Tom slowly bent his bared arm as the resistant cord cut the flesh; for a second it strained, seeming to have withstood the full expanse of his muscle. Then he closed his arm a little more, and the four strands of cord snapped. "Christopher!" said Roscoe. He towselled Tom's rebellious shock of hair. "Wouldn't it be good if we could go together--to the war, I mean!" "If it keeps up another year, I'll be eighteen," said Tom. "Maybe I'll meet you there--you can't tell." "In that little old French town called---- Do you know the most famous town in France?" Roscoe broke off. Tom shook his head. "Give it up? _Somewhere_--the little old berg of Somewhere in France. _Wee, wee, messeur--polly voo Fransay?_" Tom laughed. "There's one thing I wish you'd do," he said. "When I go through Leeds on the way home, I'll stop in the postoffice and you can send me a note to say you registered and everything's all right. Then I'll enjoy the ride in the train better." "You think I won't register?" said Rocsoe, becoming suddenly sober. "You couldn't stop me now." "I know it," said Tom; "it ain't that. But I'd just like you to write--will you?" "I sure will--if I'm not in jail," he added ruefully. "But I don't like to go and leave you here." "It's the best way, can't you see that?" said Tom. "I won't be in bad with them any more after a couple of days than I am now. And then my foot'll be better. You got to be careful not to mention my name. It's none of my business what you tell 'em about not being there yesterday. I ain't advising anybody to lie. I could get into the army if I wanted to lie; but I promised our scoutmaster.--Just the same, it's none of my business, as long as you register." "If I broke my word with you," said Roscoe soberly, "I'd be a low-down----" "You only got about an hour and a half to catch the train," said Tom. He couldn't think of much else while Roscoe was there. CHAPTER XI TOM MEETS A STRANGER Tom's ankle still pained him more than he had been willing to admit, but the departure of Roscoe for home was a load off his mind, and he felt that now his work was done. In four hours, at most, Roscoe would be back in Bridgeboro, his name upon the rolls, his registration card in his pocket. Tom envied him. It was exactly like Tom not to worry about how the authorities would receive Roscoe's excuses, or what people would think of his own absence. His mind was a very simple one, and he believed, as he had told Roscoe, that if one did what was right he would not be misjudged.