The Boy Scouts' Victory — Context and Discussion

eille was over at the military school, and the three boys on the end of the line nearest the mess hall walked slowly toward the broad steps of the big brick building ahead. They differed greatly in type, but of this they were unconscious, for all were deep in thought.

“I am going home,” said the tallest boy abruptly. “Had a letter from my sister last night. My word, they are having some ripping times over there!”

“Your father won’t let you,” said the second lad. “How can _you_ go to England when _I_ can’t get back to Mexico?”

“I can jolly well go,” said the tall boy. “I’ve been planning for this. Mid-term is over, and I haven’t told you chaps, but I’ve been hoarding every cent of my allowance all winter. I have enough and to spare for second cabin.”

“But your father wants you here out of harm’s way,” urged the Mexican.

“He _thinks_ he does,” said Nickell-Wheelerson smiling, his blue eyes flashing. “He _thinks_ he does, but I know he is just trying me out. Here’s the way it is. Dad’s in the field and my second brother; you know my oldest brother was shot in the trenches in France two months ago. I’m nineteen. There are two little chaps to carry on the name and take care of the title, if the rest of us go. I’ve just _got_ to get over there! Don’t you see how it is?”

“Of course!” said the Mexican, his dark eyes glowing gloomily. “Of course you feel you’ve got to go! And here I must stay. I want to go home too.”

“It’s different with you,” said Nickell-Wheelerson, patting his companion on the back. “You keep out of that mess! Mexico is going to need you worse later on.”

“How about you?” demanded Morales, the Mexican. “I should think England would need you when that mess, as you call it, is finished.”

“She needs me now, and I know it, and dad knows it,” Nick assured him. “I’m going _home_! You’d better be glad you are not mixed up in this thing,” he said, turning to the third boy. “You are safe awhile yet, you old Greece-spot, you!”

“There are some Greeks fighting; a few on the European border of the Dardanelles,” said the boy addressed.

“Oh, of course you will get into it sooner or later,” said Nick, “but I’m banking on that queen of yours to stall things along as far as she can. She can’t put it off forever, though. You will be in it.”

“As sure as my name is Zaidos,” said the young Greek, “you are quite right! We will have to fight sooner or later.”

“Well, don’t cross bridges,” said Nick. “Sit tight, and I’ll go over there and help clean up things.”

Light-heartedly they raced up the steep hill leading from the parade ground to the mess hall.

A slim young orderly came out of the Adjutant’s office onto the terrace and looked about. Seeing the three boys, he called in a high, clear voice, “Oh, you Nosey!” and as the Greek approached added formally, “Corporal Zaidos is wanted by the Adjutant.”

“What’s he going to get ragged for now, I wonder,” mused Nickell-Wheelerson as he and Morales joined the crowd and went into the mess hall.

Zaidos did not come back. Nick watched the door anxiously. They were room-mates, and Nick was well aware of Nosey’s tendencies in the way of breaking minor rules. As soon as he could get out of the mess, he hurried down past the Adjutant’s office, and hastily framing an errand, went in. The room was empty.

Nick hurried over to the barracks to their room. Sitting on the side of his narrow bunk, his hands clenched, his face white, was Zaidos.

“What’s the row, old top?” Nick sang out cheerfully as he made a great pretense of picking up his books and stuffing a couple of pencils in the top of his pigskin puttee.

The young Greek shook his head, and Nick realized that it was something indeed very serious with him.

“What _is_ the row, old man?” he said again, coming over and sitting beside his friend. “What has the Adjutant got in for you this time?”

“Nothing,” said Zaidos. “He had a cablegram from home. It is pretty bad, Nick....” He paused. “My father is sick; fact is, he is dying; and I’ve got to leave to-night.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Nick. “That’s too bad! I’m more than sorry!”