Chapter VII: Caught in His Own Trap

Call to mess followed at 5:30. It was not until the four Khaki Boys had performed their usual stunt of climbing over several tables with their portions of food, and were seated in a row along a wall bench, that Bob reopened the subject of Bixton.

"The next time that Bixton smarty tries to jump you, Iggy, don't act as though he was alive," was his wrathful advice. "He's a talker and a trouble maker. Don't let him get your goat. That's what he's trying hard to 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. But what's the use of spoiling the floor?" Bob demanded whimsically. "Let him 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 that Bixton 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 he can't, he'll quit and start on somebody else. But that won't be your lookout."

"I try't," promised Ignace. His scowling features clearing, he proceeded to devote himself sedulously to the savory portion of stew in the meat can before him. Nor were his companions loath to drop the unpleasant subject 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, the pleasantest relaxation period of their camp day lay before them. Until the 9:45 call to quarters they were free to follow their own bent, so long as it did not take them beyond camp limits.

After putting away his mess-kit, Bob's first move was to reach under his cot for the suitcase in which he had deposited his precious papers. A respectful audience of three stood watching him, mildly curious as to what 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. It breaks my heart to leave you, but it must be did. Half an hour's clickety-clicking and you'll see me back here in all my glory. If the machine downstairs isn't working overtime, maybe I can grab it for a while."

"Let's go over to the 'Y' and write letters," proposed Jimmy. "Our room's better than our company with old Mysterious Myra here. If I don't answer mine bang-up quick, I'll never write 'em. Here's enough paper and envelopes for the bunch." Reaching under his cot he held up a good-sized box of stationery.

"I would to poor my mother a letter in American write, but she can no read that write," offered Ignace sadly. "I can the American read and write but no my family. My mother un'erstan' American little but no read."

"Write it in Polish, then," suggested Jimmy. "You don't have to write it in English, do you?"

"But I want show poor my mother how that I am smart it to do." Ignace was bent on distinguishing himself. "She it would much please."

"Couldn't someone read it to her, then?" asked Bob. "One of her neighbors; or maybe your groceryman." Familiar with the Polish section of the city from whence Ignace had come, Bob was somewhat acquainted with the ways of the clannish Poles. He knew that they were prone to gravitate to the grocery store in their neighborhood for everything from merchandise to general information.

"S-o-o! I have no think to that." Ignace brightened. "I write him American anyhow!"

"Drop in about eighty-thirty and watch _Mysterious Myra_ conduct a seance." Bob cast a withering glance at Jimmy. "You ought to be ashamed to ticket a bunkie with such a handle," he added severely. "Now get out of 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 caused both Jimmy and Bob to whirl. Directly across from them Bixton had been morosely watching the quartette. Aware that the bit of by-play was merely fun, he had called out "Fight!" with malicious intent. Knowing the acting first sergeant to be at one end of the room, he had shouted with a view toward creating trouble. His essay succeeded so far as to bring the officer to the group on the run.

"What's this?" he questioned, sternly surveying four very calm but very injured 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. "Did you 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 the sergeant satirically.

"I thought I did," mumbled the man.

"You _thought_ you did," emphasized the non-com. He thereupon launched into a tirade of sarcastic rebuke that fell like verbal hailstones on the would-be trouble-maker's ears.

"Come on, let's beat it," muttered Jimmy. "I'm so happy I could hug that sergeant."

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 still beating upon their ears as they scampered down the stairs.

"That's the time he got his," exulted Jimmy as they emerged from the barrack.

"He must have been watching us," commented Roger. "When he saw Bob and you 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 a call-down, he'll do well. I'll bet that sergeant has him spotted for a talker. Hope he has. Then Smarty Bixton'll get the worst of it if he tries to queer us again. Maybe he's learned something by this time that wasn't down in his books."

"He's heading for the rocks," Roger said soberly. "Somebody ought to try to set him straight. I wish he hadn't started on Iggy the way he has. We couldn't say a word to him now. It would only make things worse. We'll just have to do as we agreed and not notice him."

The looming up of a second lieutenant in their path brought three hands up in smart salute and temporarily closed further discussion of Bixton. Reaching the Y. M. C. A., Jimmy distributed note-paper with a lavish hand and soon the trio had settled themselves on hard benches before the primitive-looking desks to write their letters.

Provided with an extra fountain pen of Jimmy's, Ignace stared blankly at the wall, sighed profoundly, gingerly tried the pen, and finally gave himself up to the painful throes of composition. Jimmy dashed into his letter-writing with his usual reckless impetuosity, his pen tearing over the paper at a rapid rate. In consequence he was triumphantly signing "Jimmy" to his second letter before Roger had half finished his carefully worded note to Mrs. Blaise.

"Hurry up, slow-pokes. It's eight-ten," adjured Jimmy, as he scrawled an address across an envelope.

"Him is done," proudly announced Ignace, holding up his epistolary effort. Undated and unpunctuated, it began at the very top of the sheet and ended halfway from the bottom of the first page. "Now you read." He proffered 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 the bete my fathar giv all tim now am i the solder an he can no get mor i sen you the monee wen i get som tim i hav the 3 brothar now i hapee but no wen think you poor mi mothar from you son Ignace."

"That's a good letter, Iggy." Jimmy had lost his desire to laugh as he handed it back. It had begun to strike him as pathetic. He was wondering how it had happened that before meeting the poor Polish boy he had never credited 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 pleased with the other's praise. "I write the name, the street my mother, you write again this?" he asked, holding up an envelope.

Much amused, Jimmy complied. Ignace surveyed the envelope with admiration. "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 just addressed.

"Look who's here!" exclaimed Jimmy. His gaze roving idly down the big room, he had spied Bob Dalton just entering it.

Discovering his chums in the same instant, Bob steered straight for them, his black eyes twinkling with mischief. "Three whoops for Mysterious Myra," he hailed, waving a little sheaf of papers above his head. "Got through typing sooner than I expected, so I beat it over here in 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 help yourself to a front seat while I read you Dalton's Marvelous Military Maneuvers in Rhyme, respectfully dedicated to the daily use of Ignace So Pulinski."