pened, and his face was a study of conflicting emotions. Rage and
hate and fear showed in his features. He recognized Tom, and he knew
that his treachery stood discovered. He knew that with the evidence
against him he was doomed to stand before a firing squad if he should
be taken into the American lines.

Tom looked at him as one might look at a leper.

"You low-down traitor!" he said bitterly. "You vile scoundrel! I've
caught you at last and caught you dead to rights. You're the most
contemptible thing that breathes. You're a disgrace to your uniform.
You ought to be wearing a wooden overcoat and you will when Uncle Sam
lays his hands on you. I ought to kill you myself this minute."

His hand clenched the pistol which he had taken from Rabig's pocket,
and a look of craven fear came into the traitor's eyes.

"Oh, don't be afraid," said Tom scornfully. "I'm not going to do it.
Perhaps you'll suffer more if I let you live than if I killed you.
You're a marked and branded man. You're a man without a country. The
very men you've sold yourself to look upon you as a yellow dog.

"Now, Rabig, listen to me," Tom went on with deadly earnestness. "I'm
going to strip you of the uniform you've disgraced. I'll have to untie
your hands for a minute to get the coat over your arms, but I've got
the drop on you and if you make the slightest move except to do what I
tell you to you're a dead man."

Rabig was too cowed to do anything but obey, and in a few minutes Tom
had stripped him of coat and trousers and put them on himself. He
re-bound Rabig's hands tightly. Then he went through the pockets of
the coat.

As he had expected he found the pass that had admitted Rabig to the
German lines. Opposite the word "_Losung_," which Tom knew meant
"countersign," was scribbled the word "Potsdam."

"I guess this thing that brought you over will take me back," Tom
remarked. "Now, Rabig, I'm going to leave you here with your German
friends. They'll pick you up after a while, though I don't care
whether they do or not. I'm going back to the boys of the old
Thirty-seventh and tell them just what has happened to Nick Rabig, the
traitor. So long, Benedict Arnold."

With a parting glance of contempt Tom left the traitor and went down
the hill with a confidence that he was very far from feeling.

He had the pass and the countersign, but he was not sure that these
would be sufficient. Perhaps an officer would be called by t