by Gordon Bates
CHAPTER VII
CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP
Call to mess followed at 5:30. It was not until the four Khaki Boys hadperformed their usual stunt of climbing over several tables with theirportions of food, and were seated in a row along a wall bench, that Bobreopened the subject of Bixton.
"The next time that Bixton smarty tries to jump you, Iggy, don't act asthough he was alive," was his wrathful advice. "He's a talker and atrouble maker. Don't let him get your goat. That's what he's trying hardto do. He thinks you are easy."
"I give him the good lick," threatened Ignace, still ruffled.
"I don't doubt you could wipe up the squad-room floor with him. Butwhat's the use of spoiling the floor?" Bob demanded whimsically. "Lethim babble. He likes it."
"I no like," came the sullen protest.
"Neither do I," sputtered Jimmy. "He was trying to make a show of Iggy.I'll hand him one myself some of these fine days."
"Ruddy and I'll come to see both our brothers when they land in the'jug' for scrapping," offered Bob, affably sarcastic. "Won't we, Rud?"
"No, _I_ won't." Roger looked severe. "If you two are going to let thatBixton fellow rattle you, then I can't say much for your good sense.Give him the icy stare a few times and he'll stay in his own corner.Just as long as he sees he can bother you, he'll do it. When he finds hecan't, he'll quit and start on somebody else. But that won't be yourlookout."
"I try't," promised Ignace. His scowling features clearing, he proceededto devote himself sedulously to the savory portion of stew in the meatcan before him. Nor were his companions loath to drop the unpleasantsubject of Bixton for a hungry appreciation of their food.
The meal finished, the four dutifully cleansed their mess-kits,returning with them to their barrack. The evening meal over, thepleasantest relaxation period of their camp day lay before them. Untilthe 9:45 call to quarters they were free to follow their own bent, solong as it did not take them beyond camp limits.
After putting away his mess-kit, Bob's first move was to reach under hiscot for the suitcase in which he had deposited his precious papers. Arespectful audience of three stood watching him, mildly curious as towhat he intended to do next.
"Does the great stunt come off now?" smiled Roger.
"Not yet, my boy. I'm going out on the trail of a typewriter first. Itbreaks my heart to leave you, but it must be did. Half an hour'sclickety-clicking and you'll see me back here in all my glory. If themachine downstairs isn't working overtime, maybe I can grab it for awhile."
"Let's go over to the 'Y' and write letters," proposed Jimmy. "Ourroom's better than our company with old Mysterious Myra here. If I don'tanswer mine bang-up quick, I'll never write 'em. Here's enough paper andenvelopes for the bunch." Reaching under his cot he held up a good-sizedbox of stationery.
"I would to poor my mother a letter in American write, but she can noread that write," offered Ignace sadly. "I can the American read andwrite but no my family. My mother un'erstan' American little but noread."
"Write it in Polish, then," suggested Jimmy. "You don't have to write itin English, do you?"
"But I want show poor my mother how that I am smart it to do." Ignacewas bent on distinguishing himself. "She it would much please."
"Couldn't someone read it to her, then?" asked Bob. "One of herneighbors; or maybe your groceryman." Familiar with the Polish sectionof the city from whence Ignace had come, Bob was somewhat acquaintedwith the ways of the clannish Poles. He knew that they were prone togravitate to the grocery store in their neighborhood for everything frommerchandise to general information.
"S-o-o! I have no think to that." Ignace brightened. "I write himAmerican anyhow!"
"Drop in about eighty-thirty and watch _Mysterious Myra_ conduct aseance." Bob cast a withering glance at Jimmy. "You ought to be ashamedto ticket a bunkie with such a handle," he added severely. "Now get outof here quick before I smite you." He made a playful pass at Jimmy.
Equally in fun, the latter raised an arm as though to return it.
A sudden cry of, "Fight! Fight!" echoed through the room, and causedboth Jimmy and Bob to whirl. Directly across from them Bixton had beenmorosely watching the quartette. Aware that the bit of by-play wasmerely fun, he had called out "Fight!" with malicious intent. Knowingthe acting first sergeant to be at one end of the room, he had shoutedwith a view toward creating trouble. His essay succeeded so far as tobring the officer to the group on the run.
"What's this?" he questioned, sternly surveying four very calm but veryinjured young men. "What's the trouble here?"
"None that we know of," answered Roger respectfully.
"Then who called out 'Fight!'?" snapped the non-com.
"It was not one of us." Roger evaded a direct reply.
"Humph!" The sergeant shot a quick glance about the almost empty room.His keen eyes coming to rest on Bixton he made directly for him. "Didyou call out 'Fight!'?" he queried sharply.
Caught in his own trap, the color mounted to Bixton's freckled face."Yes." The reply was grudgingly made.
"Why did you do it? Did you _see_ anyone fighting?" demanded thesergeant satirically.
"I thought I did," mumbled the man.
"You _thought_ you did," emphasized the non-com. He thereupon launchedinto a tirade of sarcastic rebuke that fell like verbal hailstones onthe would-be trouble-maker's ears.
"Come on, let's beat it," muttered Jimmy. "I'm so happy I could hug thatsergeant."
Leaving Bob to smile seraphically as he busied himself with his papers,the three made a discreet exit, the voice of the nettled non-com stillbeating upon their ears as they scampered down the stairs.
"That's the time he got his," exulted Jimmy as they emerged from thebarrack.
"He must have been watching us," commented Roger. "When he saw Bob andyou making passes at each other he thought he'd start something."
"He get the fool," chuckled Ignace.
"He certainly did," agreed Jimmy joyfully. "If he gets off with acall-down, he'll do well. I'll bet that sergeant has him spotted for atalker. Hope he has. Then Smarty Bixton'll get the worst of it if hetries to queer us again. Maybe he's learned something by this time thatwasn't down in his books."
"He's heading for the rocks," Roger said soberly. "Somebody ought to tryto set him straight. I wish he hadn't started on Iggy the way he has. Wecouldn't say a word to him now. It would only make things worse. We'lljust have to do as we agreed and not notice him."
The looming up of a second lieutenant in their path brought three handsup in smart salute and temporarily closed further discussion of Bixton.Reaching the Y. M. C. A., Jimmy distributed note-paper with a lavishhand and soon the trio had settled themselves on hard benches before theprimitive-looking desks to write their letters.
Provided with an extra fountain pen of Jimmy's, Ignace stared blankly atthe wall, sighed profoundly, gingerly tried the pen, and finally gavehimself up to the painful throes of composition. Jimmy dashed into hisletter-writing with his usual reckless impetuosity, his pen tearing overthe paper at a rapid rate. In consequence he was triumphantly signing"Jimmy" to his second letter before Roger had half finished hiscarefully worded note to Mrs. Blaise.
"Hurry up, slow-pokes. It's eight-ten," adjured Jimmy, as he scrawled anaddress across an envelope.
"Him is done," proudly announced Ignace, holding up his epistolaryeffort. Undated and unpunctuated, it began at the very top of the sheetand ended halfway from the bottom of the first page. "Now you read." Heproffered it to Jimmy.
The latter took it and with difficulty kept a sober face as he read:
"poor mi mothar so am i the bad son wen i run away but i can no stan thebete my fathar giv all tim now am i the solder an he can no get mor isen you the monee wen i get som tim i hav the 3 brothar now i hapee butno wen think you poor mi mothar from you son Ignace."
"That's a good letter, Iggy." Jimmy had lost his desire to laugh as hehanded it back. It had begun to strike him as pathetic. He was wonderinghow it had
happened that before meeting the poor Polish boy he had nevercredited that humbler half of the world, in which Ignace had lived,with human emotions.
"I can the read better the write," assured Ignace grandly, well pleasedwith the other's praise. "I write the name, the street my mother, youwrite again this?" he asked, holding up an envelope.
Much amused, Jimmy complied. Ignace surveyed the envelope withadmiration. "How gran' is the write my brother," he commented.
"Some compliment. Here's a stamp, Iggy. Stick it on and away we go.Finished yet, old top?" This to Roger.
"Yes." Methodically Roger sealed and stamped the envelope he had justaddressed.
"Look who's here!" exclaimed Jimmy. His gaze roving idly down the bigroom, he had spied Bob Dalton just entering it.
Discovering his chums in the same instant, Bob steered straight forthem, his black eyes twinkling with mischief. "Three whoops forMysterious Myra," he hailed, waving a little sheaf of papers above hishead. "Got through typing sooner than I expected, so I beat it over herein a hurry. This is an exclusive stunt. It calls for an exclusive place.Too much publicity at the barrack. Come on over in that corner and helpyourself to a front seat while I read you Dalton's Marvelous MilitaryManeuvers in Rhyme, respectfully dedicated to the daily use of Ignace SoPulinski."
