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"It certainly looks suspicious," said Bart with a little wrinkle of anxiety creasing his brow. "One thing is sure," declared Billy. "It was a note that was being pushed outside that door. The fellow inside was trying to get into communication with Rabig." "True," assented Frank. "But that in itself doesn't prove anything.
He seemed weak and dazed, although a surgeon who had been hastily summoned pronounced the wound not dangerous. He seemed to have been dealt a glancing blow, and, as in the case of all scalp wounds, the blood had flowed freely. "Bring a seat for him," commanded the lieutenant in charge, and the order was promptly obeyed. "Now, Rabig," proceeded the officer, not unkindly, "tell me about this.
They'll pick you up after a while, though I don't care whether they do or not. I'm going back to the boys of the old Thirty-seventh and tell them just what has happened to Nick Rabig, the traitor. So long, Benedict Arnold." With a parting glance of contempt Tom left the traitor and went down the hill with a confidence that he was very far from feeling.
The sergeant of the guard came running up quickly, followed by two other officers of higher rank, and a hurried inquiry took place on the spot. Rabig had been lifted to his feet from where he had been lying, and stood supported by two comrades. Blood was running down his face from a wound in his head.
You or I might be on sentry duty and a prisoner might try to do the same thing to us." "Yes," agreed Billy. "But we wouldn't act the way Rabig did. We'd have picked up the note and given it to the sergeant of the guard." "And we wouldn't have sneaked around the hut to see if any one was near by," said Tom.
Frank turned the conversation into other channels, because although he had the gravest reasons for believing Rabig to be a traitor, he did not want to do the fellow an injustice or voice his suspicions until he was able to confirm them by absolute proof. Fred passed on after a few minutes and the boys looked at each other.
"Let's get behind these trees and see what's going on," suggested Bart, indicating a clump of trees near which they happened to be standing. In a moment they were screened from observation. Then they watched with the keenest interest what would follow. That Rabig had caught sight of the paper was evident, for he stopped his pacing and turned his eyes on the door.
"That legal stuff doesn't make a hit with me," growled Bart. "Some day I'll break loose and take it out of him myself. My fingers itch every time I see him. I'd hoped I'd never have to see him again." "You're doomed to be disappointed, then," grinned Billy, "for here he comes now." They looked in the direction he indicated and saw Rabig coming along the company street.
He was perhaps within a few miles of them. He was, at any rate, not eating his heart out in a distant prison camp. Then to Frank came the thought of Rabig. Perhaps Tom hadn't escaped. Perhaps Rabig had added murder to the crime of treason of which they were sure he was guilty.
"No," he answered. "Was he captured?" "We're afraid so," answered Frank. "I didn't see him," declared Rabig. "Perhaps he's killed," he added, almost smacking his lips with satisfaction. They longed to kick him, but restrained themselves, and Rabig passed on. "Isn't he a sweet specimen?" asked Bart in disgust, as he looked at Rabig's receding figure.
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