It was only a slight movement, made in obedience to an overwhelming desire, and as if he would incline his captors' thoughts in that direction.

Roscoe, who held his burden jointly with Tom, felt this impatient impulse communicated to him and he took it as a confession from Tom that he had made the fatal error of mistaking their way before.

And he moved a trifle, too, in the direction where he knew the German lines had been established, muttering scornfully at Tom, "You know where you're headed for now, all right.

It's what I said right along." "I admit I know," said Tom dully.
No doubt it was the compass which was the main agent in deciding the officer as to their route, but he and his men moved, even as Tom did, as if to make an end of needless parleying.
As they tramped along, following the edge of the wood, a tiny light appeared ahead of them, far in the distance, like a volunteer beacon, and Roscoe, turning, a trifle puzzled, tried to discover the other light, which had now diminished to a mere speck.

Now and again the officer paused and glanced at that trifling prize of war, Tom's little glassless, tin-encased compass.