"schooners." Taking one of the latter the old Belgian milk vender was in the act of filling it from the contents of the can when something astonishing happened.
Four soldiers who had been passing became excited, and pointed at the group; then they laid violent hands on the owner of the milk cart!
CHAPTER III.
LEAVING FOR THE FRONT
"What's this? What's this?" stammered Tubby, as the schooner of rich milk fell with a crash to the pavement when the soldiers began struggling with the woman vender, who was also the owner of the dog team.
Of course a crowd collected immediately, as it always will in a city when there is the first sign of something doing. Antwerp was fairly seething with half suppressed excitement at that time, and anything of this kind was like putting a match to the powder magazine.
"Well, I declare but she's a husky old woman, that's right!" Tubby was heard to say after his astonishment had in a measure abated, and he could catch his breath. "Why, it takes the whole four soldiers to subdue her. Shame! to hit a poor old woman like that; but my stars, don't she kick and try to land a blow on some of their noses."
"Whew! what do you think!" exclaimed Rob just then, for he had been listening to some of the chattering on the part of the excited crowd near by. "It isn't an old woman, after all, but a man. That explains how he comes to fight as he does, and why the Belgians keep on treating him so roughly."
"A man, and dressed up like a woman!" cried Tubby. "Well, if that isn't a queer stunt, I want to know. Is he trying to escape military duty, do you think, Rob? I remember they have conscription here in Belgium just like in Germany, Russia and France. Every young fellow has to serve the colors just so long."
But Rob shook his head. By now the soldiers had apparently conquered the spirit of the man in woman's garments. His white Belgian cap had been torn off in the struggle, showing that his hair was short underneath. He was also bleeding from having come in contact with some hard object, but he now stood there as straight as any grenadier, and looked his captors contemptuously in the face.
"They say he's a German spy!" Rob told his two chums. Tubby again held his breath, and stared as hard as he could at the prisoner.
The crowd became fairly wild to get at the captive, and made all manner of violent threats as they surged around the little group. The milk can was upset, and the dogs liberated by some friendly hand ran wildly away, as though knowing that their temporary master had gotten himself in a serious scrape.
The four determined Belgian soldiers guarding their prisoner against the fury of the mob began to work a way along the pavement, meaning, no doubt, to land their prize in the lock-up, where he would be safe until the firing squad was called on to complete the tragedy.
Presently their signals brought another detachment of the guard to the spot, a way was speedily cleared through the dense masses of people, and that was the last the three scouts saw of the spy. They could guess his fate, but at the same time felt positive that he must have met it as a man.
Somehow, the experience gave them a queer feeling. Here they had been rubbing up against some of the tragic happenings of the war, and after being in Antwerp only a few hours. No wonder they all felt convinced that the signs pointed to their having some lively times ahead.
"And say, I didn't get my drink of milk, either, did I?" lamented Tubby, after things settled back into the old rut again, with that never-ending procession of citizens, refugees, soldiers, and even a sprinkling of venturesome foreign tourists passing by in both directions.
"Oh! that doesn't cut much figure in the matter," Merritt told him, "because if you step off this main street into one of the side gassens you'll run across plenty of other milk-venders, who will not turn out to be something else."
"I see one right now," announced the persistent Tubby, who did not like to give up anything on which he had set his heart. "And look at the name of the same, will you: The Street of the Steen. Now what does that stand for, Rob? Is it the same as the German word stein?"
"Oh! no, you're away off there, Tubby," he was immediately told by the patrol leader, who had studied his guide book to some advantage. "This Steen used ages ago to be a terrible prison, where in the days of the Spanish Inquisition they tortured people in all sorts of ways. Just now it's a great museum; and if only we had time, which we don't expect, I'd like nothing better than to explore it."
"You see," Merritt told them, "if only you would let me go on by myself, and try to find Steven Meredith, you might stay around here and have a fairly decent time, unless the Germans do really start to try and capture Antwerp, after all."
"That'll do for you, Merritt," Rob informed him severely, "you forget that incident is closed."
"Yes," added Tubby, trying to frown, but as usual making a sorry mess of it, for the lines of his chubby face refused to take on such an air, seeing that they were only adapted for smiling, "don't let us hear another wheeze from you, Merritt. But please come with me, and let's see if all the old milk-venders of Antwerp are German spies. I hope the milk isn't poisoned."
"That isn't fair talk, Tubby, because you know the Germans would be away and above doing anything like that. They have their faults, but nobody calls them cowards. In fact, they seem to be too brave for their own good, because we hear how they are shot down like ripe grain, pushing along in masses straight into the jaws of death, and singing as they go."
This time they were allowed to quaff their mugs of cool, fresh milk without any unpleasant incident to interrupt the ceremony. Tubby did eye the woman who owned the outfit rather suspiciously, and must have aroused her curiosity by the way he turned his head several times after they had walked off.
For another hour the three American scouts tramped back and forth, seeing all they possibly could in so short a time. The quaint Flemish houses, with their many gables, and their red-tiled roofs, interested them greatly. In some of the streets the buildings even seemed to lean toward one another, and Tubby declared two men could almost shake hands by stretching from the upper windows.
"Now we ought to see the burgomaster," said Rob, as the afternoon waned. "You know you are carrying a letter to him, Merritt, from your grandfather, who happens to be acquainted with him. And we count on getting a guide through his influence who will take us along the roads between here and Brussels."
"Even if a guide is not to be found, because nearly all the men are enlisted in the army," Merritt replied, "we've made up our minds not to hold back. Fellows who have had as much experience in running the gauntlet as the scouts of the Eagle Patrol can point to, needn't worry about how they're going to get along."
"Leave that to us," said Tubby, rather pompously; "and we'll land on our feet all right, just as a cat does if you drop it out of the second-story window."
After considerable difficulty, the boys were admitted to an audience with the mayor or burgomaster of Antwerp in his official chambers. Fortunately, he spoke English, so they expected to meet with little difficulty in acquainting him with the nature of their mission to Belgium at a time when nearly all other Americans were only too well pleased to get away from the land of strife and warfare.
The burgomaster looked surprised and even anxious when he heard that they desired an official paper from him, requesting all Belgians to assist them in their search for one Steven Meredith, who was believed to be located in a town not many miles to the west of the capital.
"I would do much for my old friend, Monsieur Charles Crawford, for whom I have long entertained a sincere affection," he told Merritt, after he had read the letter presented to him, and questioned the boys at length, "but it is a most serious undertaking you have in view. I question the wisdom of my encouraging such a dangerous trip."
Rob, seeing that the good burgomaster appeared to be hesitating, and as Tubby expressed it, "on the fence," started in to talk. Rob had a very persuasive way about him, as his chums knew from past experiences. They guessed how it would all turn out as soon as they saw how impressed the Belgian city official seemed to be with the arguments the boy brought forward.
Of course, in the end, the burgomaster yielded, and wrote them out the passport they wanted so