"No, I only wanted to make sure it was all right. There were some big hogsheads of poison up in the woods where the brook starts and the other feller killed three Germans who tried to empty them in the stream. By mistake he shot a hole in one of the hogsheads and I thought maybe some of the stuff got into the water. But I guess it didn't." It was characteristic of Tom that he did not mention his own part in the business. "I drank about a quart of it around noontime," said a young sergeant, "and I'm here yet." "It's good and cool," observed another. "What's the matter with Snipy, anyway?" a private asked, laughing. "Somebody been spinning him around?" "He just got mixed up, kind of, that's all," Tom said. _That was all._ There was much excitement in and about the little cottage on the edge of the village. Up the narrow path, from headquarters below, came other Americans, officers as Tom could see, who disappeared inside the house. Presently, the German prisoners, all except the big officer, came out, sullen in captivity, poor losers as Germans always are, and marched away toward the centre of the village, under escort. "They thought they were taking us to the German lines," said Tom simply. Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his surprise and feeling deeply chagrined, walked over and stood in front of Tom. "Why didn't you show me that compass, Tom?" he asked. "Because it was wrong, just like you were," Tom answered frankly, but without any trace of resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd have thought it proved you were right. It was marked, crazy like, by that feller I told you about. I knew all the time we were coming to Cantigny." There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe, his voice full of feeling, said simply, "Tom Slade, you're a wonder." "Hear that, Paul Revere?" one of the soldiers said jokingly. "Praise from the Jersey Snipe means something." "No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-distrust. "You've saved me from a Hun prison camp and while you were doing it you had to listen to me--Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he broke off. "I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his expressionless way. "If I'd had my way we'd have made a detour when I saw those broken branches, 'cause I knew it meant people were there, and then we wouldn't have got those fellers as prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more than me." This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was Tom Slade all over. "Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom, you're the same old hickory nut. Forgive me, old man, if you can." "I don't have to," said Tom. Roscoe stood there staring at him, thrilled with honest admiration and stung by humiliation.