He did not like this sort of work at all now that he was face to face with it.

He would rather be off with _Uncle Sam_, riding along the French roads, with the French children calling to him.
For the first time in his life he was nervous and afraid--not of being caught but of catching someone; of the danger of suspecting and being mistaken.
Mr.Conne, who never missed anything, noticed his perturbation and patted him on the shoulder saying, "All kinds of work have to be done, Tommy." Tom tried to smile back at him.
Down the long gangplank they came, one after another, pushing each other, tripping each other--joking, laughing.

Among them came a young private, wearing glasses, who was singing, "Good-bye, Broadway.

Hello, France!" He was startled out of his careless merriment by a tap on the shoulder from Mr.Conne, and almost before Tom realized what had happened, he was standing blinking at one of the other Secret Service men who was handing him back his glasses.
"All right, my boy," said Mr.Conne pleasantly, which seemed to wipe out any indignity the young man might have felt.
Tom looked up the gangplank as they surged down, holding the rail to steady them on the steep incline.

Nobody seemed to have noticed what had happened.
"Keep your mind on _your_ part, Tommy," said Mr.Conne warningly.
Tom saw that of all those in sight only one wore glasses--a black-haired youth who kept his hands on the shoulders of the man before him.