The Hosts of the Air | Page 7

terrible places, and John suddenly grew sick for home and the pleasant
people in the sane republic beyond the seas. But he crushed the
emotion and listened in silence as the player played on.
"A hundred of those little mouth-organs reached our brigade this
morning," said Colton. "Men in the trenches must have something to
lift up their minds, and little things outside current of war will do it."
It was a long speech for him to make and John felt its truth, but he
atoned for it by complete silence while they listened to many tunes,
mostly American, played on the mouth-organ. John's mind continually
went back to the great republic overseas, so safe and so sane. While he
was listening to the thin tinkle in the dark and snowy trench his friends
were going to the great opera house in New York to hear "Aida" or
"Lohengrin" maybe. And yet he would not have been back there. The
wish did not occur to him. Through the dark and the snow he saw the
golden hair and the deep blue eyes of Julie Lannes float before him,

and it pleased him too to think that he was a minute part in the huge
event now shaking the world.
A sudden white light blazed through the snow, and then was gone, like
a flash of lightning.
"German searchlight seeking us out," said Colton.
"I wonder what they want," said John. "They can't be thinking of a rush
on such a night as this."
"Don't know, but must be on guard. Better return to your station and
warn everybody as you go along. You can use your torch, but hold it
low."
As John walked back he saw by the light of his little electric torch men
sound asleep on the narrow shelves they had dug in the side of the
trench, their feet and often a shoulder covered with the drifting snow.
Strange homes were these fitted up with the warriors' arms and clothes,
and now and then with some pathetic little gift from home.
He met other men on guard like himself walking up and down the
trench and also carrying similar torches. He found Carstairs and
Wharton still awake, and occupied as they were when he had left them.
"What was it, Scott?" asked Carstairs. "Has the British army taken
Berlin?"
"No, nor has the German army taken London."
"Good old London! I'd like to drop down on it for a while just now."
"They say that at night it's as black as this trench. Zeppelins!"
"I could find my way around it in the dark. I'd go to the Ritz or the
Carlton and order the finest dinner for three that the most experienced
chef ever heard of. You don't know how good a dinner I can give--if I
only have the money. I invite you both to become my guests in London
as soon as this war is over and share my gustatory triumph."

"I accept," said John.
"And I too," said Wharton, "though we may have to send to Berlin for
our captive host."
"Never fear," said Carstairs. "I wasn't born to be taken. What did
Captain Colton want with you, Scott, if it's no great military or state
secret?"
"To see Fernand Weber, the Alsatian, whom you must remember."
"Of course we recall him! Didn't we take that dive in the river together?
But he's an elusive chap, regular will-o'-the-wisp, messenger and spy of
ours, and other things too, I suppose."
"He's done me some good turns," said John. "Been pretty handy several
times when I needed a handy man most. He brought news that
Mademoiselle Julie Lannes and her servants, the Picards, father and
daughter, are on their way to or are at Chastel, a little village not far
from here, where the French have established a huge hospital for the
wounded. She left Paris in obedience to a letter from her brother, and
we are to tell Philip if we should happen to see him."
"Pretty girl! Deucedly pretty!" said Carstairs.
"I don't think the somewhat petty adjective 'pretty' is at all adequate,"
said John with dignity.
"Maybe not," said Carstairs, noticing the earnest tone in his comrade's
voice. "She's bound to become a splendid woman. Is Weber still with
the captain?"
"No, he's gone on his mission, whatever it is."
"A fine night for travel," said Wharton sardonically. "A raw wind,
driving snow, pitchy darkness, slush and everything objectionable
underfoot. Yet I'd like to be in Weber's place. A curse upon the man
who invented life in the trenches! Of all the dirty, foul, squalid

monotony it is this!"
"You'll have to curse war first," said John. "War made the trench."
"Here comes a man with an electric torch," said Carstairs. "Something
is going