“Say,” he said, “here’s a find! They haven’t threshed this grain yet. Stow some of it away in your pockets. It’s good food at a pinch without cooking.” I had a wallet-like envelope of oil cloth which I showed him. “Just the thing,” he said. We rubbed the ears of grain in our hands, and secured about a quart apiece before we went to sleep that night. On awaking I found the sun shining, the sky clear, and the weather cooler than the day previous. As there were no immediate indications of moving, we spread our blankets on the grain stack to dry. And then we had a long talk. I told him all about Jot and his desertion, as I had never told it to any one before. There was something about him that drew me out to confide in him my inmost thoughts. He asked several questions and then, after a moment’s silence he looked me in the face, and gave one of his inward chuckles. “What is it?” I said. “To me it seems a _crying_ matter.” “So it does, chum,” he said soberly; “I can understand your feelings. But you have, with all of your Yankee intelligence, a childish streak in you.” “What do you mean?” I asked with some stiffness. “Don’t you see that it is more than likely, your friend and his brother are both in the secret service of our army? You know that Foch got information of the German plans, and has been posted from the first about what they were going to do. I shouldn’t wonder if your chum and his brother had a hand in it. From what you have told me I infer that they know how to keep their lips shut. And that dog and horse! My! If it is as I think, it’s fine! But still, it _may_ possibly be the other way.” I forgot my present troubles--even my hunger--as I grasped his hand. “By George!” I cried, and turned my head to hide the tears--but they were tears of joy. He radiated an indefinable smile and said, “There’s nothing certain, but I reckon that your friend is white.” And then added, “You are a good deal of a child yet, Stark. Don’t mind if I tell you so. You see things more with your eyes than with your mind, and can’t understand a two-sided game--because you haven’t any two sides to yourself. You’re honest.” I didn’t exactly understand his view, and asked: “How about this sprain, Gordon? Is that honest, too?” But he only laughed one of his internal chuckles, and began talking of other things. CHAPTER XXIII A HAZARD OF FORTUNE Again we found ourselves on the march.