I ain't that kind--sort of--that fellers name things after," he added, with a blunt simplicity that went to Roscoe's heart; and he held the rifle, as the sniper started to take it back, his eyes still fixed upon the rough scratches which formed his own name.

"In Bridgeboro there was a place in Barrell Alley," he went on, apparently without feeling, "where my father fell down one night when he was--when he'd had too much to drink, and after that everybody down there called it Slade's Hole.

When I got in with the scouts, I didn't like it--kind of----" Roscoe looked straight at Tom with a look as sure and steady as his rifle.

"Slade's Hole isn't known outside of Barrell Alley, Tom," he said impressively, although in the same cautious undertone, "but _Tom Slade_ is known from one end of this sector to the other." "Thatchy's what they called me in Toul sector, 'cause my hair's always mussed up, I s'pose, and----" "The first time I ever saw you to really know you, Tom, your hair was all mussed up--and I hope it'll always stay that way.

That was when you came up there in the woods and made me promise to go back and register." "I knew you'd go back 'cause----" "I went back with bells on, and here I am.