THE FOUNTAINS OF DESTRUCTION As Tom had the balance of the day to himself he cherished but one thought--that of remaining with Roscoe as long as his leave would permit.

If he had been in the woods up at Temple Camp, away back home in his beloved Catskills, he could hardly have felt more at home than he felt perched in this tree near the headwaters of the running stream; and to have Roscoe Bent crouching there beside him was more than his fondest dreams of doing his bit had pictured.
At short intervals they could hear firing, sometimes voices in the distance, and occasionally the boom of artillery, but except for these reminders of the fighting the scene was of that sort which Tom loved.

It was there, while the sniper, all unseen, guarded the source of the stream, his keen eye alert for any stealthy approach, that Tom told him in hushed tones the story of his own experiences; how he had been a ship's boy on a transport, and had been taken aboard the German U-boat that had torpedoed her and held in a German prison camp, from which he and Archer had escaped and made their way through the Black Forest and across the Swiss border.
"Some kid!" commented Roscoe, admiringly; "the world ain't big enough for you, Tommy.

If you were just back from Mars I don't believe you'd be excited about it." "Why should I be ?" said literal Tom.

"It was only because the feller I was with was born lucky; he always said so." "Oh, yes, of course," said Roscoe sarcastically.