The Brighton Boys at Chateau-Thierry

“You’re just plain wrong. Anyway, people in glass shanties shouldn’t throw rocks. I don’t see you trying to play soldier.” The last speaker, a tall lad who sat nearest the window in the rear seat of a crowded railroad car seemed exasperated by the uncomplimentary suggestion of the boy beside him, a short, heavy-set, curly-headed fellow, who looked even more youthful than his sixteen years. His handsome face lighted up with a smile when he spoke; evidently there was but little enmity back of his teasing.

“If I were a telegraph pole and had your gray hairs, Stapley, you can bet your number nines I’d be in camp. But they won’t take kids.”

“That’s right, Richards; they won’t, unless a fellow’s dad signs his consent. My dad won’t do it. So kindly apologize, will you? My gray hairs deserve it; I’m a year older than you are, you know. Go on; I’m listening.”

“Come off! Anybody can coax his governor not to sign. Honest, now; don’t you like the idea of getting a bullet--?”

“Now cut that out. You think you’re some kidder, but it takes an expert to kid me. Of course I know you’re sore over the lambasting we gave your team at basket ball. All Brighton is laughing about it yet.”

“Never get cross over accidents. Couldn’t help it if Terry wasn’t fit. How about the game before that and the score? Eh?” Richards’ smile broadened.

“Well, was I sore?” Stapley challenged.

“Like a hen after a bath. You couldn’t see anything but red. The same at the class relay runs and--”

“I’d hate to say that you and the truth are total strangers,” Stapley said, quickly.

“Oh, let her go. I consider the source, as the man said when the donkey kicked him, ‘The critter didn’t know any bet--.’ Now, what’s the matter?”

The boy by the window had suddenly made a sudden downward motion with one hand and held a finger of the other to his lips, looking most mysterious. He had previously chanced to lean far forward, a position which he now maintained for a moment; then he flopped down against the seat back, quickly taking a pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket and beginning to write. In another minute Richards was scanning what had been written:

“You know German. So do I--a little, but Dad made me take Spanish this term. I just caught a word or two from those dubs ahead that sounded funny. You cock your ear over the back of the seat and listen some. If you let on you’re mad as blazes at me and now and then give me a bawling out, I’ll play dumb and then when you wait for me to reply maybe you can hear a thing or two they’re saying. We’ve got to bury the hatchet now, for we are both Americans, first.”

The younger lad at once did as requested, glancing at the two men in the seat ahead, who were in earnest conversation, one, evidently under some excitement, talking quite loudly. He seemed not to think his voice carried so far above the rumble of a railroad train, or else they both considered as naught the chance that anyone might understand the language they were speaking. That the two were foreigners there could be no doubt; the full whiskered face of one, and the bent, thin lips of the other denoted, beyond power of words, the egotistical, would-be-dominating Prussian blood. It was an argument over ways and means that caused the bearded fellow to become so vehement.

The lad, understanding conversational German fairly well because of his persistent practice at school and the influence of a nurse he had when small, caught at first but a few words from the whiskered foreigner; then, when the smooth-faced man began speaking at length in a voice that could not be plainly heard the boy quickly carried out the suggestion of his companion.