# Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 6

pp. 848–855

### CHAPTER VI
#### The Snare

As the three men advanced to the table Stewart saw that they were armed with short swords and that each of them carried a heavy pistol at his belt.
“You speak German?” one of them asked gruffly.
“A little. But I would prefer to speak English,” answered Stewart.
“We will speak German. What is your nationality?”
“I am an American.”
“Were you born in America?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a passport?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see it.”
Stewart was about to reach into his pocket and produce it when he remembered his companion's suggestion. So he felt in one pocket after another without result, while the Germans shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
“It must be in my other coat,” he said, half to himself, enjoying the situation immensely. “But no; I do not remember changing it. Ah, here it is!”
He drew the paper forth and handed it to the officer, who took it, unfolded it, and stepped out into the court, where the light was better. He read it through carefully, compared the description point by point with Stewart's appearance, and then came back to the table.
“Who is this person?” he asked, and nodded toward the girl.
“She is my wife,” answered Stewart, with a readiness which astonished himself.
“She did not arrive here with you.”
“No”; and he told the story of how he had left her at Spa to recuperate from a slight nervous attack, while he himself went on to Vienna. He omitted no detail. Indeed, he improvised a few new ones, and with his limited German—which his hearers regarded with evident contempt—the story took some time to tell.
The Germans showed no sign of impatience, but, long before he had ended, Stewart's companion was twisting nervously in her seat.
“What is the matter?” she demanded petulantly. “I never knew you were such a talker, Tommy! Tell them to go away; they are ugly, and they annoy me.”
“What does she say?” asked the officer.
Stewart was certain that at least one of them knew English, so he judged it best to translate literally.
“She wants to know what is the matter,” he answered. “She asks me to tell you to go away—that you annoy her.”
The officer smiled grimly.
“She does not understand German?”
“Not a word,” said Stewart glibly.
“What is her name?”
“Mary.”
“Her maiden name?”
“Mary Agnes Fleming,” answered Stewart, repeating the first name that occurred to him, and thanking his stars that the officer could scarcely be acquainted with the lesser lights of English fiction.
“Is that correct?” asked the policeman suddenly, turning upon her.
Stewart's heart gave a leap of fear; but after a stare at the officer she turned to her companion.
“Was he speaking to me, Tommy?” she asked.
It was only by a heroic effort that Stewart choked back the sudden snort of laughter that rose in his throat.
“Yes,” he managed to answer; “he wants to know your maiden name.”
“What on earth for?”
“I don't know; but you'd better tell him.”
“My maiden name was Mary Agnes Fleming,” she said, looking at the officer with evident disapprobation. “Though what business it is of yours I can't see.”
“What does she say?” demanded the policeman, and again Stewart translated literally.
The officer stood staring intently at both of them, till the lady, with a flash of indignation, turned her back.
“Really, Tommy,” she said over her shoulder, “if you don't get rid of this brute, I shall never speak to you again!”
“He is a policeman, dear,” Stewart explained, “and imagines that he is doing his duty. I suppose they do have to be careful in war-time. We must be patient.”
“I will look at her passport,” said the German suddenly, and held out his hand.
“My passport is for both of us,” Stewart explained. “Those words, 'accompanied by his wife,' make it inclusive.”
The officer went out into the light again and examined the words with minute attention.
“I find no description of her,” he said, coming back.
“There is none,” assented Stewart impatiently; “but there is a description of me, as you see. The passport adds that I am accompanied by my wife. I tell you that this lady is my wife. That is sufficient.”
The officer glanced at his companions uncertainly. Then he slowly folded up the passport and handed it back.
“When do you depart from Aachen?” he asked.
“By the first train for Brussels. I am told that it will arrive in about half an hour.”
“Very well,” said the other. “I regret if I have seemed insistent, but the fact that the lady did not arrive with you appeared to us singular. I will report your explanation to my chief.”
He turned on his heel and stalked away, followed by his men. Stewart drew a deep breath.
“Well,” he began, when he was stopped by a sharp tap from his companion's foot.
“Such impudence!” she cried. “I was astonished at your patience, Tommy! You, an American, letting a Prussian policeman bulldoze you like that! I am ashamed of you!”
Glancing around, Stewart saw the hangdog Hans hovering in the doorway.
“He was a big policeman, my dear,” he explained, laughing. “I shouldn't have had much of a chance with him, to say nothing of his two men. If we want to get to Brussels, the safest plan is to answer calmly all the questions the police can think of. But it is time for us to be going. There will be no reserved seats on this train!”
“You are right,” agreed his companion. “I am quite ready.”
So he asked for the bill, paid it, sent Hans up for the luggage, and presently they were walking toward the station, with the waiter staggering along behind.
Stewart, looking down at his companion, felt more and more elated over the adventure. He had never passed a pleasanter evening; it had just the touch of excitement needed to give it relish. Unfortunately, its end was near; an hour or two in a crowded railway-carriage, and—that was all!
She glanced up at him and caught his eyes.
“What is it, my friend?” she asked. “You appear sad.”
“I was just thinking,” answered Stewart, “that I do not even know your name!”
“Speak lower!” she said quickly. “Or, better still, do not say such things at all. Do not drop the mask for an instant until we are oft of Germany.”
“Very well,” Stewart promised. “But once we are across the border, I warn you that I shall have certain very serious things to say.”
“And I promise to listen patiently,” she answered, smiling.
At the entrance to the station they were stopped by a guard, who demanded their tickets. Stewart was about to produce his, when his companion touched him on the arm.
“Run and get them, Tommy,” she said. “I will wait here.”
As he hastened away Stewart trembled to think how nearly he had blundered. How could he have explained to the authorities the fact that he was traveling with a book of Cook's circular tickets, while his wife was buying her tickets from station to station?
There was a long line of people in front of the ticket-office, and their progress was slow, for two police officers stood at the head of the line and interrogated every applicant for a ticket before they would permit it to be given to him.
As he moved slowly forward Stewart saw two men jerked violently out of the line and placed under arrest. He wondered uncomfortably if the officers had any instructions with regard to him, but, when his turn came, he faced them as unconcernedly as he was able. He explained that he and his wife were going to Brussels, showed his passport, and finally hastened away triumphant with the two precious bits of pasteboard.
It seemed to him that the last difficulty had been encountered and overcome, and it was only by an effort that he kept himself from waving the tickets in the air as he rejoined his companion. In another moment they were past the barrier. Hans was permitted to enter with them, and mounted guard over the luggage.
The platform was thronged with a motley and excited crowd, among whom were many officers in long gray coats and trailing swords, evidently on their way to join their commands. They were stalking up and down, with a lofty disregard for mere civilians, talking loudly and gesticulating fiercely. Stewart was watching them with an amusement perhaps a little too apparent, for his companion suddenly passed her arm through his.
“I should like a little walk,” she said. “I have been sitting too long. It was good of you to write so regularly while you were at Vienna,” she rattled on, as they started along the platform. “I am sure your letters helped with my cure. But you have not told me—have you secured our passage?”
“I shall know when we get to Brussels. Cook is trying to get us an outside room on the Adriatic.”
“Do we go back to England?”
“Not unless we wish to. We can sail from Cherbourg.”
They had reached the end of the platform, and, turning suddenly, Stewart found himself face to face with a bearded German who had been close behind them, and who shot a sharp glance at him and his companion before stepping aside with a muttered apology. Not until they had passed him did Stewart remember that he had seen the man before. It was the surly passenger in the crowded compartment on the journey from Cologne.
His companion had not seemed to notice the fellow, and went on talking of the voyage home, and how glad she would be to get there. Not until they turned again at the farther end, and found the platform for a moment clear around them, did she relax her guard.
“That man was a spy,” she whispered quickly. “We are evidently still suspected. What sort of railroad ticket have you?”
“A book of Cook's coupons.”
“I feared as much. You must get rid of it~it is quite possible that you will be searched at the frontier. No, no!” she added, as Stewart put his hand to his pocket. “Not here! You would be seen—everything would be lost. I will devise a way.”
Stewart reflected with satisfaction that only a few coupons were left in the book. But why should he be searched? He had thought the danger over; but he began uneasily to suspect that it was just beginning. Well, it was too late to draw back, even had he wished to do so, and most emphatically he did not. He was willing to risk a good deal for another hour of this companionship; and then there was that explanation at the end—his reward—
There was a sharp whistle down the line, and the train from Cologne rolled slowly in.
“First class,” said Stewart to Hans, as, the latter picked up the luggage.
He speedily realized that they would be fortunate if they got into the train at all. The first carriages were crowded with soldiers; and then there were two carriages half filled with officers, upon whom no one ventured to intrude. The three rear carriages were already full, and Stewart had resigned himself to standing up when Hans shouted:
“This way, sir; this: way!”
The waiter started to run as fast as the heavy suit-cases would permit. Staring after him, Stewart saw that an additional carriage was being pushed up to be attached to the train.
“That fellow has more brains than I gave him credit for,” he said. “Come along!”
Before the car had stopped Hans, with a disregard of the regulations, which proved how excited he was, had wrenched open the door of the first compartment and clambered aboard. By the time they reached it he had the luggage in the rack, and sprang down to the platform with a smile of triumph.
“Good work!” said Stewart. “I didn't think you had it in you!” He dropped a generous tip into the waiting hand. “Come, my dear”; and he helped his companion aboard.
Hans slammed the door shut after them, touched his cap, and hurried away.
“Well, that was luck!” Stewart added, and dropped to the seat beside his companion. “But look out for the deluge in another minute!”
She was looking out of the window at the excited mob sweeping along the platform.
“The crowd is not coming this way,” she said after a moment. “A line of soldiers is holding it back. I think this carriage is intended for the officers.”
Stewart groaned.
“Then we shall have to get out! Take my advice, and don't wait to be asked twice!”
“Perhaps they will not need this corner. At any rate, we will stay until they put us out. Take my advice—forget all the German you know, and flourish your passport frequently. Germans have a great respect for a red seal.”
But, strangely enough, they were not disturbed. A number of officers approached the carriage and, after a glance at its inmates, passed on to the other compartments. Stewart, putting his head out of the window, saw that a line of police was still keeping back the crowd.
“Really,” he said, “this seems too good to be true! It looks as if we were going to have this compartment to ourselves.”
He turned smilingly to glance at her, and the smile remained frozen on his lips. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes were staring, and she was pressing her hands tight against her heart.
“You're not ill?” he asked, genuinely startled.
“Only very tired,” she answered, controlling her voice with evident difficulty. “I think I shall try to rest a little”; and she settled herself more comfortably in her corner. “The journey from Spa quite exhausted me.” Then with her lips she formed the words: “Be careful!”
“All right,” said Stewart. “Go to sleep if you can.”
She gave him a warning glance from under half-closed lids, then laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
Stewart, after a last look along the platform, raised the window half-way to protect his companion from the draft, then dropped into the corner opposite her. He got out a cigar and lighted it with studied carelessness, though he was disgusted to see that his hand was trembling. He was tingling all over with the sudden sense of danger—tingling as a soldier tingles as he awaits the order to charge.
But what danger could there be? He thrilled at a sudden thought. Was this compartment intended as a trap? Had they been guided to it and left alone here in the hope that, thrown off their guard, they would in some way incriminate themselves? Was there an ear glued to some hole in the partition—the ear of a spy crouching in the next compartment?
Stewart pulled his hat forward over his eyes, as if to protect them from the light. Then he went carefully back over the sequence of events which had led them to this compartment.
It was Hans who had brought them to it—and Hans was a spy. It was he who had selected it, who had stood at the door so that they would go no farther. It was he who had slammed the door.
Was the door locked? Stewart's hand itched to try the handle; but he did not dare. Some one was perhaps watching as well as listening. The fact that they had been permitted to enter a carriage reserved for officers—that on such a crowded train they were in undisturbed possession of a whole compartment—yes, it was proof enough!
The station-master's whistle echoed shrilly along the platform, and the train glided slowly away.
Darkness had come. As they passed through the silent environs of the town Stewart wondered why the streets seemed so gloomy. Looking again, he understood. Only a few of the street-lights were burning. Already the economies of war had begun.
The train entered a long tunnel, at whose entrance a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets stood on guard. At regular intervals the light from the windows flashed upon an armed patrol. Farther on a deep valley was spanned by a great viaduct, and here again there was a heavy guard.
The valley widened, and suddenly, as they swept around a curve, the travelers saw a broad plain covered with flaring lights. They were the lights of field-kitchens; and, looking at them, Stewart realized that a mighty army lay encamped here, ready to be hurled against the French frontier.
But this was not the French frontier, he told himself perplexedly; and to make sure, he got out his Baedeker and looked at the map. No; the French frontier lay away to the south. There was no way to get to it from this point save across Belgium.
But in that case, what was this army doing here? Surely the German staff did not intend to invade a state whose neutrality and independence had been guaranteed by the great powers of Europe!
He put the book away and sat gazing thoughtfully out into the night. As far as the eye could reach gleamed the fires of the mighty bivouac. The men themselves were invisible in the darkness, for they had not thought it worth while to put up their shelter-tents on so fine a night; but along the track, from time to time, passed a shadowy patrol. Once, as the train rolled above a road, Stewart saw that it was packed with transport wagons.
Then, suddenly, the train groaned to a stop.
“The frontier!” said Stewart to himself. He glanced at his companion, but she, to all appearances, was sleeping peacefully. “We shall be delayed here,” he thought, “for the troops to detrain”; and he lowered the window and put out his head to watch them do it.
The train had stopped beside a platform, and Stewart was astonished at its length. It stretched away and away into the distance, seemingly without end; and it was empty, save for a few guards.
The doors behind him were thrown open, and the officers sprang out and hurried forward. From the windows in front of him Stewart could see curious heads projecting; but the forward coaches gave no sign of life. Not a door was opened; not a soldier appeared.
“Where are we? What has happened?” asked his companion's voice, and he turned to find her rubbing her eyes sleepily.
“We are at the frontier, I suppose,” he answered. “No doubt we shall go on as soon as the troops detrain.”
“I hope they won't be long.”
“They haven't started yet; but, of course—by George!” he added in another tone, “they aren't getting out! The guards are driving the people out of the cars ahead of us!”
The tumult of voices raised in angry protest drew nearer. Stewart could see that the carriages were being cleared, and in no gentle manner. There was no pause for explanation or argument—just a terse order which, if not instantly obeyed, was followed by action. Stewart could not help smiling, for, in that Babel of tongues, he could detect a lot of unexpurgated American.
“There's no use getting into a fight with them,” he said philosophically, as he turned back into the compartment and lifted down his suit-cases. “We might as well get out before we're put out.”
He tried to open the door. It was locked.
The certainty that they were trapped turned him a little giddy.
“Who could have locked this door?” he demanded, shaking the handle savagely.
“Sit down, Tommy,” his companion advised. “Don't excite yourself—and have your passport ready. Perhaps they won't put us off.”
And then a face, crowned by the ubiquitous spiked helmet, appeared at the window.
“You will have to get out,” said the man in German, and tried to open the door.
Stewart shook his head to show that he didn't understand, and produced his passport. The man waved it impatiently. away, and wrenched at the door, shouting savagely.
“I have always been told that the Germans were a phlegmatic people,” observed Stewart; “but some of them, at any rate, blow up quicker and harder than anybody I ever saw. Look at that fellow now!”
At that moment a guard came running up, produced a key, and opened the door.
“Come, get out!” said the man, with a gesture there was no mistaking. Picking up his bags, Stewart stepped out upon the platform and helped his companion to alight.
“How long shall we be detained here?” he asked in English; but the man, with a contemptuous shrug, motioned him to stand back.
Looking along the platform, Stewart saw the head of an infantry column approaching. In a moment the soldiers were pouring into the coaches with the same mathematical precision he had seen before. But there was something unfamiliar in their appearance; and, looking more closely, Stewart saw that their spiked helmets were covered with brown cloth, and that not a button or bit of gilt glittered anywhere on the gray-green field uniforms.
Wonderful forethought, he told himself! By night these troops would be quite invisible; by day they would be merged indistinguishably with the brown soil of the fields, the gray trunks of trees, the green of hedges and bushes.
The train rolled slowly out of the station, and Stewart saw that on the track beyond there was another, also loaded with troops. In a moment it started westward after the first; and beyond it a third train lay revealed.
Glancing at his companion, Stewart was startled by the whiteness of her face, the steely glitter of her eyes.
“It looks like a regular invasion,” he said. “But let's find out what is going to happen to us. We can't stand here all night. Good Heavens, what is that?”
From the air above them came the sudden whir of a powerful engine, and, looking up, they saw a giant shape sweep across the sky. It was gone in an instant.
“A Zeppelin!” said Stewart, and felt within himself a thrill of wonder and exultation.
Oh, this would be a great war! It would be like no other ever seen upon this earth. It would be fought in the air as well as on the land; in the depths of the ocean as well as on its surface. At last all theories were to be put to the supreme test.
“You will come with me, sir,” said the man in the helmet.
Stewart, with a nod, picked up his grips again before he remembered that he was ignorant of German.
“Did you say there was another train?” he asked. “Shall we be able to get away?”
The man shook his head and led the way along the platform without glancing to the right or left. As they passed the bare little station they saw that it was jammed to the doors with men and women and children, mixed in an indiscriminate mass, and evidently most uncomfortable. But their guide led them past it without stopping, and Stewart breathed a sigh of relief. Anything would be better than to be thrust into that crowd!
Again he had cause to wonder at the length of that interminable platform; but at last, near its farther end, their guide stopped before a small, square structure, whose use Stewart could not even guess, and flung open the door.
“You will enter here,” he said. .
“But look here,” Stewart protested, “we are American citizens! You have no right—”
The man signed to them to hurry. There was something in the gesture which stopped the words on Stewart's lips.
“Come along, my dear,” he said, controlling himself. “It's no use to argue.”
Bending his head at the low door, he stepped inside. In an instant the door was slammed shut, and the snap of a lock told that they were prisoners.