yet living.
“well, at least,” i reflected cynically, “tom slade had the decency to leave a few untainted memorials of loyal service behind him—enough to make a story.” and i thanked my stars that no hint of other things had escaped from my pen, in that tale which i had written for roy. that did not trouble my conscience at all now. might it not go down as a good turn? and the girl, whoever she was, she must never know either. where ignorance was bliss, ’twas folly to be wise. why should i disgrace my own home town and bring shame upon this noble “good turner” and scout?
then in my drowsy reverie (for the dying fire had cast its spell on me) i thought of something slade had said to jeanne grigou—that you cannot disgrace yourself alone. queer he had not thought of that when he had fallen into the web of the unspeakable dennheimer. why had he not thought of bridgeboro then—little bridgeboro which was first over the top with its loan quota. had not the schmitt affair been quite enough for little bridgeboro which had had its name sprawled all over the new york papers on account of it?
well, in any event, there should be no more of this business....
roy—roy—he would get over the shock of death, i mused. nature provides for that. but the shock of disgrace.... that was a pretty good story, too—stopping just short of.... yes, it was a pretty good story. and i would give it to roy and say, “here’s a good turn i have turned out for you.” and then....
whew! how the rain beat against the window! the rattling of the loose frame interrupted my reverie so that i got up and stretched myself and went over and forced a folded scrap of paper between it and the jamb.
“i’ll be thankful,” i half yawned as i resumed my seat before the fire, “if this thing is over soon.” i don’t know whether i was thinking of the storm or the war.
but the rattling did not cease. oh, it was the door and not the window. so i got up again—then stood stark still, feeling a tremor all over me. not an inch could i move, only stand there, every nerve on edge, listening. if i had been certain of a tapping on that door i would have experienced no suspense, for suspense is tense uncertainty, and i knew not whether it was a tapping or not.
i thought it was not, and to make sure i went over, unbarred the heavy door and threw it open.
never while i live shall i forget that sight. he stood there, dripping, trembling; and if there had ever been a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance in that tattered, ill-fitting german coat, there was nothing but pathos in it now; his clothes hung in shining wetness to his form so that i saw with horror how gaunt and emaciated he was. he wore no hat and his blonde hair was streaking down over his face and he gazed out from between those drooping strands with such a pitiful look of appeal as i had never seen before.
he stood there, dripping, trembling.
“yes,” i said roughly, “come in—i’m glad you’ve come. no, don’t touch me, but sit there by the fire—you’re welcome. i was to blame. i’m sorry.” it was odd, perhaps, but even in my relief at seeing him and giving him shelter, a little of my anger and resentment returned so that i was at an effort to repress it. “dennheimer is worse than you, for he seduced you. sit down—you needn’t be afraid.”
i seated myself in the great chair before the fire, but he remained standing with one hand upon its massive back. his sleeve was tight and clinging, like a woman’s, which gave him a grotesque look and somehow went to my heart. so standing, he spoke with a painful effort at composure as if his few words had been contemplated and rehearsed. as he spoke, i thought i saw in his eyes a kind of forced calmness as if he had at last groped his way to some peg to hang his wits on.
“that other name,” he said, “say it.”
i was surprised that after his experience he did not clutch my arm, but instead the chair and clung to it as if that were a part of his resolve. the poor, heroic effort at self-control was touching and i answered in a kinder tone.
“other name? there isn’t any other name. i want you to sit close to the fire and take off your coat and shoes; then we’ll talk. see, i’ll put a fresh log on.”
“say that name,” he repeated, and already i could see his will power tottering. it had been strong enough for a request but not for continued insistence.
“i think you must remember dennheimer,” i said, “and i know of no other name. of course, you knew dennheimer.”
he shook his head.
“well,” i persisted, “it is more important to get dry and warm. i wonder how you found your way here in such a night.”
“i can find my way anywhere,” he said; “i had to find my way to ask about the name.”
i was puzzled.
“you mean your own name—tasso?” i ventured.
“two traitors,” he said; “the other one. you said—you said—you said—i was one.”
“indeed,” i said, “i am not burdening my mind with the names of traitors and if i named one it must have been in anger. as for you, i’ll not be your judge—so sit down. you are tired and——”
“i’ve known a night like this before,” he said, clutching the chair and gulping in the labor of his effort to be calm and rational; “i am glad on account of it—the rain—because—it—it—reminds me. you are a coward if you are afraid of a storm—you—are—scouts—the—they——” and his voice trailed away.
“shh,” i said. “you must be quiet i will tell you the other name——”
“yes,” he said eagerly.
“it was a young fellow who lived in my town in america and came over here and after a while he got mixed up with the germans somehow. slade was his name—tom slade; and i’m sorry i mentioned it before. he’s dead now——”
“say his name again,” he interrupted, trembling like a leaf.
“slade—tom slade.”
“tomasso—not tasso,” he cried; “that is what he used to call me.”
i thought his wits were wandering now, so i spoke soothingly, telling him again to sit down. but he clutched my arm and looked at me like a wild man. there was a light in his eyes, too, which i had never seen before. and if he lacked in will and had no power to speak connectedly, a certain fine abandon came to him which took me by storm. i knew, of course, that his tirade was but the reaction of his nervous strain and mental hallucinations, but some things that he said puzzled and rather startled me.
“do you know—do you know what he—i did,” he breathed. “you think you can bury—me—but—you can’t. i—i’ll tell you what i did—i strangled him—like that (he clutched my throat). i threw him out of the car. he—he tried—to stab me with—with my own jack-knife—he tried to cut the rope—but i can go too quick—up a rope—anyway—trailing—stalking—you see how i can come here when i must have that name. that is my name—it belongs to me—me—it does. give it to me—or—or i—it’s your town as much as mine—i kept it from getting—disgraced you’re a coward if you’re a-scared of storms—i rode a storm—i did—and i tracked you here—you are—you’re a thief—you are! give me my name—tom slade—i hunt for—that. i trailed it—i am tomasso!”
i removed his weakening fingers from my throat and, standing, stroked his shoulders soothingly. every part of him was shaking and he was breathing like a dog. he had to toss his head back to gulp out his excitement and he kept closing one eye in a nervous manner, most distressing to see.
“you must be quiet,” i said, “and get your wet clothes off. shh— i’ll give you your name (for i thought it best to humor him) as soon as you do that. hold up your arm—so; so i can get your coat off. now sit down, quietly. there. it’s because you are tired—that’s all. don’t think about anything, just....”
but he would not sit down, only laid his head upon the back of the great chair and sobbed like a baby. i made no effort to dissuade him for i knew that was just the effect of his exhausting tirade. i assumed, of course, that he had been talking nonsense....
copy of cable despatch which i sent to roy blakeley on the fourth day following the incidents related in the last chapter.
“tom slade alive sick will recover am writing.”
following is my last letter to roy blakeley, written at the little inn of hans twann above st. craix village in switzerland:
dear roy:
i sent you a cable via paris and rouen. tom slade is alive and with me here in switzerland. i waited four days before sending the cable in order that there might be no shadow of uncertainty about the facts, which seemed hardly believable. i think this will go through to you without much delay since the armistice has been signed. but you’ll probably not see us for several months.
tom is in care of the physician in solothurn, the nearest town of any size, and i am sure he is in good hands. he cannot leave here for several weeks, however, and when he does we shall probably be delayed in france in connection with getting his discharge or at least an extended furlough. i understand the censorship is off, so this should come to you unopened but in any case keep the whole business close until i return. i have already written a sketch of tom’s adventures for you but if there is no objection in any quarter i would like to publish this whole extraordinary business, first and last.
i can hardly collect my own mind sufficiently to give you a straight account of this amazing climax of tom’s career, and i will not now tell you anything contained in the several batches of story i mean to hand you. for you might as well know the whole thing. tom himself is in no condition to talk and contradicts himself a great deal. but of the essential truth of what he tells me there can be no doubt.
he is suffering from shock incident to the terrible experience he had and this, i think, was aggravated by an injury to his head which he had previously sustained.
in the neighborhood where this final experience of his occurred it is current among the french peasants that the body of slade fell from the clouds ten minutes after his machine crashed to earth. i mentioned this supposed superstition in the narrative which i shall give you, saying that such a thing was manifestly impossible. it is a fact, however, that the victim fell ten minutes after tom’s machine descended. but the victim was not tom slade. you’ll hardly credit your senses when you read this, but the body which fell on the rocky hillside was none other than that of toby schmitt, son of adolph schmitt, the bridgeboro grocer!
this unspeakable young scoundrel was in the german service and was the moving spirit of their spy activities along a front of a hundred miles or more. he was, in fact, the captain toby, or monsieur le capitaine, whom you shall hear of in my narrative. tom learned of this young traitor’s presence along the front where he was on a secret mission in france and saw his photograph, which he instantly recognized. he also learned the means by which he might identify this arch villain—a double cross on the observation balloon which he often used.
as nearly as i can gather from tom (for he has to be handled carefully still), the machine he was pursuing ascended into the clouds where, apparently, its occupant was to seek orders from the balloon which was anchored there. but of that, of course, he is not certain. he downed the enemy flier and was about to shoot at the balloon when something happened to his machine gun. you may imagine his chagrin at finding himself thus helpless, especially when he noticed two black crosses on the balloon’s car.
i think he must have been in a frenzy of rage and desperate resolution to do what he did. i am hoping that later he will be able to give a clearer account of it, and the doctor assures me that he will be. i gather that he circled about the cable of the balloon until finally in some way he was able to get hold of it. that he should have sacrificed his plane and trusted himself to this cable is an evidence of his towering resolve. the doctor thinks that even at that time his mental state was perhaps not quite normal.
in any event, he knew what he was going to do. that he raised himself, hand over hand, up that cable there seems no doubt. and he got into the car. he says that “schmitty” which was the name he knew young schmitt by in bridgeboro, was frantic with fear, and so he must have been to see this redoubtable creature lifting himself up through that cloud-filled air and finally coming aboard like a pirate over the side of a ship. yet he dared not cut the rope for that would be to release his balloon and put it at the mercy of the wind.
before tom was yet within the car, schmitt, who was apparently unarmed, or at least unprepared, reached down and secured the knife which tom carried in his pocket. tom was powerless to prevent this since his hands were upon the rope. this is an american boy scout knife and i myself later found it in the wreck of the balloon.
tom says schmitt tried to stab him with it. of the frightful combat which took place in that car we can only imagine the details. tom himself goes to pieces whenever he tries to talk about it. it was a case of one or the other—there seems little doubt of that. and in the end schmitt either fell or was thrown out of the car. he must have been clutching at tom’s neck as he fell for he tore away the cord on which hung tom’s scout cross and identification disk. these things were later picked up by the germans who removed schmitt’s body. schmitt had a watch bearing the initials of his name, t. s., and to this was fastened a wallet containing some of his treasonable papers. he had also been corresponding with some girl in bridgeboro and part of one of her letters, together with a photograph, were found in the wallet.
all of these matters you shall find in the story which i hope soon to give you and the circumstances attending the discovery of these things and my own connection with them, will surprise you greatly.
i shall write no more now, for indeed i find it hard to set these things down. tom is getting better each day, he talks of you very much, and looks forward to the day when he can be a scoutmaster. all through the days of his sorrowful weakness and distraction the war has been a thing forgotten, and it is hard to arouse in him memories of those last days of his military career. but of scouting and of you he thinks continually and never tires of talking. and i always call him tomasso because, he says, it reminds him of you.
