Home Bound

Slowly and ponderously the United States transport, Sherman, moved out of the maze of boats that had clustered about her at the Brest dock. With ever-gathering speed she thrust her prow into the rippling water, leaving behind, on the wharf, cheering hundreds of Uncle Sam’s boys who envied the lot of their fellows in thus sailing for home after the Great War. Mingled with the resonant voices of the Americans were the shriller notes of their French comrades, who were bidding God-speed to their allied comrades.

“Well, we’re really off at last,” remarked a tall, bronzed youth, speaking to some of his chums who leaned over the rail with him, waving to friends on the wharf.

[2]

“Yes, Jerry,” remarked a rather stout khaki-clad soldier lad, “off at last. And now that the captain can dispense with my valuable services in warping the ship away from the dock—I believe warping is the proper word—I’m going to look——”

“For the kitchen!” interrupted a third member of the little group clustered about the lad called Jerry, who wore on his coat the D. S. C. of valor. “Isn’t that what you were going to say, Bob?”

“What’s that about a kitchen?” asked the youth called Jerry.

“Oh, Bob is up to his old tricks,” remarked the soldier who had interrupted his friend’s facetious words.

“Perhaps I may be, Ned,” came in reply from the stout one; “but I know enough not to call the place on board a ship where food is prepared a ‘kitchen.’ Why don’t you say galley, you land-lubber?” and with this parting shot Bob Baker, winking one eye at his tall friend, Jerry Hopkins, strolled aft.

He was soon lost in the throng of soldiers which crowded every available part of the transport, and Ned and Jerry, retaining their places by the rail, looked down at the water of the harbor which they were leaving behind. This was one of the first transports to depart for the United States after the terrible conflict, and in addition to taking[3] home a number of unwounded men, it also carried many casual cases.

Among the former were many friends and comrades of Jerry Hopkins, Ned Slade, and Bob Baker, three chums known to many of my readers as the “Motor Boys,” of whom more will later be told.

“Yes, we’re on our way,” remarked Ned to Jerry, as the two stood somewhat apart for the moment, their friends at the rail having moved to one side. “We’re on our way, and Bob hasn’t lost much time in starting his favorite indoor sport.”

“Well, I don’t know that I blame him,” announced Jerry. “The eating problem has been a hard one for all of us since this war started, and there’s such a crowd on board that it isn’t likely to be an easy matter to get a feed now. Bob always was one who believed in safety first, when it comes to his stomach.”

“You’re right!” assented Ned. “But there’s one thing about him: He isn’t mean, and if he finds a way to get an extra supply of grub he’ll share it with us.”

“You said a mouthful!” agreed Jerry.

For several moments they stood looking at the gradually disappearing reminders of the late conflict—the docks and the buildings at the Brest camp, in France, where they had spent some days[4] in waiting for transportation back to the United States. Then Ned turned to look over the seething deck.

“This is some crowd!” murmured Ned. “I hope Bob doesn’t get lost in it.”

“Especially if he does manage to find the galley, and can bribe or intimidate one of the cooks into slipping him something on the side,” added Jerry. “In that case I hope Bob’s memory carries him back to us, for, to tell you the truth, I’m hungry.”

“So’m I,” admitted Ned; “though I did pull a raw one on Chunky. But I guess we ought to consider ourselves lucky to be on board.”

“You said it!” declared Jerry. “There’s a lot of the boys who would give up a wound stripe for the sake of going back on one of these early boats. Now that the war is practically over, there’s going to be a big slump in the enthusiasm that kept us going when nothing else would have done it. Yes, we’re dead lucky to be going back.”

And so, amid the whistle salutes of other craft, the waving of hands and the tossing of hats and caps from unknown well-wishers, the Sherman kept on her way.

Out toward the west she headed, out toward the land of the Stars and Stripes, and deep in their hearts Ned, Bob, and Jerry were thankful for the Providence that had picked them as among[5] the first to go back home after the fighting was over.

They had covered themselves with glory, for in addition to the D. S. C. bestowed on Jerry Hopkins, Ned and Bob had received honorable mention, and their company was one picked out for signal honor, the three boys sharing in the general praise.

“I wonder how things are going back in Cresville,” mused Ned, after a period of silence on the part of himself and Jerry.

“That’s queer! I was just thinking that same thing myself,” the taller lad exclaimed. “It will seem mighty quiet after the hail-storms we’ve been through.”

“Hail-storms is right,” agreed Ned Slade. “But it can’t be too quiet for me. All I want to do is to sit under a tree back of the house, with plenty of books and magazines to read, clean clothes—real clean clothes—to wear, a bath-tub where I know where it is, and——”

“Something to eat!” interrupted a voice behind him, and, turning, Ned and Jerry beheld their stout chum, Bob Baker, who smilingly held out some sandwiches.