CHAPTER IX
THE CONFESSION
To poor Tom that ringing was the crack of doom.
The world seemed to end for him then and there. The first surprise hadparalyzed him. Then he rolled upon the betraying clock, tried to crushit, strangle it, press it into the earth. But it kept on remorselesslyuntil the alarm ran down.
The Germans had been almost as startled at first as Tom himself. Butthey hesitated only for a moment. There could be no mistaking wherethat insistent buzzing was coming from. There was a rush for thethicket, and the next moment Tom was hauled out and stood upon his feetamong his captors.
It took only a glance to tell them that Tom was an American. His faceas well as his uniform betrayed that fact. Amid a hubbub of excitedexclamations he was taken before their leader.
But this time the officer was not able to talk English and there was nointerpreter at hand, so that Tom for the present was spared the ordealof questioning.
The fateful clock was passed around among the men with jest andlaughter. It was a good joke to them, but Tom was in no mood to seethe humor of the situation. To him it meant that all his strivings hadcome to naught.
Why had he not noticed that the clock was of the alarm variety and thatthe alarm had been set? He promised that he would never forgivehimself for that.
A number of men were counted off to take Tom to the local prison camp,while the rest of the party went on with their expedition.
The journey was long, but it was not attended by the rough treatmentthat would ordinarily have been meted out to the prisoner. The menwere glad, for one thing, that they were relieved from going on thespecial duty for which the party had been formed. Then, too, Tom'smisadventure had given them a hearty laugh, and laughs were somethingto be prized in their arduous life.
After reaching the camp, Tom was taken before an officer forexamination. But the officer was busy and preoccupied, and thequestioning was largely a matter of form. Tom was vague or dense asthe case demanded, and the impatient officer curtly ordered him to bethrust in with the other prisoners and promptly proceeded to forget him.
Tom passed through several stages of emotion when he was left tohimself. First he moped, and then he raged. Then, as the comical sideof the situation forced itself even upon his misery, he laughed.
A proverb says that "the man is not wholly lost who can laugh at hisown misfortunes." Tom laughed and immediately felt better. Hisnatural buoyancy reasserted itself. But he had imbibed a prejudiceagainst alarm clocks that promised to last for the rest of his life.
The sector was a quiet one and Tom was not sent out to work under shellfire. For a few days he was left unmolested to the tedium of prisonlife, and he began with renewed zest to formulate plans for his escape.
He had a chance also to become more or less acquainted with hisfellow-prisoners. There were not many and Tom reflected withsatisfaction that the Americans held more German prisoners than theHuns had captured of his own countrymen.
There was a sprinkling of nationalities. There were a few American andBritish, but the majority were French and Belgians.
About the only French prisoner that Tom grew to know intimately was onewho could speak English fairly well. This he explained was due to thefact that the man in whose employ he had been as a butler had adaughter who had married an American, and English had been much spokenin the household.
"What part of France do you come from?" asked Tom one day, when theywere chatting together.
"From Auvergne," answered the Frenchman, whose name was Martel. "Ah,"he continued wistfully, "what would I not give to see the gardens andvineyards of Auvergne again! But I never will."
"Sure you will," said Tom cheerily. "Brace up, Martel. You won't stayin this old hole forever."
Martel shook his head.
"I'm doomed," he said. "I was in the first stage of consumption when Icame here, and the disease is gripping me more tightly every day.Perhaps it's a judgment on me."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Tom, but Martel did not reply exceptby a shrug of the shoulders.
"Speaking of Auvergne," remarked Tom after a pause, "reminds me that Ihave a special chum whose mother came from that province. She marriedan American, too."
"_Vrai_?" exclaimed Martel with quickened interest. "What was hername, _mon ami_?"
"Blest if I remember," answered Tom. "I've heard it, too, but I don'trecall it. But I'll tell you how I can find out," he went on,rummaging in his pockets. "I've got a letter somewhere that was sentto my chum. I got it from the headquarters post-office the day I wascaptured and forgot to give it to him. The Huns tore the envelope offwhen they saw me, but when they saw that it was of no importance tothem they tossed it back. I've kept it carefully ever since becauseit's from some lawyer fellow in Paris telling him about his mother'sproperty, and I hope some time to be able to hand it to him. It'ssimply a business letter with nothing private or personal in it. Hereit is," and Tom produced from his pocket a crumpled letter without anenvelope. "Let's see, the name of Frank's mother is Delatour--why,what's the matter, Martel?" he added anxiously, as he saw the Frenchmanturn white and start back at the mention of the name.
"Nothing," answered Martel, controlling himself with difficulty. "Alittle weakness--I'm not very strong, you know."
The conversation turned then in other channels, and Tom soon forgot itin his absorption of his one idea of escape.
A week had passed when a sudden hemorrhage that attacked Martel broughtthe prison doctor to his side. He shook his head after an examination.There was no hope. It was a matter of days only, perhaps of hours. Hewas heartless and perfunctory. What did it matter? The sufferer wasonly a prisoner.
A little while after, Martel called Tom to him.
"I told you, _mon ami_, that it would not be long," he said with theghost of a smile. "And I also told you that perhaps it was a judgmenton me. Do you remember?"
"Why, yes," answered Tom reluctantly. "But perhaps you'd better notexcite yourself talking about it. I guess we've all done things we'resorry for afterwards."
"But I committed a crime," said Martel. "I perjured myself. And I didit for gain."
"There, there," soothed Tom, but Martel continued:
"No, I must speak. _Le bon Dieu_ has sent you to me. Listen, _monbrave_, I was in the household of Monsieur Delatour. I had seenMademoiselle Lucie grow up from childhood. She was charming. But shemarried and passed largely out of our life. Monsieur Delatour grewold. He had made his will leaving the property chiefly to hisdaughter. But there was a nephew, a spendthrift--what you call inEnglish the black sheep--and after Monsieur Delatour died this _mauvaissujet_ offered me money to swear that there was a later will. Theobject? To tie up the estate, to delay the settlement, to force acompromise with the daughter. I took the money. I perjured myself.There was no later will. The property belongs to MademoiselleLucie--pardon, Madame Sheldon."
He fell back exhausted on his pillow. Tom was shocked, but he was alsogreatly excited at the prospect of the wrong that had been done toFrank's mother being righted. At Martel's request the confession wasreduced to writing with many details added, and then a number of theprisoners signed their names as witnesses.
Tom was not sure how far the confession would stand in law, but he feltreasonably certain that it would be regarded as good evidence and hewas jubilant at the chance that had made him of such great service tohis chum, Frank.
The confession was made none too soon, for that same night Martel died.
"Well, Frank, old scout," said Tom to himself the next day, as hecarefully read and re-read the important document, "that alarm clockplayed me a lowdown trick, but it's sure been a good friend of yours,all provided I can get this confession to you!"