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diff --git a/37432-h/37432-h.htm b/37432-h/37432-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..58553a6 --- /dev/null +++ b/37432-h/37432-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9900 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" > +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <meta content="Short Stories of the New America" name="DC.Title"/> + <meta content="Mary a. Laselle" name="DC.Creator"/> + <meta content="en" name="DC.Language"/> + <meta content="1919" name="DC.Created"/> + <meta name="generator" content="ppgen (1.22) generated Sep 15, 2011 08:07 AM" /> + <title>Short Stories of the New America</title> + <style type="text/css"> + body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} + p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-align:justify;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; + position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; + background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color:silver;} + h1 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal; + font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4em; margin-bottom:2em;} + h2 {text-align:left; font-weight:normal; + font-size:1.2em; margin-top:4em; margin-bottom:2em;} + h3 {text-align:center; font-weight:bold; + font-size:0.9em; margin-top:1.5em; margin-bottom:1em;} + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver; clear:both;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + .center {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; text-align:center;} + .larger {font-size:larger;} + .smaller {font-size:smaller;} + table.c {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + .sc {font-variant:small-caps} + div.center p {margin: 0 auto; text-align:center;} + div.center>:first-child {margin: .5em auto 0 auto;text-align:center;} + hr.tb {border:none; border-bottom: 1px solid black; margin: 20px auto; width:35%} + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Short Stories of the New America, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Short Stories of the New America + Interpreting the America of this age to high school boys and girls + +Author: Various + +Editor: Mary A. Laselle + +Release Date: September 15, 2011 [EBook #37432] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES OF THE NEW AMERICA *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from images made available by the HathiTrust +Digital Library.) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:1.6em;font-weight:bold;'>SHORT STORIES OF THE</span></p> +<p><span style='font-size:1.6em;font-weight:bold;'>NEW AMERICA</span></p> +<p> </p> +<p>INTERPRETING THE AMERICA OF THIS AGE TO</p> +<p>HIGH SCHOOL BOYS AND GIRLS</p> +<p> </p> +<p>SELECTED AND EDITED BY</p> +<p> </p> +<p><span style='font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>MARY A. LASELLE</span></p> +<p>OF THE NEWTON, MASSACHUSETTS, HIGH SCHOOLS</p> +<p> </p> +<p>NEW YORK</p> +<p>HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +<p>1919</p> +</div> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span class='sc'>Copyright</span>, 1919</p> +<p>BY</p> +<p>HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +</div> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>PREFACE</span></p> +</div> +<p> +The purpose of this book of short stories of modern +American life is twofold. +</p> +<p> +First, these narratives give an interpretation of +certain great forces and movements in the life of this +age. All the authors represented are especially qualified +to describe with force and feeling some phase of +contemporary life. +</p> +<p> +Thinking people everywhere realize that it is not +enough to place before the pupils in the schools the +bare facts in regard to community and national life. +The heart must be warmed, the feelings must be stirred, +before the will can be aroused to noble action in any +great movement. +</p> +<p> +President Wilson has urged school officers to increase +materially the time and attention devoted to instruction +bearing directly upon the problems of community +and national life. This was not a plea for the temporary +enlargement of the school programme, appropriate +merely to the period of the war, but a plea for the realization +in public education of the new emphasis which +the war has given to the ideals of democracy. +</p> +<p> +The first aim of this book, then, is to help to place +clearly before young people the ideals of America +through the medium of literature that will grip the +attention and quicken the will to action. +</p> +<p> +Second, librarians have stated that there are very +few compilations of modern short stories of interest +and significance with which to meet the needs of young +people who turn to the libraries for help in reading. +</p> +<p> +It is hoped that this book may be of real value in +the schools, by clothing the dry bones of civics with +significant and interesting material, and that it may +also supply a need of the libraries and the homes for +a book of live and valuable short stories. +</p> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>CONTENTS</span></p> +</div> +<table class='c' summary='table of contents'> +<tr><td style='font-size:smaller'>CHAPTER</td><td></td><td style='font-size:smaller'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>I.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Little Kansas Leaven.—<i>Canfield</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chI'>1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>II.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Survivors.—<i>Singmaster</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chII'>43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>III.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Wildcat.—<i>Terhune</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chIII'>55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>IV.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Citizen.—<i>Dwyer</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chIV'>85</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>V.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Indian of the Reservation.—<i>Coolidge</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chV'>109</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>VI.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Night Attack.—<i>Pier</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chVI'>119</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>VII.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Path of Glory.—<i>Pulver</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chVII'>133</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>VIII.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Sergt. Warren Comes Back from France.—<i>Ames</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chVIII'>171</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>IX.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Coward.—<i>Empey</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chIX'>181</a></td></tr> +<tr><td valign='top' style='text-align:right; padding-right:1em;'>X.</td><td valign='top' style='text-align:left; padding-right:3em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Château-Thierry.—<i>Bartlett</i></span></td><td valign='top' style='text-align:right;'><a href='#chX'>199</a></td></tr> +</table> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>SOMETHING ABOUT THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES</span></p> +</div> +<p> +Dorothy Canfield (Dorothea Frances Canfield +Fisher), the author of <em>Home Fires in France</em> from which +“A Little Kansas Leaven” was taken, is one of the +most convincing and brilliant writers of the times. +She always writes with a purpose, but as all of her +work is characterized by originality, clearness, and +the vital quality of human sympathy, there is not a +dull line in any of her fiction or her educational +writings. +</p> +<p> +<em>Home Fires in France</em> is a truthful record of Mrs. +Fisher’s impressions of life in tragic, devastated France +during the Great War. During much of this period +the author was working for the relief of those made +blind by war. The tremendous appeal to America +made by this book testifies to the sincerity and the +genius of the author. +</p> +<p> +Dorothy Canfield was born in Lawrence, Kansas, in +1879. She obtained degrees from Ohio State University +and from Columbia and studied and traveled +abroad extensively, becoming an accomplished linguist. +She is the author, under the name of Dorothy Canfield, +of some of the most brilliant fiction of the day, +<em>The Squirrel-Cage</em>, <em>The Bent Twig</em>, and other novels, +and under her married name, Dorothy Canfield Fisher, +of some valuable educational works, <em>The Montessori +Mother</em>, <em>Mothers and Children</em>, and other books of progressive +ideas in education. Mrs. Fisher is now in +France (1918) carrying on her work of mercy for the +French soldiers and their families. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Elsie Singmaster</span> (Mrs. Harold Lewars) lives in +Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and has written most entertaining +stories of that historic region and also of +the life of the descendants of the Dutch settlers of +Pennsylvania. Among her many stories are <em>When +Sarah Saved the Day</em>, <em>The Christmas Angel</em>, <em>The Flag +of Eliphalet</em>, and <em>Stories of the Red Harvest and the Aftermath</em>. +This author is a frequent contributor to magazines. +In <em>The Survivors</em> we watch the conflict in the +breast of stubborn old Adam Foust and rejoice with +tears in our eyes when in the time of his friend’s need, +love conquers, and Adam and Henry march arm-in-arm +down the village street. The story is told with +the realism and beauty that characterize all of this +author’s work, much of which describes the everyday +happenings of commonplace people with absolute +fidelity. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Albert Payson Terhune</span> (1872- ) wrote his first +book in collaboration with his distinguished mother, +“Marion Harland,” a well-known name in American +homes. Mr. Terhune has written both novels and +short stories and is especially successful in the latter +form. Among his best stories are <em>Caritas</em>, <em>Night of</em> +<em>the Dub</em>, <em>Quiet</em>, and <em>The Wildcat</em>. In <em>The Wildcat</em> we +watch with deepest interest the actions of a Southern +mountaineer, who, torn from his backwoods home by +the draft, was forced to adopt habits and manners and +to submit to a discipline to which he was utterly foreign. +The mental gropings of this young American and the +manner in which he found his soul and his country +make a fascinating story. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>James Francis Dwyer</span> is an Australian by birth. +Mr. Dwyer has traveled extensively as a newspaper +correspondent in Australia, the South Seas, and South +Africa. He came to America in 1907. He is the author +of <em>The White Waterfall</em>, <em>The Bust of Lincoln</em>, <em>The Spotted +Panther</em>, <em>Breath of the Jungle</em>, and <em>Land of the Pilgrim’s +Pride</em>. +</p> +<p> +In <em>The Citizen</em> we have a beautiful picture of the +vision of freedom that came to Big Ivan in downtrodden +Russia, and we see him and the gentle Anna as they +follow the beckoning finger of hope across Europe and +the broad ocean until, in the words of Ivan, they found +a home in a land “where a muzhik is as good as a prince +of the blood.” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Grace Coolidge</span> is the wife of an Arapahoe Indian +and has spent many years upon the Indian Reservations. +She has told of her observations during these +years in a charming little volume called <em>Teepee Neighbors</em>. +We feel that the stories are true and they are +filled with the pathos of life in the Reservations. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Arthur Stanwood Pier</span> is a distinguished writer of +stories for young people and since 1896 one of the +editors of <em>The Youth’s Companion</em>. Among Mr. Pier’s +books are <em>The Boys of St. Timothy</em>, <em>The Jester of St. +Timothy</em>, <em>Grannis of the Fifth</em>, <em>Jerry</em>, <em>The Plattsburgers</em>, +<em>The Pedagogues</em>, and <em>The Women We Marry</em>. In <em>A +Night Attack</em> we are given a vivid picture of the life +of the soldier in training and of the sympathetic relations +of officers and men. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Mary Brecht Pulver</span> has in <em>The Path of Glory</em> +written one of the finest stories of the war. The manner +in which a poor and humble family of mountaineers +secured distinction and very real happiness, though it +was tinged with sadness, makes a story of gripping +interest and one that cannot fail to make every reader +kinder and more humane in his intercourse with those +less favored than himself. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Fisher Ames</span>, Jr., is a well-known author of stories +for boys. Mr. Ames has been appointed the official +historian of the Red Cross Society and has gone to +Europe (1918) as a commissioned officer in the United +States Army. +</p> +<p> +In <em>Sergt. Warren Comes Back from France</em> the author +makes us see very clearly the heroic figure of the blind +soldier, and we realize that under the spell of such a +personality the voters would unanimously decide to +spend their money in France and relinquish the idea +of making their town more beautiful. In the words +of one of the villagers, “Sergt. Warren can see straight +even if he is blind,” and the crowd will always respond +to such leadership. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Arthur Guy Empey</span> is an American and a soldier +of the Great War, who after a life at the Front in which +he did all that a brave man can do for the cause of +humanity and survive, has written of some of his +adventures in <em>Over the Top</em>, one of the best-known +books of the war. In the chapter which we have called +“The Coward” he shows the splendid regeneration +of a despicable man. +</p> +<p> +The “hero” in this story is an Englishman, as Mr. +Empey fought in the British army before America +entered the war, but the phase of human nature portrayed +in “The Coward” must have been observable +in all the belligerent armies. +</p> +<p> +The cowardice of the few, however, was entirely +concealed and atoned for by the splendid bravery of +the many, and considerable numbers of men, who, +when drafted, might have been designated as cowards, +are leaving the army with a record of brave action in +times of great danger. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +<span class='sc'>Frederick Orin Bartlett</span>, the author of <em>Chateau +Thierry</em>, was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in +1876 and was educated in the public schools of that +city, in a private school abroad, at Procter Academy, +Andover, New Hampshire, and at Harvard. He has +been connected with several Boston newspapers and +is a well-known writer of short stories. +</p> +<p> +In <em>Chateau Thierry</em> he has portrayed very clearly +a certain type of easy-going, prosperous American,—the +American who was aroused to the knowledge of +higher ideals and to the exigencies of a world at war +by the shock and the thrill that followed upon the +active participation of the American forces in the great +conflict. +</p> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<div class='center'> +<p><span style='font-size:larger;'>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</span></p> +</div> +<p> +Thanks are due to the following authors and publishers +for permission to use the selections contained +in this book: +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +Henry Holt and Company and Mrs. Dorothy Canfield +(Fisher) for “A Little Kansas Leaven” from <em>Home Fires in +France</em>. (Copyright, 1918, by Henry Holt and Company.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +The Outlook Company and Elsie Singmaster Lewars for +“The Survivors.” (Copyright, 1915, by The Outlook Company; +copyright, 1916, by Elsie Singmaster Lewars.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +Mr. Albert Payson Terhune for “The Wild Cat.” (Copyright, +1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +P. F. Collier and Son and James Francis Dwyer for “The +Citizen.” (Copyright, 1915, by P. F. Collier and Son; copyright, +1916, by James Francis Dwyer.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +The Four Seas Publishing Company and Grace Coolidge +for “The Indian of the Reservation.” (Copyright, 1917, by +The Four Seas Company.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +<em>The Youth’s Companion</em> and Arthur Stanwood Pier for +“A Night Attack.” (Copyright, 1918, by <em>The Youth’s Companion</em>.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +The Curtis Publishing Company and Mary Brecht Pulver +for “The Path of Glory.” (Copyright, 1917, by The Curtis +Publishing Company; copyright, 1918, by Mary Brecht +Pulver.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +To <em>The Youth’s Companion</em> and Fisher Ames, Jr., for +“Sergt. Warren Comes Back from France.” (Copyright, +1918, by <em>The Youth’s Companion</em>. +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +G. P. Putnam’s Sons and Arthur Guy Empey for +“The Coward” from <em>Over the Top</em>. (Copyright, 1917, by +G. P. Putnam’s Sons.) +</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +Mr. Frederick Orin Bartlett for “Chateau Thierry.” +(Copyright, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company.) +</p> +<p> +Grateful acknowledgment is made also to Miss Alice +M. Jordan of the Boston Public Library, and Miss +Gladys M. Bigelow of the Newton Technical High +School Library for suggestions and help. +</p> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<h1><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1'></a>1</span>SHORT STORIES OF THE NEW AMERICA</h1> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span><a name='chI' id='chI'></a>I—A LITTLE KANSAS LEAVEN</h2> +<p> +Between 1620 and 1630 Giles Boardman, an honest, +sober, well-to-do English master-builder found himself +hindered in the exercise of his religion. He prayed +a great deal and groaned a great deal more (which was +perhaps the Puritan equivalent of swearing), but in the +end he left his old home and his prosperous business and +took his wife and young children the long, difficult, +dangerous ocean voyage to the New World. There, to +the end of his homesick days, he fought a hand-to-hand +battle with wild nature to wring a living from the +soil. He died at fifty-four, an exhausted old man, but +his last words were, “Praise God that I was allowed +to escape out of the pit digged for me.” +</p> +<p> +His family and descendants, condemned irrevocably +to an obscure struggle for existence, did little more than +keep themselves alive for about a hundred and thirty +years, during which time Giles’ spirit slept. +</p> +<p> +In 1775 one of his great-great-grandsons, Elmer +Boardman by name, learned that the British soldiers +were coming to take by force a stock of gunpowder concealed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span> +in a barn for the use of the barely beginning +American army. He went very white, but he kissed his +wife and little boy good-bye, took down from its pegs +his musket, and went out to join his neighbors in repelling +the well-disciplined English forces. He lost a +leg that day and clumped about on a wooden substitute +all his hard-working life; but, although he was never +anything more than a poor farmer, he always stood very +straight with a smile on his plain face whenever the +new flag of the new country was carried past him on +the Fourth of July. He died, and his spirit slept. +</p> +<p> +In 1854 one of his grandsons, Peter Boardman, had +managed to pull himself up from the family tradition of +hard-working poverty, and was a prosperous grocer in +Lawrence, Massachusetts. The struggle for the possession +of Kansas between the Slave States and the North +announced itself. It became known in Massachusetts +that sufficiently numerous settlements of Northerners +voting for a Free State would carry the day against +slavery in the new Territory. For about a month Peter +Boardman looked very sick and yellow, had repeated +violent attacks of indigestion, and lost more than fifteen +pounds. At the end of that time he sold out his grocery +(at the usual loss when a business is sold out) and took +his family by the slow, laborious caravan route out to +the little new, raw settlement on the banks of the Kaw, +which was called Lawrence for the city in the East +which so many of its inhabitants had left. Here he +recovered his health rapidly, and the look of distress left +his face; indeed, he had a singular expression of secret +happiness. He was caught by the Quantrell raid and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span> +was one of those hiding in the cornfield when Quantrell’s +men rode in and cut them down like rabbits. He died +there of his wounds. And his spirit slept. +</p> +<p> +His granddaughter, Ellen, plain, rather sallow, very +serious, was a sort of office manager in the firm of +Walker and Pennypacker, the big wholesale hardware +merchants of Marshallton, Kansas. She had passed +through the public schools, had graduated from the +High School, and had planned to go to the State University; +but the death of the uncle who had brought +her up after the death of her parents made that plan +impossible. She learned as quickly as possible the +trade which would bring in the most money immediately, +became a good stenographer, though never a +rapid one, and at eighteen entered the employ of the +hardware firm. +</p> +<p> +She was still there at twenty-seven, on the day in +August, 1914, when she opened the paper and saw that +Belgium had been invaded by the Germans. She read +with attention what was printed about the treaty +obligation involved, although she found it hard to +understand. At noon she stopped before the desk of +Mr. Pennypacker, the senior member of the firm, for +whom she had a great respect, and asked him if she +had made out correctly the import of the editorial. +“<em>Had</em> the Germans promised they wouldn’t ever go +into Belgium in war?” +</p> +<p> +“Looks that way,” said Mr. Pennypacker, nodding, +and searching for a lost paper. The moment after, he +had forgotten the question and the questioner. +</p> +<p> +Ellen had always rather regretted not having been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span> +able to “go on with her education,” and this gave her +certain little habits of mind which differentiated her +somewhat from the other stenographers and typewriters +in the office with her, and from her cousin, with whom +she shared the small bedroom in Mrs. Wilson’s boarding-house. +For instance, she looked up words in the dictionary +when she did not understand them, and she +had kept all her old schoolbooks on the shelf of the +boarding-house bedroom. Finding that she had only +a dim recollection of where Belgium was, she took +down her old geography and located it. This was in +the wait for lunch, which meal was always late at Mrs. +Wilson’s. The relation between the size of the little +country and the bulk of Germany made an impression +on her. “My! it looks as though they could just make +one mouthful of it,” she remarked. “It’s <em>awfully</em> little.” +</p> +<p> +“Who?” asked Maggie. “What?” +</p> +<p> +“Belgium and Germany.” +</p> +<p> +Maggie was blank for a moment. Then she remembered. +“Oh, the war. Yes, I know. Mr. Wentworth’s +fine sermon was about it yesterday. War is the +wickedest thing in the world. Anything is better than +to go killing each other. They ought to settle it by +arbitration. Mr. Wentworth said so.” +</p> +<p> +“They oughtn’t to have done it if they’d promised +not to,” said Ellen. The bell rang for the belated lunch +and she went down to the dining-room even more +serious than was her habit. +</p> +<p> +She read the paper very closely for the next few days, +and one morning surprised Maggie by the loudness of +her exclamation as she glanced at the headlines. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> +</p> +<p> +“What’s the matter?” asked her cousin. “Have they +found the man who killed that old woman?” She herself +was deeply interested in a murder case in Chicago. +</p> +<p> +Ellen did not hear her. “Well, thank <em>goodness!</em>” +she exclaimed. “England is going to help France and +Belgium!” +</p> +<p> +Maggie looked over her shoulder disapprovingly. +“Oh, I think it’s awful! Another country going to war! +England a Christian nation, too! I don’t see how +Christians <em>can</em> go to war. And I don’t see what call +the Belgians had, anyhow, to fight Germany. They +might have known they couldn’t stand up against such +a big country. All the Germans wanted to do was just +to walk along the roads. They wouldn’t have done +any harm. Mr. Schnitzler was explaining it to me +down at the office. +</p> +<p> +“They’d promised they wouldn’t,” repeated Ellen. +“And the Belgians had promised everybody that they +wouldn’t let anybody go across their land to pick on +France that way. They kept their promise and the +Germans didn’t. It makes me <em>mad!</em> I wish to goodness +our country would help them!” +</p> +<p> +Maggie was horrified. “<em>Ellen Boardman</em>, would you +want <em>Americans</em> to commit murder? You’d better go +to church with me next Sunday and hear Mr. Wentworth +preach one of his fine sermons.” +</p> +<p> +Ellen did this, and heard a sermon on passive resistance +as the best answer to violence. She was accustomed +to accepting without question any statement she +found in a printed book, or what any speaker said in +any lecture. Also her mind, having been uniquely devoted +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span> +for many years to the problems of office administration, +moved with more readiness among letter-files +and card-catalogues of customers than among the abstract +ideas where now, rather to her dismay, she began +to find her thoughts centering. More than a week +passed after hearing that sermon before she said, one +night as she was brushing her hair: “About the Belgians—if +a robber wanted us to let him go through +this room so he could get into Mrs. Wilson’s room and +take all her money and maybe kill her, would you feel +all right just to snuggle down in bed and let him? Especially +if you had told Mrs. Wilson that she needn’t +ever lock the door that leads into our room, because +you’d see to it that nobody came through?” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, but,” said Maggie, “Mr. Wentworth says it is +only the German <em>Government</em> that wanted to invade +Belgium, that the German soldiers just hated to do +it. If you could fight the German Kaiser, it’d be all +right.” +</p> +<p> +Ellen jumped at this admission. “Oh, Mr. Wentworth +does think there are <em>some</em> cases where it isn’t +enough just to stand by, and say you don’t like it?” +</p> +<p> +Maggie ignored this. “He says the people who really +get killed are only the poor soldiers that aren’t to +blame.” +</p> +<p> +Ellen stood for a moment by the gas, her hair up in +curl-papers, the light full on her plain, serious face, sallow +above the crude white of her straight, unornamented +nightgown. She said, and to her own surprise +her voice shook as she spoke: “Well, suppose the real +robber stayed down in the street and only sent up here +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span> +to rob and kill Mrs. Wilson some men who just hated +to do it, but were too afraid of him not to. Would you +think it was all right for us to open our door and let +them go through without trying to stop them?” +</p> +<p> +Maggie did not follow this reasoning, but she received +a disagreeable, rather daunting impression from +the eyes which looked at her so hard, from the stern, +quivering voice. She flounced back on her pillow, saying +impatiently: “I don’t know what’s got into you, +Ellen Boardman. You look actually <em>queer</em>, these days! +What do <em>you</em> care so much about the Belgians for? You +never heard of them before all this began! And everybody +knows how immoral French people are.” +</p> +<p> +Ellen turned out the gas and got into bed silently. +</p> +<p> +Maggie felt uncomfortable and aggrieved. The next +time she saw Mr. Wentworth she repeated the conversation +to him. She hoped and expected that the young +minister would immediately furnish her with a crushing +argument to lay Ellen low, but instead he was silent for +a moment, and then said: “That’s rather an interesting +illustration, about the burglars going through your +room. Where does she get such ideas?” +</p> +<p> +Maggie disavowed with some heat any knowledge of +the source of her cousin’s eccentricities. “I don’t <em>know</em> +where! She’s a stenographer downtown.” +</p> +<p> +Mr. Wentworth looked thoughtful and walked away, +evidently having forgotten Maggie. +</p> +<p> +In the days which followed, the office-manager of the +wholesale hardware house more and more justified the +accusation of looking “queer.” It came to be so noticeable +that one day her employer, Mr. Pennypacker, asked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span> +her if she didn’t feel well. “You’ve been looking sort +of under the weather,” he said. +</p> +<p> +She answered, “I’m just sick because the United +States won’t do anything to help Belgium and +France.” +</p> +<p> +Mr. Pennypacker had never received a more violent +shock of pure astonishment. “Great Scotland!” he +ejaculated, “what’s that to you?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, I live in the United States,” she advanced, as +though it were an argument. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Pennypacker looked at her hard. It was the +same plain, serious, rather sallow face he had seen for +years bent over his typewriter and his letter-files. But +the eyes were different—anxious, troubled. +</p> +<p> +“It makes me sick,” she repeated, “to see a great big +nation picking on a little one that was only keeping its +promise.” +</p> +<p> +Her employer cast about for a conceivable reason for +the aberration. “Any of your folks come here from +there?” he ventured. +</p> +<p> +“Gracious, <em>no!</em>” cried Ellen, almost as much shocked +as Maggie would have been at the idea that there might +be “foreigners” in her family. She added: “But you +don’t have to be related to a little boy, do you, to get +mad at a man that’s beating him up, especially if the +boy hasn’t done anything he oughtn’t to?” +</p> +<p> +Mr. Pennypacker stared. “I don’t know that I ever +looked at it that way.” He added: “I’ve been so taken +up with that lost shipment of nails, to tell the truth, that +I haven’t read much about the war. There’s always +<em>some</em> sort of a war going on over there in Europe, seems +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span> +to me.” He stared for a moment into space, and came +back with a jerk to the letter he was dictating. +</p> +<p> +That evening, over the supper-table, he repeated to +his wife what his stenographer had said. His wife +asked, “That little sallow Miss Boardman that never +has a word to say for herself?” and upon being told +that it was the same, said wonderingly, “Well, what +ever started <em>her</em> up, I wonder?” After a time she said: +“<em>Is</em> Germany so much bigger than Belgium as all that? +Pete, go get your geography.” She and her husband +and their High School son gazed at the map. “It looks +that way,” said the father. “Gee! They must have +had their nerve with them! Gimme the paper.” He +read with care the war-news and the editorial which +he had skipped in the morning, and as he read he looked +very grave, and rather cross. When he laid the paper +down he said, impatiently: “Oh, damn the war! Damn +Europe, anyhow!” His wife took the paper out of his +hand and read in her turn the news of the advance into +Northern France. +</p> +<p> +Just before they fell asleep his wife remarked out of +the darkness, “Mr. Scheidemann, down at the grocery, +said to-day the war was because the other nations were +jealous of Germany.” +</p> +<p> +“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Pennypacker heavily, +“that I’d have any call to take an ax to a man because +I thought he was jealous of me.” +</p> +<p> +“That’s so,” admitted his wife. +</p> +<p> +During that autumn Ellen read the papers, and from +time to time broke her silence and unburdened her mind +to the people in the boarding-house. They considered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12'></a>12</span> +her unbalanced on the subject. The young reporter on +the Marshallton <em>Herald</em> liked to lead her on to “get her +going,” as he said—but the others dodged whenever the +war was mentioned and looked apprehensively in her +direction. +</p> +<p> +The law of association of ideas works, naturally +enough, in Marshallton, Kansas, quite as much at its +ease as in any psychological laboratory. In fact Marshallton +was a psychological laboratory with Ellen +Boardman, an undefined element of transmutation. +Without knowing why, scarcely realizing that the little +drab figure had crossed his field of vision, Mr. Pennypacker +found the war recurring to his thoughts every +time he saw her. He did not at all enjoy this, and each +time that it happened he thrust the disagreeable subject +out of his mind with impatience. The constant recurrence +of the necessity for this effort brought upon his +usually alert, good-humored face an occasional clouded +expression like that which darkened his stenographer’s +eyes. When Ellen came into the dining-room of the +boarding-house, even though she did not say a word, +every one there was aware of an unpleasant interruption +to the habitual, pleasant current of their thoughts directed +upon their own affairs. In self-defense some of +the women took to knitting polo-caps for Belgian children. +With those in their hands they could listen, with +more reassuring certainty that she was “queer,” to Miss +Boardman’s comments on what she read in the newspaper. +Every time Mr. Wentworth, preaching one of +his excellent, civic-minded sermons on caring for the +babies of the poor, or organizing a playground for the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span> +children of the factory workers, or extending the work +of the Ladies’ Guild to neighborhood visits, caught +sight of that plain, very serious face looking up at him +searchingly, expectantly, he wondered if he had been +right in announcing that he would not speak on the +war because it would certainly cause dissension among +his congregation. +</p> +<p> +One day, in the middle of winter, he found Miss +Boardman waiting for him in the church vestibule after +every one else had gone. She said, with her usual directness: +“Mr. Wentworth, do you think the French +ought to have just let the Germans walk right in and +take Paris? Would you let them walk right in and take +Washington?” +</p> +<p> +The minister was a young man, with a good deal of +natural heat in his composition, and he found himself +answering this bald question with a simplicity as bald: +“No, I wouldn’t.” +</p> +<p> +“Well, if they did right, why don’t we help them?” +Ellen’s homely, monosyllabic words had a ring of despairing +sincerity. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Wentworth dodged them hastily. “We <em>are</em> helping +them. The charitable effort of the United States +in the war is something astounding. The statistics show +that we have helped....” He was going on to repeat +some statistics of American war-relief just then current, +when Mr. Scheidemann, the prosperous German grocer, +a most influential member of the First Congregational +Church, came back into the vestibule to look for his +umbrella, which he had forgotten after the service. By +a reflex action beyond his control, the minister stopped +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span> +talking about the war. He and Miss Boardman had, +for just long enough so that he realized it, the appearance +of people “caught” discussing something they +ought not to mention. The instant after, when Ellen +had turned away, he felt the liveliest astonishment and +annoyance at having done this. He feared that Miss +Boardman might have the preposterous notion that he +was <em>afraid</em> to talk about the war before a German. This +idea nettled him intolerably. Just before he fell asleep +that night he had a most disagreeable moment, half +awake, half asleep, when he himself entertained the preposterous +idea which he had attributed to Miss Boardman. +It woke him up, broad awake, and very much +vexed. The little wound he had inflicted on his own +vanity smarted. Thereafter at any mention of the war +he straightened his back to a conscious stiffness, and +raised his voice if a German were within hearing. And +every time he saw that plain, dull face of the stenographer, +he winced. +</p> +<p> +On the 8th of May, 1915, when Ellen went down to +breakfast, the boarding-house dining-room was excited. +Ellen heard the sinking of the <em>Lusitania</em> read out aloud +by the young reporter. To every one’s surprise, she +added nothing to the exclamations of horror with which +the others greeted the news. She looked very white +and left the room without touching her breakfast. She +went directly down to the office and when Mr. Pennypacker +came in at nine o’clock she asked him for a +leave of absence, “maybe three months, maybe more,” +depending on how long her money held out. She explained +that she had in the savings-bank five hundred +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15'></a>15</span> +dollars, the entire savings of a lifetime, which she intended +to use now. +</p> +<p> +It was the first time in eleven years that she had ever +asked for more than her regular yearly fortnight, but +Mr. Pennypacker was not surprised. “You’ve been +looking awfully run-down lately. It’ll do you good to +get a real rest. But it won’t cost you all <em>that!</em> Where +are you going? To Battle Creek?” +</p> +<p> +“I’m not going to rest,” said Miss Boardman, in a +queer voice. “I’m going to work, in France.” +</p> +<p> +The first among the clashing and violent ideas which +this announcement aroused in Mr. Pennypacker’s mind +was the instant certainty that she could not have seen +the morning paper. “Great Scotland—not much you’re +not! This is no time to be taking ocean trips. The submarines +have just got one of the big ocean ships, hundreds +of women and children drowned.” +</p> +<p> +“I heard about that,” she said, looking at him very +earnestly, with a dumb emotion struggling in her eyes. +“That’s why I’m going.” +</p> +<p> +Something about the look in her eyes silenced the +business man for a moment. He thought uneasily that +she had certainly gone a little dippy over the war. Then +he drew a long breath and started in confidently to dissuade +her. +</p> +<p> +At ten o’clock, informed that if she went she need not +expect to come back, she went out to the savings-bank, +drew out her five hundred dollars, went down to the +station and bought a ticket to Washington, one of Mr. +Pennypacker’s arguments having been the great difficulty +of getting a passport. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span> +</p> +<p> +Then she went back to the boarding-house and began +to pack two-thirds of her things into her trunk, and put +the other third into her satchel, all she intended to take +with her. +</p> +<p> +At noon Maggie came back from her work, found +her thus, and burst into shocked and horrified tears. +At two o’clock Maggie went to find the young reporter, +and, her eyes swollen, her face between anger and alarm, +she begged him to come and “talk to Ellen. She’s gone +off her head.” +</p> +<p> +The reporter asked what form her mania took. +</p> +<p> +“She’s going to France to work for the French and +Belgians as long as her money holds out ... all the +money she’s saved in all her life!” +</p> +<p> +The first among the clashing ideas which this awakened +in the reporter’s mind was the most heartfelt and +gorgeous amusement. The idea of that dumb, backwoods, +pie-faced stenographer carrying her valuable +services to the war in Europe seemed to him the richest +thing that had happened in years! He burst into laughter. +“Yes, sure I’ll come and talk to her,” he agreed. +He found her lifting a tray into her trunk. “See here, +Miss Boardman,” he remarked reasonably, “do you +know what you need? You need a sense of humor! +You take things too much in dead earnest. The sense +of humor keeps you from doing ridiculous things, don’t +you know it does?” +</p> +<p> +Ellen faced him, seriously considering this. “Do you +think all ridiculous things are bad?” she asked him, not +as an argument, but as a genuine question. +</p> +<p> +He evaded this and went on. “Just look at yourself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span> +now ... just look at what you’re planning to do. Here +is the biggest war in the history of the world; all the +great nations involved; millions and millions of dollars +being poured out; the United States sending hundreds +and thousands of packages and hospital supplies +by the million; and nurses and doctors and Lord +knows how many trained people ... and, look! +who comes here?—a stenographer from Walker and +Pennypacker’s, in Marshallton, Kansas, setting out to +the war!” +</p> +<p> +Ellen looked long at this picture of herself, and +while she considered it the young man looked long at +her. As he looked, he stopped laughing. She said +finally, very simply, in a declarative sentence devoid +of any but its obvious meaning, “No, I can’t see that +that is so very funny.” +</p> +<p> +At six o’clock that evening she was boarding the +train for Washington, her cousin Maggie weeping by +her side, Mrs. Wilson herself escorting her, very much +excited by the momentousness of the event taking +place under her roof, her satchel carried by none other +than the young reporter, who, oddly enough, was not +laughing at all. He bought her a box of chocolates +and a magazine, and shook hands with her vigorously +as the train started to pull out of the station. He heard +himself saying, “Say, Miss Boardman, if you see anything +for me to do over there, you might let me know,” +and found that he must run to get himself off the train +before it carried him away from Marshallton altogether. +</p> +<p> +A fortnight from that day (passports were not so difficult +to get in those distant days when war-relief work +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span> +was the eccentricity of only an occasional individual) +she was lying in her second-class cabin, as the steamer +rolled in the Atlantic swells beyond Sandy Hook. +She was horribly seasick, but her plans were all quite +clear. Of course she belonged to the Young Women’s +Christian Association in Marshallton, so she knew all +about it. At Washington she had found shelter at the +Y. W. C. A. quarters. In New York she had done the +same thing, and when she arrived in Paris (if she ever +did) she could of course go there to stay. Her roommate, +a very sophisticated, much-traveled art student, +was immensely amused by the artlessness of this plan. +“I’ve got the <em>dernier cri</em> in greenhorns in my cabin,” +she told her group on deck. “She’s expecting to find +a Y. W. C. A. in <em>Paris!</em>” +</p> +<p> +But the wisdom of the simple was justified once +more. There was a Y. W. C. A. in Paris, run by an +energetic, well-informed American spinster. Ellen +crawled into the rather hard bed in the very small +room (the cheapest offered her) and slept twelve hours +at a stretch, utterly worn out with the devastating +excitement of her first travels in a foreign land. Then +she rose up, comparatively refreshed, and with her +foolish, ignorant simplicity inquired where in Paris +her services could be of use. The energetic woman +managing the Y. W. C. A. looked at her very dubiously. +</p> +<p> +“Well, there might be something for you over on +the rue Pharaon, number 27. I hear there’s a bunch +of society dames trying to get up a <em>vestiaire</em> for refugees, +there.” +</p> +<p> +As Ellen noted down the address she said warningly, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span> +her eyes running over Ellen’s worn blue serge suit: +“They don’t pay anything. It’s work for volunteers, +you know.” +</p> +<p> +Ellen was astonished that any one should think of +getting pay for work done in France. “Oh, gracious, +no!” she said, turning away. +</p> +<p> +The directress of the Y. W. C. A. murmured to herself: +“Well, you certainly never can tell by <em>looks!</em>” +</p> +<p> +At the rue Pharaon, number 27, Ellen was motioned +across a stony gray courtyard littered with wooden +packing-cases, into an immense, draughty dark room, +that looked as though it might have been originally +the coach and harness-room of a big stable. This also +was strewed and heaped with packing-cases in indescribable +confusion, some opened and disgorging +innumerable garments of all colors and materials, others +still tightly nailed up. A couple of elderly workmen +in blouses were opening one of these. Before others +knelt or stood distracted-looking, elegantly dressed +women, their arms full of parti-colored bundles, their +eyes full of confusion. In one corner, on a bench, +sat a row of wretchedly poor women and white-faced, +silent children, the latter shod more miserably than +the poorest negro child in Marshallton. Against a +packing-case near the entrance leaned a beautifully +dressed, handsome, middle-aged woman, a hammer +in one hand. Before her at ease stood a pretty girl, +the fineness of whose tightly drawn silk stockings, +the perfection of whose gleaming coiffure, the exquisite +hang and fit of whose silken dress filled Ellen Boardman +with awe. In an instant her own stout cotton hose +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20'></a>20</span> +hung wrinkled about her ankles, she felt on her neck +every stringy wisp of her badly dressed hair, the dip +of her skirt at the back was a physical discomfort. +The older woman was speaking. Ellen could not help +overhearing. She said forcibly: “No, Miss Parton, +you will not come in contact with a single heroic poilu +here. We have nothing to offer you but hard, uninteresting +work for the benefit of ungrateful, uninteresting +refugee women, many of whom will try to cheat +and get double their share. You will not lay your +hand on a single fevered masculine brow....” She +broke off, made an effort for self-control and went on +with a resolutely reasonable air: “You’d better go +out to the hospital at Neuilly. You can wear a uniform +there from the first day, and be in contact with the men. +I wouldn’t have bothered you to come here, except +that you wrote from Detroit that you would be willing +to do <em>any</em>thing, scrub floors or wash dishes.” +</p> +<p> +The other received all this with the indestructible +good humor of a girl who knows herself very pretty and +as well dressed as any one in the world. “I know I +did, Mrs. Putnam,” she said, amused at her own absurdity. +“But now I’m here I’d be <em>too</em> disappointed +to go back if I hadn’t been working for the soldiers. +All the girls expect me to have stories about the work, +you know. And I can’t stay very long, only four +months, because my coming-out party is in October. +I guess I <em>will</em> go to Neuilly. They take you for three +months there, you know.” She smiled pleasantly, +turned with athletic grace and picked her way among +the packing-cases back to the door. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span> +</p> +<p> +Ellen advanced in her turn. +</p> +<p> +“Well?” said the middle-aged woman, rather grimly. +Her intelligent eyes took in relentlessly every detail of +Ellen’s costume and Ellen felt them at their work. +</p> +<p> +“I came to see if I couldn’t help,” said Ellen. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t you want direct contact with the wounded +soldiers?” asked the older woman ironically. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said Ellen with her habitual simplicity. “I +wouldn’t know how to do anything for them. I’m not a +nurse.” +</p> +<p> +“You don’t suppose <em>that’s</em> any obstacle!” ejaculated +the other woman. +</p> +<p> +“But I never had <em>any</em>thing to do with sick people,” +said Ellen. “I’m the office-manager of a big hardware +firm in Kansas.” +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Putnam gasped like a drowning person coming +to the surface. “You <em>are!</em>” she cried. “You don’t +happen to know shorthand, do you?” +</p> +<p> +“Gracious! of course I know shorthand!” said +Ellen, her astonishment proving her competence. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Putnam laid down her hammer and drew another +long breath. “How much time can you give us?” +she asked. “Two afternoons a week? Three?” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, <em>my!</em>” said Ellen, “I can give you all my time, +from eight in the morning till six at night. That’s +what I came for.” +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Putnam looked at her a moment as though to +assure herself that she was not dreaming, and then, +seizing her by the arm, she propelled her rapidly towards +the back of the room, and through a small door into +a dingy little room with two desks in it. Among the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span> +heaped-up papers on one of these a blond young woman +with inky fingers sought wildly something which she +did not find. She said without looking up: “Oh, Aunt +Maria, I’ve just discovered that that shipment of +clothes from Louisville got acknowledged to the people +in Seattle! And I can’t find that letter from the woman +in Indianapolis who offered to send children’s shirts +from her husband’s factory. You said you laid it +on your desk, last night, but I <em>cannot</em> find it. And +do you remember what you wrote Mrs. Worthington? +Did you say anything about the shoes?” +</p> +<p> +Ellen heard this but dimly, her gaze fixed on the +confusion of the desks which made her physically +dizzy to contemplate. Never had she dreamed that +papers, sacred records of fact, could be so maltreated. +In a reflex response to the last question of the lovely, +distressed young lady she said: “Why don’t you +look at the carbon copy of the letter to Mrs. +Worthington?” +</p> +<p> +“<em>Copy!</em>” cried the young lady, aghast. “Why, we +don’t begin to have time to write the letters <em>once</em>, let +alone <em>copy</em> them!” +</p> +<p> +Ellen gazed horrified into an abyss of ignorance +which went beyond her utmost imaginings. She said +feebly, “If you kept your letters in a letter-file, you +wouldn’t ever lose them.” +</p> +<p> +“There,” said Mrs. Putnam, in the tone of one +unexpectedly upheld in a rather bizarre opinion, “I’ve +been saying all the time we ought to have a letter-file. +But do you suppose you could <em>buy</em> one in Paris?” +She spoke dubiously from the point of view of one who +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span> +had bought nothing but gloves and laces and old prints +in Paris. +</p> +<p> +Ellen answered with the certainty of one who had +found the Y. W. C. A. in Paris: “I’m sure you can. +Why, they could not do business a <em>minute</em> without +letter-files.” +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Putnam sank into a chair with a sigh of bewilderment +and fatigue, and showed herself to be as +truly a superior person as she looked by making the +following speech to the newcomer: “The truth is, +Miss....” +</p> +<p> +“Boardman,” supplied Ellen. +</p> +<p> +“Miss Boardman, the fact is that we are trying to do +something which is beyond us, something we ought +never to have undertaken. But we didn’t know we +were undertaking it, you see. And now that it is +begun, it must not fail. All the wonderful American +good-will which has materialized in that room full of +packing-cases must not be wasted, must get to the +people who need it so direly. It began this way. We +had no notion that we would have so great an affair +to direct. My niece and I were living here when the +war broke out. Of course we gave all our own clothes +we could spare and all the money we could for the +refugees. Then we wrote home to our American friends. +One of my letters was published by chance in a New +York paper and copied in a number of others. Everybody +who happened to know my name”—(Ellen +heard afterwards that she was of the holy of holies +of New England families)—“began sending me money +and boxes of clothing. It all arrived so suddenly, so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span> +unexpectedly. We had to rent this place to put the +things in. The refugees came in swarms. We found +ourselves overwhelmed. It is impossible to find an +English-speaking stenographer who is not already +more than overworked. The only help we get is from +volunteers, a good many of them American society +girls like that one you....” she paused to invent a +sufficiently savage characterization and hesitated to +pronounce it. “Well, most of them are not quite so +absurd as that. But none of them know any more +than we do about keeping accounts, letters....” +</p> +<p> +Ellen broke in: “How do you keep your accounts, +anyhow? Bound ledger, or the loose-leaf system?” +</p> +<p> +They stared. “I have been careful to set down +everything I could <em>remember</em> in a little note-book,” +said Mrs. Putnam. +</p> +<p> +Ellen looked about for a chair and sat down on it +hastily. When she could speak again, after a moment +of silent collecting of her forces she said: “Well, I +guess the first thing to do is to get a letter-file. I don’t +know any French, so I probably couldn’t get it. If +one of you could go....” +</p> +<p> +The pretty young lady sprang for her hat. “I’ll +go! I’ll go, Auntie.” +</p> +<p> +“And,” continued Ellen, “you can’t do anything till +you keep copies of your letters and you can’t make +copies unless you have a typewriter. Don’t you suppose +you could rent one?” +</p> +<p> +“I’ll rent one before I come back,” said Eleanor, who +evidently lacked neither energy nor good-will. She +said to Mrs. Putnam: “I’m going, instead of you, so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span> +that you can superintend opening those boxes. They +are making a most horrible mess of it, I know.” +</p> +<p> +“Before a single one is opened, you ought to take +down the name and address of the sender, and then +note the contents,” said Ellen, speaking with authority. +“A card-catalogue would be a good system for keeping +that record, I should think, with dates of the arrival of +the cases. And why couldn’t you keep track of your +refugees that way, too? A card for each family, with +a record on it of the number in the family and of everything +given. You could refer to it in a moment, and +carry it out to the room where the refugees are received.” +</p> +<p> +They gazed at her plain, sallow countenance in rapt +admiration. +</p> +<p> +“Eleanor,” said Mrs. Putnam, “bring back cards for +a card-catalogue, hundreds of cards, thousands of +cards.” She addressed Ellen with a respect which did +honor to her native intelligence. “Miss Boardman, +wouldn’t you better take off your hat? Couldn’t you +work more at your ease? You could hang your things +here.” With one sweep of her white, well-cared-for +hand she snatched her own Parisian habiliments from +the hanger and hook, and installed there the Marshallton +wraps of Ellen Boardman. She set her down in +front of the desk; she put in her hands the ridiculous +little Russia leather-covered note-book of the “accounts”; +she opened drawer after drawer crammed with +letters; and with a happy sigh she went out to the room +of the packing-cases, closing the door gently behind +her, that she might not disturb the high-priestess of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span> +business-management who already bent over those +abominably misused records, her eyes gleaming with +the sacred fire of system. +</p> +<p> +There is practically nothing more to record about the +four months spent by Ellen Boardman as far as her +work at the <em>vestiaire</em> was concerned. Every day she +arrived at number 27 rue Pharaon at eight o’clock and +put in a good hour of quiet work before any of the +more or less irregular volunteer ladies appeared. She +worked there till noon, returned to the Y. W. C. A., +lunched, was in the office again by one o’clock, had +another hour of forceful concentration before any +of the cosmopolitan great ladies finished their lengthy +<em>déjeuners</em>, and she stayed there until six in the evening, +when every one else had gone. She realized that her +effort must be not only to create a rational system of +records and accounts and correspondence which she herself +could manage, but a fool-proof one which could be +left in the hands of the elegant ladies who would remain +in Paris after she had returned to Kansas. +</p> +<p> +And yet, not so fool-proof as she had thought at first. +She was agreeably surprised to find both Mrs. Putnam +and her pretty niece perfectly capable of understanding +a system once it was invented, set in working order, and +explained to them. She came to understand that what, +on her first encounter with them, she had naturally +enough taken for congenital imbecility, was merely the +result of an ignorance and an inexperience which remained +to the end astounding to her. Their good-will +was as great as their native capacity. Eleanor set herself +resolutely, if very awkwardly, to learn the use of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span> +the typewriter. Mrs. Putnam even developed the greatest +interest in the ingenious methods of corraling and +marshaling information and facts which were second +nature to the business-woman. “I never saw anything +more fascinating!” she cried the day when Ellen explained +to her the workings of a system for cross-indexing +the card-catalogues of refugees already aided. +“How <em>do</em> you think of such things?” +</p> +<p> +Ellen did not explain that she generally thought of +them in the two or three extra hours of work she put in +every day, while Mrs. Putnam ate elaborate food. +</p> +<p> +It soon became apparent that there had been much +“repeating” among the refugees. The number possible +to clothe grew rapidly, far beyond what the “office +force” could manage to investigate. Ellen set her face +against miscellaneous giving without knowledge of conditions. +She devised a system of visiting inspectors +which kept track of all the families in their rapidly growing +list. She even made out a sort of time-card for the +visiting ladies which enabled the office to keep some +track of what they did, and yet did not ruffle their +leisure-class dignity ... and this was really an +achievement. She suggested, made out, and had printed +an orderly report of what they had done, what money +had come in, how it had been spent, what clothes had +been given and how distributed, the number of people +aided, the most pressing needs. This she had put in +every letter sent to America. The result was enough +to justify Mrs. Putnam’s naïve astonishment and admiration +of her brilliant idea. Packing-cases and checks +flowed in by every American steamer. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span> +</p> +<p> +Ellen’s various accounting systems and card-catalogues +responded with elastic ease to the increased volume +of facts, as she of course expected them to; but +Mrs. Putnam could never be done marveling at the cool +certainty with which all this immense increase was +handled. She had a shudder as she thought of what +would have happened if Miss Boardman had not +dropped down from heaven upon them. Dining out, +of an evening, she spent much time expatiating on the +astonishing virtues of one of her volunteers. +</p> +<p> +Ellen conceived a considerable regard for Mrs. Putnam, +but she did not talk of her in dining out, because +she never dined anywhere. She left the “office” at six +o’clock and proceeded to a nearby bakery where she +bought four sizable rolls. An apple cart supplied a +couple of apples, and even her ignorance of French was +not too great an obstacle to the purchase of some cakes +of sweet chocolate. With these decently hidden in a +small black hand-bag, she proceeded to the waiting-room +of the Gare de l’Est where, like any traveler waiting +for his train she ate her frugal meal; ate as much of +it, that is, as a painful tightness in her throat would +let her. For the Gare de l’Est was where the majority +of French soldiers took their trains to go back to the +front after their occasional week’s furlough with their +families. +</p> +<p> +No words of mine can convey any impression of what +she saw there. No one who has not seen the Gare de +l’Est night after night can ever imagine the sum of +stifled human sorrow which filled it thickly, like a +dreadful incense of pain going up before some cruel +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29'></a>29</span> +god. It was there that the mothers, the wives, the +sweethearts, the sisters, the children brought their +priceless all and once more laid it on the altar. It was +there that those horrible silent farewells were said, the +more unendurable because they were repeated and repeated +till human nature reeled under the burden laid +on it by the will. The great court outside, the noisy +echoing waiting-room, the inner platform which was the +uttermost limit for those accompanying the soldiers returning +to hell,—they were not only always filled with +living hearts broken on the wheel, but they were +thronged with ghosts, ghosts of those whose farewell +kiss had really been the last, with ghosts of those who +had watched the dear face out of sight and who were +never to see it again. Those last straining, wordless embraces, +those last, hot, silent kisses, the last touch of the +little child’s hand on the father’s cheek which it was +never to touch again ... the nightmare place reeked +of them! +</p> +<p> +The stenographer from Kansas had found it as simply +as she had done everything else. “Which station +do the families go to, to say good-bye to their soldiers?” +she had asked, explaining apologetically that she +thought maybe if she went there too she could help +sometimes; there might be a heavy baby to carry, or +somebody who had lost his ticket, or somebody who +hadn’t any lunch for the train. +</p> +<p> +After the first evening spent there, she had shivered +and wept all night in her bed; but she had gone back the +next evening, with the money she saved by eating bread +and apples for her dinner; for of course the sweet +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span> +chocolate was for the soldiers. She sat there, armed +with nothing but her immense ignorance, her immense +sympathy. On that second evening she summoned +enough courage to give some chocolate to an elderly +shabby soldier, taking the train sadly, quite alone; and +again to a white-faced young lad accompanied by his +bent, poorly dressed grandmother. What happened in +both those cases sent her back to the Y. W. C. A. to +make up laboriously from her little pocket French dictionary +and to learn by heart this sentence: “I am sorry +that I cannot understand French. I am an American.” +Thereafter the surprised and extremely articulate Gallic +gratitude which greeted her timid overtures, did not +leave her so helplessly swamped in confusion. She +stammered out her little phrase with a shy, embarrassed +smile and withdrew as soon as possible from the +hearty handshake which was nearly always the substitute +offered for the unintelligible thanks. How many +such handshakes she had! Sometimes as she watched +her right hand, tapping on the typewriter, she thought: +“Those hands which it has touched, they may be dead +now. They were heroes’ hands.” She looked at her +own with awe, because it had touched them. +</p> +<p> +Once her little phrase brought out an unexpected response +from a rough-looking man who sat beside her +on the bench waiting for his train, his eyes fixed gloomily +on his great soldier’s shoes. She offered him, shamefacedly, +a little sewing-kit which she herself had manufactured, +a pad of writing-paper and some envelopes. +He started, came out of his bitter brooding, looked at +her astonished, and, as they all did without exception, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span> +read in her plain, earnest face what she was. He +touched his battered trench helmet in a sketched salute +and thanked her. She answered as usual that she was +sorry she could not understand French, being an American. +To her amazement he answered in fluent English, +with an unmistakable New York twang: “Oh, you are, +are you? Well, so’m I. Brought up there from the time +I was a kid. But all my folks are French and my wife’s +French and I couldn’t give the old country the go-by +when trouble came.” +</p> +<p> +In the conversation which followed Ellen learned that +his wife was expecting their first child in a few weeks +... “that’s why she didn’t come to see me off. She +said it would just about kill her to watch me getting on +the train.... Maybe you think it’s easy to leave +her all alone ... the poor kid!” The tears rose +frankly to his eyes. He blew his nose. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe I could do something for her,” suggested +Ellen, her heart beating fast at the idea. +</p> +<p> +“Gee! Yes! If you’d go to see her! She talks a +little English!” he cried. He gave her the name and address, +and when that poilu went back to the front it was +Ellen Boardman from Marshallton, Kansas, who walked +with him to the gate, who shook hands with him, who +waved him a last salute as he boarded his train. +</p> +<p> +The next night she did not go to the station. She +went to see the wife. The night after that she was sewing +on a baby’s wrapper as she sat in the Gare de l’Est, +turning her eyes away in shame from the intolerable +sorrow of those with families, watching for those occasional +solitary or very poor ones whom alone she ventured +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span> +to approach with her timidly proffered tokens of +sympathy. +</p> +<p> +At the Y. W. C. A. opinions varied about her. She was +patently to every eye respectable to her last drop of pale +blood. And yet <em>was</em> it quite respectable to go offering +chocolate and writing-paper to soldiers you’d never seen +before? Everybody knew what soldiers were! Some +one finally decided smartly that her hat was a sufficient +protection. It is true that her hat was not becoming, +but I do not think it was what saved her from misunderstanding. +</p> +<p> +She did not always go to the Gare de l’Est every +evening now. Sometimes she spent them in the little +dormer-windowed room where the wife of the New York +poilu waited for her baby. Several evenings she spent +chasing elusive information from the American Ambulance +Corps as to exactly the conditions in which a +young man without money could come to drive an +ambulance in France ... the young man without +money being of course the reporter on the Marshallton +<em>Herald</em>. +</p> +<p> +It chanced to be on one of the evenings when she +was with the young wife that the need came. She +sat on the stairs outside till nearly morning. When +it was quiet, she took the little new citizen of the +Republic in her arms, tears of mingled thanksgiving +and dreadful fear raining down her face, because another +man-child had been born into the world. Would +<em>he</em> grow up only to say farewell at the Gare de l’Est? +Oh, she was not sorry that she had come to France to +help in that war. She understood now, she understood. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span> +</p> +<p> +It was Ellen who wrote to the father the letter announcing +the birth of a child which gave him the right +to another precious short furlough. It was Ellen who +went down to the Gare de l’Est, this time to the joyful +wait on the muddy street outside the side door from +which the returning <em>permissionnaires</em> issued forth, +caked with mud to their eyes. It was Ellen who had +never before “been kissed by a man” who was caught +in a pair of dingy, horizon-blue arms and soundly +saluted on each sallow cheek by the exultant father. +It was Ellen who was made as much of a godmother +as her Protestant affiliations permitted ... and oh, +it was Ellen who made the fourth at the end of the +furlough when (the first time the new mother had left +her room) they went back to the Gare de l’Est. At +the last it was Ellen who held the sleeping baby when +the husband took his wife in that long, bitter embrace; +it was Ellen who was not surprised or hurt that he +turned away without a word to her ... she understood +that ... it was Ellen whose arm was around +the trembling young wife as they stood, their faces +pressed against the barrier to see him for the last time; +it was Ellen who went back with her to the silent +desolation of the little room, who put the baby into +the slackly hanging arms, and watched, her eyes burning +with unshed tears, those arms close about the little +new inheritor of humanity’s woes.... +</p> +<p> +Four months from the time she landed in Paris her +money was almost gone and she was quitting the city +with barely enough in her pocket to take her back to +Marshallton. As simply as she had come to Paris, she +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span> +now went home. She <em>belonged</em> to Marshallton. It +was a very good thing for Marshallton that she did. +</p> +<p> +She gave fifty dollars to the mother of baby Jacques +(that was why she had so very little left) and she promised +to send her ten dollars every month as soon as she +herself should be again a wage-earner. Mrs. Putnam +and her niece, inconsolable at her loss, went down to +the Gare du Quai d’Orsay to see her off, looking more +in keeping with the elegant travelers starting for the +Midi, than Ellen did. Her place, after all, had been +at the Gare de l’Est. As they shook hands warmly +with her, they gave her a beautiful bouquet, the evident +cost of which stabbed her to the heart. What +she could have done with that money! +</p> +<p> +“You have simply transformed the <em>vestiaire</em>, Miss +Boardman,” said Mrs. Putnam with generous but by +no means exaggerating ardor. “It would certainly +have sunk under the waves if you hadn’t come to the +rescue. I wish you <em>could</em> have stayed, but thanks to +your teaching we’ll be able to manage anything now.” +</p> +<p> +After the train had moved off, Mrs. Putnam said to +her niece in a shocked voice: “Third class! That long +trip to Bordeaux! She’ll die of fatigue. You don’t +suppose she is going back because she didn’t have <em>money</em> +enough to stay! Why, I would have paid anything to +keep her.” The belated nature of this reflection shows +that Ellen’s teachings had never gone more than skin +deep and that there was still something lacking in Mrs. +Putnam’s grasp on the realities of contemporary life. +</p> +<p> +Ellen was again too horribly seasick to suffer much +apprehension about submarines. This time she had as +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span> +cabin-mate in the unventilated second-class cabin the +“companion” of a great lady traveling of course in a +suite in first-class. This great personage, when informed +by her satellites’ nimble and malicious tongues +of Ellen’s personality and recent errand in France, +remarked with authority to the group of people about +her at dinner, embarking upon the game which was +the seventh course of the meal: “I disapprove wholly +of these foolish American volunteers ... ignorant, +awkward, provincial boors, for the most part, knowing +nothing of all the exquisite old traditions of France, +who thrust themselves forward. They make America +a laughing-stock.” +</p> +<p> +Luckily, Ellen, pecking feebly at the chilly, boiled +potato brought her by an impatient stewardess, could +not know this characterization. +</p> +<p> +She arrived in Marshallton, and was astonished to +find herself a personage. Her departure had made +her much more a figure in the town life than she had +ever been when she was still walking its streets. The +day after her departure the young reporter had written +her up in the <em>Herald</em> in a lengthy paragraph, and not a +humorous one either. The Sunday which she passed +on the ocean after she left New York, Mr. Wentworth +in one of his prayers implored the Divine blessing on +“one of our number who has left home and safety to +fulfil a high moral obligation and who even now is +risking death in the pursuance of her duty as she conceives +it.” Every one knew that he meant Ellen Boardman, +about whom they had all read in the <em>Herald</em>. +Mr. Pennypacker took, then and there, a decision which +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36'></a>36</span> +inexplicably lightened his heart. Being a good businessman, +he did not keep it to himself, but allowed it to +leak out the next time the reporter from the <em>Herald</em> +dropped around for chance items of news. The reporter +made the most of it, and Marshallton, already +spending much of its time in discussing Ellen, read +that “Mr. John S. Pennypacker, in view of the high +humanitarian principles animating Miss Boardman in +quitting his employ, has decided not to fill her position +but to keep it open for her on her return from her +errand of mercy to those in foreign parts stricken by +the awful war now devastating Europe.” +</p> +<p> +Then Ellen’s letters began to arrive, mostly to +Maggie, who read them aloud to the deeply interested +boarding-house circle. The members of this, basking +in reflected importance, repeated their contents to +every one who would listen. In addition the young +reporter published extracts from them in the <em>Herald</em>, +editing them artfully, choosing the rare plums of +anecdote or description in Ellen’s arid epistolary style. +When her letter to him came, he was plunged into +despair because she had learned that he would have +to pay part of his expenses if he drove an ambulance +on the French front. By that time his sense of humor +was in such total eclipse that he saw nothing ridiculous +in the fact that he could not breathe freely another +hour in the easy good-cheer of his care-free life. He +revolved one scheme after another for getting money; +and in the meantime let no week go by without giving +some news from their “heroic fellow-townswoman in +France.” Highland Springs, the traditional rival and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span> +enemy of Marshallton, felt outraged by the tone of +proprietorship with which Marshallton people bragged +of their delegate in France. +</p> +<p> +So it happened that when Ellen, fearfully tired, fearfully +dusty after the long ride in the day-coach, and +fearfully shabby in exactly the same clothes she had +worn away, stepped wearily off the train at the well-remembered +little wooden station, she found not only +Maggie, to whom she had telegraphed from New York, +but a large group of other people advancing upon her +with outstretched hands, crowding around her with +more respectful consideration than she had ever +dreamed of seeing addressed to her obscure person. +She was too tired, too deeply moved to find herself at +home again, too confused, to recognize them all. +Indeed a number of them knew her only by her fame +since her departure. Ellen made out Maggie, who +embraced her, weeping as loudly as when she had +gone away; she saw Mrs. Wilson who kissed her very +hard and said she was proud to know her; she saw with +astonishment that Mr. Pennypacker himself had left +business in office hours! He shook her hand with +energy and said: “Well, Miss Boardman, very glad to +see you safe back. We’ll be expecting you back at the +old stand just as soon as you’ve rested up from the +trip.” The intention of the poilu who had taken her +in his arms and kissed her, had not been more cordial. +Ellen knew this and was touched to tears. +</p> +<p> +There was the reporter from the <em>Herald</em>, too, she saw +him dimly through the mist before her eyes, as he carried +the satchel, the same he had carried five months +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span> +before with the same things in it. And as they put +her in the “hack” (she had never ridden in the hack +before) there was Mr. Wentworth, the young minister, +who leaned through the window and said earnestly: +“I am counting on you to speak to our people in the +church parlors. You must tell us about things over +there.” +</p> +<p> +Well, she did speak to them! She was not the same +person, you see, she had been before she had spent +those evenings in the Gare de l’Est. She wanted them +to know about what she had seen, and because there +was no one else to tell them, she rose up in her shabby +suit and told them herself. The first thing that came +into her mind as she stood before them, her heart +suffocating her, her knees shaking under her, was the +strangeness of seeing so many able-bodied men not in +uniform, and so many women not in mourning. She +told them this as a beginning and got their startled +attention at once, the men vaguely uneasy, the women +divining with frightened sympathy what it meant to see +all women in black. +</p> +<p> +Then she went on to tell them about the work for +the refugees ... not for nothing had she made out +the card-catalogue accounts of those life-histories. +“There was one old woman we helped ... she looked +some like Mrs. Wilson’s mother. She had lost three +sons and two sons-in-law in the war. Both of her +daughters, widows, had been sent off into Germany +to do forced labor. One of them had been a music-teacher +and the other a dressmaker. She had three +of the grandchildren with her. Two of them had disappeared +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span> +... just lost somewhere. She didn’t have +a cent left, the Germans had taken everything. She +was sixty-seven years old and she was earning the +children’s living by doing scrubwoman’s work in a +slaughter-house. She had been a school-teacher when +she was young. +</p> +<p> +“There were five little children in one family. The +mother was sort of out of her mind, though the doctors +said maybe she would get over it. They had been under +shell-fire for five days, and she had seen three members +of her family die there. After that they wandered +around in the woods for ten days, living on grass and +roots. The youngest child died then. The oldest girl +was only ten years old, but she took care of them all +somehow and used to get up nights when her mother got +crazy thinking the shells were falling again.” +</p> +<p> +Ellen spoke badly, awkwardly, haltingly. She told +nothing which they might not have read, perhaps had +read in some American magazine. But it was a different +matter to hear such stories from the lips of Ellen +Boardman, born and brought up among them. Ellen +Boardman had <em>seen</em> those people, and through her eyes +Marshallton looked aghast and for the first time believed +that what it saw was real, that such things were happening +to real men and women like themselves. +</p> +<p> +When she began to tell them about the Gare de l’Est +she began helplessly to cry, but she would not stop for +that. She smeared away the tears with her handkerchief +wadded into a ball, she was obliged to stop frequently +to blow her nose and catch her breath, but she +had so much to say that she struggled on, saying it in a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span> +shaking, uncertain voice, quite out of her control. +Standing there before those well-fed, well-meaning, +prosperous, <em>safe</em> countrymen of hers, it all rose before +her with burning vividness, and burningly she strove to +set it before them. It had all been said far better than +she said it, eloquently described in many highly paid +newspaper articles, but it had never before been said +so that Marshallton understood it. Ellen Boardman, +graceless, stammering, inarticulate, yet spoke to them +with the tongues of men and angels because she spoke +their own language. In the very real, very literal and +wholly miraculous sense of the words, she brought the +war—<em>home</em>—to them. +</p> +<p> +When she sat down no one applauded. The women +were pale. Some of them had been crying. The men’s +faces were set and inexpressive. Mr. Wentworth stood +up and cleared his throat. He said that a young citizen +of their town (he named him, the young reporter) desired +greatly to go to the French front as an ambulance +driver, but being obliged to earn his living, he could not +go unless helped out on his expenses. Miss Boardman +had been able to get exact information about that. +Four hundred dollars would keep him at the front for +a year. He proposed that a contribution should be taken +up to that end. +</p> +<p> +He himself went among them, gathering the contributions +which were given in silence. While he counted +them afterwards, the young reporter, waiting with an +anxious face, swallowed repeatedly and crossed and uncrossed +his legs a great many times. Before he had finished +counting the minister stopped, reached over and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span> +gave the other young man a handclasp. “I envy you,” +he said. +</p> +<p> +He turned to the audience and announced that he had +counted almost enough for their purpose when he had +come upon a note from Mr. Pennypacker saying that +he would make up any deficit. Hence they could consider +the matter settled. “Very soon, therefore, our +town will again be represented on the French front.” +</p> +<p> +The audience stirred, drew a long breath, and broke +into applause. +</p> +<p> +Whatever the rest of the Union might decide to do, +Marshallton, Kansas, had come into the war. +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Dorothy Canfield.</span></p> +<p> + <br /> + <br /> + <br /> +</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span><a name='chII' id='chII'></a>II—THE SURVIVORS</h2> +<p> +<em>A Memorial Day Story</em> +</p> +<p> +In the year 1868, when Memorial Day was instituted, +Fosterville had thirty-five men in its parade. Fosterville +was a border town; in it enthusiasm had run high, +and many more men had enlisted than those required by +the draft. All the men were on the same side but Adam +Foust, who, slipping away, joined himself to the troops +of his mother’s Southern State. It could not have been +any great trial for Adam to fight against most of his +companions in Fosterville, for there was only one of +them with whom he did not quarrel. That one was his +cousin Henry, from whom he was inseparable, and of +whose friendship for any other boys he was intensely +jealous. Henry was a frank, open-hearted lad who +would have lived on good terms with the whole world +if Adam had allowed him to. +</p> +<p> +Adam did not return to Fosterville until the morning +of the first Memorial Day, of whose establishment he +was unaware. He had been ill for months, and it was +only now that he had earned enough to make his way +home. He was slightly lame, and he had lost two fingers +of his left hand. He got down from the train at the +station, and found himself at once in a great crowd. He +knew no one, and no one seemed to know him. Without +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span> +asking any questions, he started up the street. He +meant to go, first of all, to the house of his cousin Henry, +and then to set about making arrangements to resume +his long-interrupted business, that of a saddler, which +he could still follow in spite of his injury. +</p> +<p> +As he hurried along he heard the sound of band music, +and realized that some sort of a procession was advancing. +With the throng about him he pressed to the curb. +The tune was one which he hated; the colors he hated +also; the marchers, all but one, he had never liked. +There was Newton Towne, with a sergeant’s stripe on +his blue sleeve; there was Edward Green, a captain; +there was Peter Allinson, a color-bearer. At their head, +taller, handsomer, dearer than ever to Adam’s jealous +eyes, walked Henry Foust. In an instant of forgetfulness +Adam waved his hand. But Henry did not see; +Adam chose to think that he saw and would not answer. +The veterans passed, and Adam drew back and was +lost in the crowd. +</p> +<p> +But Adam had a parade of his own. In the evening, +when the music and the speeches were over and the +half-dozen graves of those of Fosterville’s young men +who had been brought home had been heaped with flowers, +and Fosterville sat on doorsteps and porches talking +about the day, Adam put on a gray uniform and walked +from one end of the village to the other. These were +people who had known him always; the word flew from +step to step. Many persons spoke to him, some +laughed, and a few jeered. To no one did Adam pay +any heed. Past the house of Newton Towne, past the +store of Ed Green, past the wide lawn of Henry Foust, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span> +walked Adam, his hands clasped behind his back, as +though to make more perpendicular than perpendicularity +itself that stiff backbone. Henry Foust ran +down the steps and out to the gate. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Adam!” cried he. +</p> +<p> +Adam stopped, stock-still. He could see Peter Allinson +and Newton Towne, and even Ed Green, on Henry’s +porch. They were all having ice-cream and cake together. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what?” said he, roughly. +</p> +<p> +“Won’t you shake hands with me?” +</p> +<p> +“No,” said Adam. +</p> +<p> +“Won’t you come in?” +</p> +<p> +“Never.” +</p> +<p> +Still Henry persisted. +</p> +<p> +“Some one might do you harm, Adam.” +</p> +<p> +“Let them!” said Adam. +</p> +<p> +Then Adam walked on alone. Adam walked alone +for forty years. +</p> +<p> +Not only on Memorial Day did he don his gray uniform +and make the rounds of the village. When the +Fosterville Grand Army Post met on Friday evenings +in the post room, Adam managed to meet most of the +members either going or returning. He and his gray +suit became gradually so familiar to the village that no +one turned his head or glanced up from book or paper +to see him go by. He had from time to time a new suit, +and he ordered from somewhere in the South a succession +of gray, broad-brimmed military hats. The farther +the war sank into the past, the straighter grew old +Adam’s back, the prouder his head. Sometimes, early +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46'></a>46</span> +in the forty years, the acquaintances of his childhood, +especially the women, remonstrated with him. +</p> +<p> +“The war’s over, Adam,” they would say. “Can’t +you forget it?” +</p> +<p> +“Those G. A. R. fellows don’t forget it,” Adam would +answer. “They haven’t changed their principles. Why +should I change mine?” +</p> +<p> +“But you might make up with Henry.” +</p> +<p> +“That’s nobody’s business but my own.” +</p> +<p> +“But when you were children you were never separated. +Make up, Adam.” +</p> +<p> +“When Henry needs me, I’ll help him,” said Adam. +</p> +<p> +“Henry will never need you. Look at all he’s got!” +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, I don’t need him,” declared Adam, as he +walked away. He went back to his saddler shop, where +he sat all day stitching. He had ample time to think of +Henry and the past. +</p> +<p> +“Brought up like twins!” he would say. “Sharing +like brothers! Now he has a fine business and a fine +house and fine children, and I have nothing. But I +have my principles. I ain’t never truckled to him. +Some day he’ll need me, you’ll see!” +</p> +<p> +As Adam grew older, it became more and more certain +that Henry would never need him for anything. Henry +tried again and again to make friends, but Adam would +have none of him. He talked more and more to himself +as he sat at his work. +</p> +<p> +“Used to help him over the brook and bait his +hook for him. Even built corn-cob houses for him to +knock down, that much littler he was than me. Stepped +out of the race when I found he wanted Annie. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span> +might ask me for <em>something!</em>” Adam seemed often to be +growing childish. +</p> +<p> +By the year 1875 fifteen of Fosterville’s thirty-five +veterans had died. The men who survived the war were, +for the most part, not strong men, and weaknesses established +in prisons and on long marches asserted themselves. +Fifteen times the Fosterville Post paraded to +the cemetery and read its committal service and fired its +salute. For these parades Adam did not put on his gray +uniform. +</p> +<p> +During the next twenty years deaths were fewer. +Fosterville prospered as never before; it built factories +and an electric car line. Of all its enterprises Henry +Foust was at the head. He enlarged his house and +bought farms and grew handsomer as he grew older. +Everybody loved him; all Fosterville, except Adam, +sought his company. It seemed sometimes as though +Adam would almost die from loneliness and jealousy. +</p> +<p> +“Henry Foust sittin’ with Ed Green!” said Adam to +himself, as though he could never accustom his eyes to +this phenomenon. “Henry consortin’ with Newt +Towne!” +</p> +<p> +The Grand Army Post also grew in importance. It +paraded each year with more ceremony; it imported fine +music and great speakers for Memorial Day. +</p> +<p> +Presently the sad procession to the cemetery began +once more. There was a long, cold winter, with many +cases of pneumonia, and three veterans succumbed; +there was an intensely hot summer, and twice in one +month the post read its committal service and fired its +salute. A few years more, and the post numbered but +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span> +three. Past them still on post evenings walked Adam, +head in air, hands clasped behind his back. There was +Edward Green, round, fat, who puffed and panted; +there was Newton Towne, who walked, in spite of palsy, +as though he had won the battle of Gettysburg; there +was, last of all, Henry Foust, who at seventy-five was +hale and strong. Usually a tall son walked beside him, +or a grandchild clung to his hand. He was almost never +alone; it was as though every one who knew him tried +to have as much as possible of his company. Past him +with a grave nod walked Adam. Adam was two years +older than Henry; it required more and more stretching +of arms behind his back to keep his shoulders +straight. +</p> +<p> +In April Newton Towne was taken ill and died. Edward +Green was terrified, though he considered himself, +in spite of his shortness of breath, a strong man. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t let anything happen to you, Henry,” he would +say. “Don’t let anything get you, Henry. I can’t +march alone.” +</p> +<p> +“I’ll be there,” Henry would reassure him. Only +one look at Henry, and the most alarmed would have +been comforted. +</p> +<p> +“It would kill me to march alone,” said Edward +Green. +</p> +<p> +As if Fosterville realized that it could not continue +long to show its devotion to its veterans, it made this +year special preparations for Memorial Day. The Fosterville +Band practiced elaborate music, the children +were drilled in marching. The children were to precede +the veterans to the cemetery and were to scatter flowers +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span> +over the graves. Houses were gayly decorated, flags +and banners floating in the pleasant spring breeze. +Early in the morning carriages and wagons began to +bring in the country folk. +</p> +<p> +Adam Foust realized as well as Fosterville that the +parades of veterans were drawing to their close. +</p> +<p> +“This may be the last time I can show my principles,” +said he, with grim setting of his lips. “I will +put on my gray coat early in the morning.” +</p> +<p> +Though the two veterans were to march to the +cemetery, carriages were provided to bring them home. +Fosterville meant to be as careful as possible of its +treasures. +</p> +<p> +“I don’t need any carriage to ride in, like Ed Green,” +said Adam proudly. “I could march out and back. +Perhaps Ed Green will have to ride out as well as +back.” +</p> +<p> +But Edward Green neither rode nor walked. The +day turned suddenly warm, the heat and excitement +accelerated his already rapid breathing, and the doctor +forbade his setting foot to the ground. +</p> +<p> +“But I will!” cried Edward, in whom the spirit of +war still lived. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“Then I will ride.” +</p> +<p> +“You will stay in bed,” said the doctor. +</p> +<p> +So without Edward Green the parade was formed. +Before the court-house waited the band, and the long +line of school-children, and the burgess, and the fire +company, and the distinguished stranger who was to +make the address, until Henry Foust appeared, in his +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span> +blue suit, with his flag on his breast and his bouquet in +his hand. On each side of him walked a tall, middle-aged +son, who seemed to hand him over reluctantly +to the marshal, who was to escort him to his place. +Smilingly he spoke to the marshal, but he was the +only one who smiled or spoke. For an instant men +and women broke off in the middle of their sentences, a +husky something in their throats; children looked up +at him with awe. Even his own grandchildren did +not dare to wave or call from their places in the ranks. +Then the storm of cheers broke. +</p> +<p> +Round the next corner Adam Foust waited. He +was clad in his gray uniform—those who looked at +him closely saw with astonishment that it was a new +uniform; his brows met in a frown, his gray moustache +seemed to bristle. +</p> +<p> +“How he hates them!” said one citizen of Fosterville +to another. “Just look at poor Adam!” +</p> +<p> +“Used to bait his hook for him,” Adam was saying. +“Used to carry him pick-a-back! Used to go halves +with him on everything. Now he walks with Ed +Green!” +</p> +<p> +Adam pressed forward to the curb. The band was +playing “Marching Through Georgia,” which he +hated; everybody was cheering. The volume of sound +was deafening. +</p> +<p> +“Cheering Ed Green!” said Adam. “Fat! Lazy! +Didn’t have a wound. Dare say he hid behind a tree! +Dare say——” +</p> +<p> +The band was in sight now, the back of the drum-major +appeared, then all the musicians swung round +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span> +the corner. After them came the little children with +their flowers and their shining faces. +</p> +<p> +“Him and Ed Green next,” said old Adam. +</p> +<p> +But Henry walked alone. Adam’s whole body +jerked in his astonishment. He heard some one say +that Edward Green was sick, that the doctor had +forbidden him to march, or even to ride. As he pressed +nearer the curb he heard the admiring comments of +the crowd. +</p> +<p> +“Isn’t he magnificent!” +</p> +<p> +“See his beautiful flowers! His grandchildren always +send him his flowers.” +</p> +<p> +“He’s our first citizen.” +</p> +<p> +“He’s mine!” Adam wanted to cry out. “He’s +mine!” +</p> +<p> +Never had Adam felt so miserable, so jealous, so +heartsick. His eyes were filled with the great figure. +Henry was, in truth, magnificent, not only in himself, +but in what he represented. He seemed symbolic of a +great era of the past, and at the same time of a new +age which was advancing. Old Adam understood all +his glory. +</p> +<p> +“He’s mine!” said old Adam again, foolishly. +</p> +<p> +Then Adam leaned forward with startled, staring +eyes. Henry had bowed and smiled in answer to the +cheers. Across the street his own house was a mass +of color—red, white, and blue over windows and doors, +gay dresses on the porch. On each side the pavement +was crowded with a shouting multitude. Surely no +hero had ever had a more glorious passage through +the streets of his birthplace! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52'></a>52</span> +</p> +<p> +But old Adam saw that Henry’s face blanched, that +there appeared suddenly upon it an expression of intolerable +pain. For an instant Henry’s step faltered +and grew uncertain. +</p> +<p> +Then old Adam began to behave like a wild man. +He pushed himself through the crowd, he flung himself +upon the rope as though to tear it down, he called out, +“Wait! wait!” Frightened women, fearful of some +sinister purpose, tried to grasp and hold him. No +man was immediately at hand, or Adam would have +been seized and taken away. As for the feeble women—Adam +shook them off and laughed at them. +</p> +<p> +“Let me go, you geese!” said he. +</p> +<p> +A mounted marshal saw him and rode down upon +him; men started from under the ropes to pursue him. +But Adam eluded them or outdistanced them. He +strode across an open space with a surety which gave +no hint of the terrible beating of his heart, until he +reached the side of Henry. Him he greeted, breathlessly +and with terrible eagerness. +</p> +<p> +“Henry,” said he, gasping, “Henry, do you want +me to walk along?” +</p> +<p> +Henry saw the alarmed crowds, he saw the marshal’s +hand stretched to seize Adam, he saw most clearly of +all the tearful eyes under the beetling brows. Henry’s +voice shook, but he made himself clear. +</p> +<p> +“It’s all right,” said he to the marshal. “Let him +be.” +</p> +<p> +“I saw you were alone,” said Adam. “I said, ‘Henry +needs me.’ I know what it is to be alone. I——” +</p> +<p> +But Adam did not finish his sentence. He found a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span> +hand on his, a blue arm linked tightly in his gray arm, +he felt himself moved along amid thunderous roars of +sound. +</p> +<p> +“Of course I need you!” said Henry. “I’ve needed +you all along.” +</p> +<p> +Then, old but young, their lives almost ended, but +themselves immortal, united, to be divided no more, +amid an ever-thickening sound of cheers, the two +marched down the street. +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Elsie Singmaster</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span><a name='chIII' id='chIII'></a>III—THE WILDCAT</h2> +<p> +When Cassius Wyble came down from his mountains +to the 2OOO-population metropolis of Clayburg +on his half-yearly trip for supplies he thought the old +custom of Muster Day had been revived. +</p> +<p> +No fewer than eleven men in khaki were lounging +round the station platform or sitting on the steps of +the North America general store. Enlistment posters, +too, flared from windows and walls. +</p> +<p> +These posters—except for their pretty pictures—meant +nothing at all to Cash Wyble. For, as with his +parents and grandparents, his knowledge of the written +or printed word was purely a matter of hearsay. +</p> +<p> +Yet the sight of the eleven men in newfangled uniform—so +like in color to his own butternut homespuns—interested +Cash. +</p> +<p> +“What’s all the boys doin’—togged up thataway?” +he demanded of the North America’s proprietor. +“Waitin’ for the band?” +</p> +<p> +“Waiting to be shipped to Camp Lee,” answered the +local merchant prince; adding, as Cash’s burnt-leather +face grew blanker: “Camp Lee, down in V’ginia, you +know. Training camp for the war.” +</p> +<p> +“War?” queried Cash, preparing to grin, at prospect +of a joke. “What war?” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span> +</p> +<p> +“What war?” echoed the dumfounded storekeeper. +</p> +<p> +“Why, <em>the</em> war, of course! Where in blazes have you +been keeping yourself?” +</p> +<p> +“I been up home, where I b’long,” said Cash sulkily. +“What with the hawgs, an’ crops an’ skins an’ sich, a +busy man’s got no time traipsin’ off to the city every +minute. Twice a year does me pretty nice. An’ now +s’pose you tell me what war you’re blattin’ about.” +</p> +<p> +The storekeeper told him. He told him in the simplest +possible language. Yet half—and more than +half—of the explanation went miles above the listening +mountaineer’s head. Cash gathered, however, that +the United States was fighting Germany. +</p> +<p> +Germany he knew by repute for a country or a +town on the far side of the world. Some of its citizens +had even invaded his West Virginia mountains, where +their odd diction and porcelain pipes roused much +derision among the cultured hillfolk. +</p> +<p> +“Germany?” mused Cash when the narrative was +ended. “We’re to war with Germany, hey? Sakes, +but I wisht I’d knowed that yesterday! A couple of +Germans went right past my shack. I could ’a’ shot +’em as easy as toad pie.” +</p> +<p> +The North America’s proprietor valued Cash Wyble’s +sparse trade, as he valued that of other mountaineers +who made Clayburg their semiannual port of call. +If on Cash’s report these rustics should begin a guerilla +warfare upon their German neighbors, more of them +would presently be lodged in jail than the North America +could well afford to spare from its meager customer +list. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57'></a>57</span> +</p> +<p> +Wherefore the proprietor did some more explaining. +Knowing the mountaineer brain, he made no effort +to point out the difference between armed Germans +and noncombatants. He merely said that the Government +had threatened to lock up any West Virginian +who should kill a German—this side of Europe. It +was a new law, he continued, and one that the revenue +officers were bent on enforcing. +</p> +<p> +Cash sighed and reluctantly bade farewell to an +alluring dream that had begun to shape itself in his +simple brain—a dream of “laying out” in cliff-top +brush, waiting with true elephant patience until a +German neighbor should stroll, unsuspecting, along +the trail below and should move slowly within range +of the antique Wyble rifle. +</p> +<p> +It was a sweet fantasy, and hard to banish. For +Cash certainly could shoot. There was scarce a man +in the Cumberlands or the Appalachians who could +outshoot him. Shooting and a native knack at moon-shining +were Cash’s only real accomplishments. +Whether stalking a shy old stag or potting a revenue +officer on the sky line, the man’s aim was uncannily +true. In a region of born marksmen his skill stood +forth supreme. +</p> +<p> +He felt not the remotest hatred for any of these +local Germans. In an impersonal way he rather liked +one or two of them. Yet, if the law had really been +off—— +</p> +<p> +The zest of the man hunt tingled pleasantly in the +marksman’s blood. And he resented this unfair new +revenue ruling, which permitted and even encouraged +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58'></a>58</span> +larger than Clayburg—which he knew to be the biggest +metropolis in America—Cash set out to nail the lie +by a personal inspection of Petersburg. He neglected +to apply for leave, so was held up by the first sentinel +he met. +</p> +<p> +Cash explained very politely his reason for quitting +camp. But the pig-headed sentinel still refused to let +him pass. Two minutes later a fast-summoned corporal +and two men were using all their strength to pry +Wyble loose from the luckless sentry. And again the +guardhouse had Cash as a transient and blasphemous +guest. +</p> +<p> +He was learning much more of kitchen-police work +than of guard mount. At the latter task he was a +failure. The first night he was assigned to beat pacing, +the relief found him restfully snoring, on his back, his +rifle stuck up in front of him by means of its bayonet +thrust into the ground. Cash had seen no good reason +why he should walk to and fro for hours when there +was nothing exciting to watch for and when he had +been awake since early morning. Therefore he had +gone to sleep. And his subsequent guardhouse stay +filled him with uncomprehending fury. +</p> +<p> +The salute, too, struck him as the height of absurdity—as +a bit of tomfoolery in which he would have no +part. Not that he was exclusive, but what was the +use of touching one’s forelock to some officer one had +never before met? He was willing to nod pleasantly +and even to say “Howdy, Cap?” when his company +captain passed by him for the first time in the morning. +But he saw no use in repeating that or any other form +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span> +of salutation when the same captain chanced to meet +him a bare fifteen minutes later. +</p> +<p> +Cash Wyble’s case was not in any way unique among +Camp Lee’s thirty thousand new soldiers. Hundreds +of mountaineers were in still worse mental plight. +And the tact as well as the skill of their officers +was strained well-nigh to the breaking point in +shaping the amorphous backwoods rabble into trim +soldiers. +</p> +<p> +Not all members of the mountain draft were so +fiercely resentful as was Cash. But many others of +them were like unbroken colts. The strange frequency +of washing and of shaving, and the wearing of underclothes +were their chief puzzles. +</p> +<p> +The company captain labored with Cash again and +again, pointing out the need of neat cleanliness, of +promptitude, of vigilance; trying to make him understand +that a salute is not a sign of servility; seeking to +imbue him with the spirit of patriotism and of discipline. +But to Cash the whole thing was infinitely worse and +more bewildering than had been the six months he had +once spent in Clayburg jail for mayhem. +</p> +<p> +Three things alone mitigated his misery at Camp Lee: +The first was the shooting; the second was his monthly +pay—which represented more real money than he ever +had had in his pocket at any one time; the third was +the food—amazing in its abundance and luxurious +variety, to the always-hungry mountaineer. +</p> +<p> +But presently the target shooting palled. As soon as +he had mastered carefully the intricacies of the queer +new rifle they gave him, the hours at the range were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60'></a>60</span> +no more inspiring to him than would be, to Paderewski, +the eternal playing of the scale of C with one finger. +</p> +<p> +To Cash the target shooting was child’s play. Once +he grasped the rules as to sights and elevations and +became used to the feel of the army rifle, the rest was +drearily simple. +</p> +<p> +He could outshoot practically every man at Camp +Lee. This gave him no pride. He made himself popular +with men who complimented him on it by assuring +them modestly that he outshot them not because he +was such a dead shot but because they shot so badly. +</p> +<p> +The headiest colt in time will learn the lesson of the +breaking pen. And Cash Wyble gradually became a +soldier. At least he learned the drill and the regulations +and how to keep out of the guardhouse—except just +after pay day; and his lank figure took on a certain +military spruceness. But under the surface he was still +Cash Wyble. He behaved, because there was no incentive +at the camp that made disobedience worth +while. +</p> +<p> +Then after an endless winter came the journey to the +seaboard and the embarkation for France; and the +awesome sight of a tossing gray ocean a hundred times +wider and rougher than Clayburg River in freshet time. +Followed a week of agonized terror, mingled with an +acute longing to die. Then ensued a week of calm +water, during which one might refill the oft-emptied +inner man. +</p> +<p> +A few days later Cash was bumping along a newly +repaired French railway in a car whose announced capacity +was forty men or eight horses. And thence to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span> +billet in a half-wrecked village, where his regiment was +drilled and redrilled in the things they had toiled so +hard at Camp Lee to master, and in much that was +novel to the men. +</p> +<p> +Cash next came to a halt in a network of trenches +overlooking a stretch of country that had been tortured +into hideousness—a region that looked like a Doré +nightmare. It was a waste of hillocks and gullies and +shell holes and blasted big trees and frayed copses and +split bowlders and seared vegetation. When Cash +heard it was called No Man’s Land he was not surprised. +He well understood why no man—not even an ignorant +foreigner—cared to buy such a tract. +</p> +<p> +He was far more interested in hearing that a tangle of +trenches, somewhat like his regiment’s own, lay three +miles northeastward, at the limit of No Man’s Land, and +that those trenches were infested with Germans. +</p> +<p> +Germans were the people Cash Wyble had come all +the way to France to kill. And once more the thrill of +the man hunt swept pleasantly through his blood. He +had no desire to risk prison. So he had made very +certain by repeated inquiry that this particular section +of France was in Europe; and that no part of it was +within the boundaries or the jurisdiction of the sovereign +state of West Virginia. Here, therefore, the law +was off on Germans, and he could not get into the +slightest trouble with the hated revenue officers by +shooting as many of the foe as he could go out and find. +</p> +<p> +Cash enjoyed the picture he conjured up—a picture of +a whole bevy of Germans seated at ease in a trench, +smoking porcelain pipes and conversing with one another +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62'></a>62</span> +in comically broken English; of himself stealing +toward them, and from the shelter of one of those +hillock bowlders opening a mortal fire on the unsuspecting +foreigners. +</p> +<p> +It was a quaint thought, and one that Cash loved to +play with. +</p> +<p> +Also it had an advantage that most of Cash’s vivid +mind pictures had not. For, in part, it came true. +</p> +<p> +The Germans, on the thither side of No Man’s Land, +seemed bent on jarring the repose and wrenching the +nerve of their lately arrived Yankee neighbors. Not +only were those veteran official entertainers, Minnie +and Bertha, and their equally vocal artillery sisters +called into service for the purpose, but a dense swarm +of snipers were also impressed into the task. +</p> +<p> +Now this especial reach of No Man’s Land was a veritable +snipers’ paradise. There was cover—plenty of +it—everywhere. A hundred sharpshooters of any scouting +prowess at all could deploy at will amid the tumble +of bowlders and knolls and twisted tree trunks and +battered foliage and craters. +</p> +<p> +The long spell of wet weather had precluded the +burning away of undergrowth. There were tree tops +and hill summits whence a splendid shot could be +taken at unwary Americans in the lower front-line +trenches and along the rising ground at the rear of the +Yankee lines. Yes, it was a stretch of ground laid out +for the joy of snipers. And the German sharpshooters +took due advantage of this bit of luck. The whine of a +high-power bullet was certain to follow the momentary +exposure of any portion of khaki anatomy above or +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span> +behind the parapets. And in disgustingly many instances +the bullet did not whine in vain. All of which +kept the newcomers from getting any excess joy out +of trench life. +</p> +<p> +To mitigate the annoyance there was a call for volunteer +sharpshooters to scout cautiously through No +Man’s Land and seek to render the boche sniping a less +safe and exhilarating sport than thus far it had been. +The job was full of peril, of course. For there was a +more than even chance of the Yankee snipers’ being +sniped by the rival sharpshooters, who were better acquainted +with the ground. +</p> +<p> +Yet at the first call there was a clamorous throng of +volunteers. Many of these volunteers admitted under +pressure that they knew nothing of scout work and that +they had not so much as qualified in marksmanship. +But they craved a chance at the boche. And grouchily +did they resent the swift weeding-out process that left +their services uncalled for. +</p> +<p> +Cash Wyble was the first man accepted for the dangerous +detail. And for the first time since the draft +had caught him his burnt-leather face expanded into +a grin that could not have been wider unless his flaring +ears had been set back. +</p> +<p> +With two days’ rations and a goodly store of cartridges +he fared forth that night into No Man’s Land. +Dawn was not yet fully gray when the first crack of his +rifle was wafted back to the trenches. +</p> +<p> +Then the artillery firing, which was part of the day’s +work, set in. And its racket drowned the noise of any +shooting that Cash might be at. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span> +</p> +<p> +Forty-eight hours passed. At dawn of the third day +Cash came back to camp. He was tired and horribly +thirsty; but his lantern-jawed visage was one unmarred +mask of bliss. +</p> +<p> +“Twelve,” he reported tersely to his captain. “At +least,” he continued in greater detail, “twelve that I’m +dead sure of. Nice big ones, too, some of ’em.” +</p> +<p> +“Nice big ones!” repeated the captain in admiring +disgust. “You talk as if you’d been after wild turkeys!” +</p> +<p> +“A heap better’n wild-turkey shootin’!” grinned +Cash. “An’ I got twelve that I’m sure of. There was +one, though, I couldn’t get. A he-one, at that. He’s +sure some German, that feller! He’s as crafty as they +make ’em. I couldn’t ever come up to him or get a line +on him. I’ll bet I throwed away thutty ca’tridges on +jes’ that one Dutchy. An’ by an’ by he found out +what I was arter. Then there was fun, Cap! Him and +I did have one fine shootin’ match! But I was as good +at hidin’ as he was. And there couldn’t neither one of +us seem to git ’tother. Most of the rest of ’em was as +easy to git as a settin’ hen. But not him. I’d ’a’ laid +out there longer for a crack at him but I couldn’t find +no water. If there’d been a spring or a water seep anywheres +there I’d ’a’ stayed till doomsday but what I’d +’a’ got him. Soon’s I fill up with some water I’m +goin’ back arter him. He’s well wuth it. I’ll bet +that cuss don’t weigh an ounce under two hundred +pound.” +</p> +<p> +Cash’s smug joy in his exploit and his keen anticipation +of a return trip were dashed by the captain’s reminder +that war is not a hunting jaunt; and that Wyble +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span> +must return to his loathed trench duties until such +time as it should seem wise to those above him to send +him forth again. +</p> +<p> +Cash could not make head or tail out of such a command. +After months of grinding routine he had at last +found a form of recreation that not only dulled his +sharply constant homesickness but that made up for +all he had gone through. And now he was told he +could go forth on such delightful excursions only when +he might chance to be sent! +</p> +<p> +Red wrath boiled hot in the soul of Cash Wyble. Experience +had taught him the costly folly of venting such +rage on a commissioned officer. So he hunted up Top +Sergeant Mahan of his own company and laid his griefs +before that patient veteran. +</p> +<p> +Top Sergeant Mahan—formerly of the Regular Army—listened +with true sympathy to the complaint; and +listened with open enthusiasm to the tale of the two +days of forest skulking. But he could offer no help +in the matter of returning to the <em>battue</em>. +</p> +<p> +“The cap’n was right,” declared Mahan. “They +wanted to throw a little lesson into those boche snipers +and make them ease up on their heckling. And you +gave them a man’s-size dose of their own physic. +There’s not one sniper out there to-day, to ten who +were on deck three days ago. You’ve done your job. +And you’ve done it good and plenty. But it’s done—for +a while anyhow. You weren’t brought over here +to spend your time in prowling around No Man’s Land +on a still hunt for stray Germans. That isn’t Uncle +Sam’s way. Don’t go grouching over it, man! You’ll +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66'></a>66</span> +be remembered, all right. And if they get pesky again +you’ll be the first one sent out to abate them. You +can count on it. Till then, go ahead with your regular +work and forget the sniper job.” +</p> +<p> +“But, Sarge!” pleaded Cash, “you don’t git the idee. +You don’t git it at all. Those Germans will be shyer’n +scat, now that I’ve flushed ’em. An’ the longer the +news has a chance to git round among ’em, the shyer +they’re due to git. Why, even if I was to go out thar +straight off it ain’t likely I’d be able to pot one where I +potted three before. It’s the same difference as it is +between the first flushin’ of a wild-turkey bunch an’ +the second. An’ if I’ve got to wait long there’ll be no +downin’ <em>any</em> of ’em. Tell that to the Cap. Make him +see if he wants them cusses he better let me git ’em +while they’re still gittable.” +</p> +<p> +In vain did Top Sergeant Mahan go over and over +the same ground, trying to make Cash see that the +company captain and those above him were not out +for a record in the matter of ambushed Germans. +</p> +<p> +Wyble had struck one idea he could understand, and +he would not give it up. +</p> +<p> +“But, Sarge,” he urged desperately, “I’m no durn +good here foolin’ around with drill an’ relief an’ diggin’ +an’ all that. Any mudback can do them things if you +folks is sot on havin’ ’em done. But there ain’t another +man in all this outfit who can shoot like I can; or has +the knack of ‘layin’ out’; or of stalkin’. Pop got the +trick of it from gran’ther. An’ gran’ther got if off th’ +Injuns in th’ old days. If you folks is out to git Germans +I’m the feller to git ’em fer you. Nice big ones. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span> +If you’re here jes’ to play sojer, any poor fool c’n play +it fer you as good as me.” +</p> +<p> +“I’ve just told you,” began the sergeant, “that we——” +</p> +<p> +“’Nuther thing!” suggested Cash brightly. “These +Germans must have villages somew’eres. All folks do. +Even Injuns. Some place where they live when they +ain’t on the warpath. Get leave an’ rations an’ ca’tridges +for me—for a week, or maybe two—an’ I’ll +gar’ntee to scout till I find one of them villages. The +Dutchies won’t be expectin’ me. An’ I c’n likely pot +a whole mess of ’em before they c’n git to cover. +</p> +<p> +“Say!” he went on eagerly, a bit of general information +flashing into his memory. “Did you know +Germans was a kind of Confed’? The fightin’ Germans, +I mean. Well, they are. The hull twelve I got was +dressed in gray Confed’ uniform, same as pop used to +wear. I got his old uniform to home. Lord, but pop +would sure lay into me if he knowed I was pepperin’ +his old side partners like that! I’d figered that all +Germans was dressed like the ones back home. But +they’ve got reg’lar uniforms. Confed’ uniforms, at +that. I wonder does our gin’ral know about it?” +</p> +<p> +Again the long-suffering Mahan tried to set him +right; this time as to the wide divergence between the +gray-backed troops of Ludendorff and the Confederacy’s +gallant soldiers. But Cash merely nodded cryptically, +as always he did when he thought his foreigner +fellow soldiers were trying to take advantage of his +supposed ignorance. And he swung back to the theme +nearest his heart. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span> +</p> +<p> +“Now about that snipin’ business,” he pursued, +“even if the Cap don’t want too many of ’em shot up, +he sure won’t be so cantankerous as to keep me from +tryin’ to git that thirteenth feller! I mean the one +that kep’ blazin’ at me whiles I kep’ blazin’ at him; +an’ the both of us too cute to show an inch of target to +t’other or stay in the same patch of cover after we’d +fired. That Dutchy sure c’n scout grand! He’s a born +woodsman. An’ you-all don’t want it to be said the +Germans has got a better sniper than what we’ve got, +do you? Well, that’s jes’ what will be said by everyone +in this yer county unless you let me down him. Come +on, Sarge! Let me go back arter him! I been thinkin’ +up a trick gran’ther got off’n th’ Injuns. It oughter +land him sure. Let me go try! I b’lieve that feller +can’t weigh an ounce less’n two-twenty. Leave me +have one more go arter him; and I’ll bring him in to +prove it!” +</p> +<p> +Top Sergeant Mahan’s patience stopped fraying, and +ripped from end to end. +</p> +<p> +“You seem to think this war is a cross between a +mountain feud and a deer hunt!” he growled. “Isn’t +there any way of hammering through your ivory mine +that we aren’t here to pick off unsuspecting Germans +and make a tally of the kill? And we aren’t here to +brag about the size of the men we shoot either. We’re +here, you and I, to obey orders and do our work. You’ll +get plenty of shooting before you go home again, don’t +worry. Only you’ll do it the way you’re told to. After +all the time you’ve spent in the hoosgow since you +joined, I should think you’d know that.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span> +</p> +<p> +But Cash Wyble did not know it. He said so—loudly, +offensively, blasphemously. He said many +things—things that in any other army than his own +would have landed him against a blank wall facing a +firing squad. Then he slouched off by himself to +grumble. +</p> +<p> +As far as Cash Wyble was concerned the war was a +failure—a total failure. The one bright spot in its +workaday monotony was blurred for him by the orders +of his stupid superiors. In his vivid imagination that +elusive German sniper gradually attained a weight not +far from three hundred pounds. +</p> +<p> +In sour silence Cash sulked through the rest of the +day’s routine. In his heart boiled black rebellion. He +had learned his soldier trade, back at Camp Lee, because +it had been very strongly impressed upon him +that he would go to jail if he did not. For the same +reason he had not tried to desert. He had all the true +mountaineer horror for prison. He had toned down +his native temper and stubbornness because failure to +do so always landed him in the guardhouse—a place +that, to his mind, was almost as terrible as jail. +</p> +<p> +But out here in the wilderness there were no jails. +At least Cash had seen none. And he had it on the +authority of Top Sergeant Mahan himself that this +part of France was not within the legal jurisdiction of +West Virginia—the only region, as far as Cash actually +knew, where men are put in prison for their misdeeds. +Hence the rules governing Camp Lee could not be +supposed to obtain out here. All of which comforted +Cash not a little. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70'></a>70</span> +</p> +<p> +To him “patriotism” was a word as meaningless as +was “discipline.” The law of force he recognized—the +law that had hog-tied him and flung him into the Army. +But the higher law which makes men risk their all, +right blithely, that their country and civilization may +triumph—this was as much a mystery to Cash Wyble +as to any army mule. +</p> +<p> +Just now he detested the country that had dragged +him away from his lean shack and forbade him to disport +himself as he chose in No Man’s Land. He hated +his country; he hated his Army; he hated his regiment. +Most of all he loathed his captain and Top Sergeant +Mahan. +</p> +<p> +At Camp Lee he had learned to comport himself +more or less like a civilized recruit because there was +no breach of discipline worth the penalty of the guardhouse. +Out here it was different. +</p> +<p> +That night Private Cassius Wyble got hold of two +other men’s emergency rations, a bountiful supply of +water and a stuffing pocketful of cartridges. With +these and his adored rifle he eluded the sentries—a +ridiculously easy feat for so skilled a woodsman—and +went over the top and on into No Man’s Land. +</p> +<p> +By daylight he had trailed and potted a German +sniper. +</p> +<p> +By sunrise he had located the man against whom he +had sworn his strategy feud—the German who had put +him on his mettle two days before. +</p> +<p> +Cash did not see his foe. And when from the edge +of a rock he fired at a puff of smoke in a clump of trees +no resultant body came tumbling earthward. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span> +thirty seconds later a bullet from quite another part +of the clump spatted hotly against the rock edge five +inches from his head. +</p> +<p> +Cash smiled beatifically. He recognized the tactics of +his former opponent. And once more the merry game +was on. +</p> +<p> +To make perfectly certain of his rival’s identity Cash +wiggled low in the undergrowth until he came to a jut +of rock about seven feet long and two feet high. Lying +at full length behind this low barrier, and parallel to +it, Cash put his hat on the toe of his boot and cautiously +lifted his foot until the hat’s sugar-loaf crown protruded +a few inches above the top of the rock. +</p> +<p> +On the instant, from the tree clump, snapped the +report of a rifle. The bullet, ignoring the hat, nicked +the rock comb precisely above Cash’s upturned face. +He nodded approval, for it told him that his enemy +was not only a good forest fighter but that he recognized +the same skill in Wyble. +</p> +<p> +Thus began two days of delightful pastime for the +exiled mountaineer. Thus, too, began a series of offensive +and defensive maneuvers worthy of Natty Bumppo +and Old Sleuth combined. +</p> +<p> +It was not until Cash abandoned the hunt long enough +to find and shoot another German sniper and appropriate +the latter’s uniform that he was able, under +cover of dusk, to get near enough to the tree clump for +a fair sight of his antagonist. At which juncture a +snap shot from the hip ended the duel. +</p> +<p> +Cash’s initial thrill of triumph, even then, was dampened. +For the sniper—to whom by this time he had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span> +credited the size of Goliath at the very least—proved +to be a wizened little fellow, not much more than five +feet tall. +</p> +<p> +Still Cash had won. He had outgeneraled a mighty +clever sharpshooter. He had gotten what he came out +for, and two other snipers, besides. It was not a bad +bag. As there was nothing else to stay there for, and +as his water was gone, as well as nearly all his cartridges, +Cash shouldered his rifle and plodded wearily +back to camp for a night’s rest. +</p> +<p> +There to his amazed indignation he was not received +as a hero, even when he sought to recount his successful +adventures. Instead, he was arrested at once on a +charge of technical desertion, and was lodged in the +local substitute for a regular guardhouse. +</p> +<p> +Bewildered wrath smothered him. What had he done, +to be arrested again? True, he had left camp without +leave. But had he not atoned for this peccadillo fifty-fold +by the results of his absence? Had he not killed +three men whose business it was to shoot Americans? +Had he not killed the very best sniper the Germans +could hope to possess? +</p> +<p> +Yet, they had not promoted him. They had not so +much as thanked him. Instead, they had stuck him +here in the hoosgow. And Mahan had said something +about a court-martial. +</p> +<p> +It was black ingratitude! That was what it was. +That and more. Such people did not deserve to have +the services of a real fighter like himself. +</p> +<p> +Which started another train of thought. +</p> +<p> +Apparently—except on special occasions—the Americans +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span> +did not send men out into the wilderness to take +pot shots at the lurking foe. And apparently that was +just what the Germans always did. He had full proof, +indeed, of the German custom. For had he not found +a number of the graybacks thus happily engaged? Not +for one occasion only, but as a regular thing? +</p> +<p> +Yes, the Germans had sense enough to appreciate a +good fighter when they had one. And they knew how +to make use of him in a way to afford innocent pleasure +to himself and much harm to the enemy. That was +the ideal life for a soldier—“laying out” and sniping +the foe. Not kitchen-police work and endless drill and +digging holes and taking baths. Sniping was the job +for a he-man, if one had to be away from home at all. +And in the German ranks alone was such happy employment +to be found. +</p> +<p> +When Cash calmly and definitely made up his mind +to desert to the Germans he was troubled by no scruples +at all. Even the dread of the mysterious court-martial +added little weight to his decision. The deed seemed +to him not a whit worse than was the leaving of one +farmer’s employ, back home, to take service with another +who offered more congenial work. +</p> +<p> +Wherefore he deserted. +</p> +<p> +It was not at all difficult for him to escape from the +elementary cell in which he was confined. It was a +mere matter of strategy and luck. So was his escape +to No Man’s Land. +</p> +<p> +Unteroffizier Otto Schrabstaetter an hour later conducted +to his company commander a lanky and leather-faced +man in khaki uniform who had accosted a sentry +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span> +with the pacific plea that he be sworn in as a member of +the German Army. +</p> +<p> +The sentry did not know English; nor did Unteroffizier +Otto Schrabstaetter. And though Cash addressed +them both in a very fair imitation of the guttural +English he had heard used by the West Virginia +Germans—and which he fondly believed to be pure +German—they did not understand a word of his plea. +So he was taken to the captain, a man who had lived +for five years in New York. +</p> +<p> +With the Unteroffizier at his side and with two armed +soldiers just behind him Cash confronted the captain, +and under the latter’s volley of barked questions told +his story. Ten minutes afterward he was repeating +the same tale to a flint-faced man with a fox-brush +mustache—Colonel von Scheurer, commander of the +regiment that held that section of the first-line trench. +</p> +<p> +A little to Cash’s aggrieved surprise, neither the +captain nor the colonel seemed interested in his prowess +as a sharpshooter or in his ill-treatment at the hands +of his own Army. Instead, they asked an interminable +series of questions that seemed to have no bearing at +all on his case. +</p> +<p> +They wanted, for instance, to know the name of his +regiment; its quota of men; how long they had been +in France; what sea route they had taken in crossing +the ocean; from what port they had sailed; and the +approximate size of the convoy. They wanted to +know what regiments lay to either side of Cash’s in +the American trenches; how many men per month +America was sending overseas and where they usually +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span> +landed. They wanted to know a thousand things +more, of the same general nature. +</p> +<p> +Cash saw no reason why he should not satisfy their +silly curiosity. And he proceeded to do so to the best +of his ability. But as he did not know so much as the +name of the port whence he had shipped to France, +and as the rest of his tactical knowledge was on the +same plane, the fast-barked queries presently took +on a tone of exasperation. +</p> +<p> +This did not bother Cash. He was doing his best. +If these people did not like his answers that was no +affair of his. He was here to fight, not to talk. His +attention wandered. +</p> +<p> +Presently he interrupted the colonel’s most searching +questions to ask: “You-all don’t happen to be the +Kaiser, do you? I s’pose not though. I’ll bet that +old Kaiser must weigh——” +</p> +<p> +A thundered oath brought him back to the subject +in hand, and the cross-questioning went on. But all +the queries elicited nothing more than a mass of misinformation, +delivered with such palpable genuineness +of purpose that even Colonel von Scheurer could not +doubt the man’s good faith. +</p> +<p> +And at last the two officers began to have a very +fair estimate of the mountaineer’s character and of +the reasons that had brought him thither. +</p> +<p> +Still it was the colonel’s mission in life to suspect—to +take nothing for granted. And after all, this yokel +and his queer story were no more bizarre than was +many a spy trick played by Germany upon her foes. +Spies were bound to be good actors. And this lantern-jawed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span> +fellow might possibly be a character actor of +high ability. Colonel von Scheurer sat for a moment +in silence, peering up at Cash from beneath a thatch +of stiff-haired brows. Then he ordered the captain +and the others to leave the dugout. +</p> +<p> +Alone with Wyble the colonel still maintained his +pose of majestic surveillance. +</p> +<p> +Then with no warning he spat forth the question: +“<em>Wer bist du?</em>” +</p> +<p> +Not the best character actor unhung could have +simulated the owlish ignorance in Cash’s face. Not +the shrewdest spy could have had time to mask +a knowledge of German. And, as Colonel von +Scheurer well knew, no spy who did not understand +German would have been sent to enlist in the German +Army. +</p> +<p> +The colonel at once was satisfied that the newcomer +was not a spy. Yet to make doubly certain of the +recruit’s willingness to serve against his own country +Von Scheurer sought another test. Pulling toward +him a scratch pad he picked up a pencil from the table +before him and proceeded to make a rapid sketch. +When the sketch was complete he detached the top +sheet and showed it to Cash. On it was drawn a rough +likeness of the American flag. +</p> +<p> +“What is that?” he demanded. +</p> +<p> +“Old Glory,” answered Cash after a leisurely survey +of the picture; adding in friendly patronage: “And +not bad drawed, at that.” +</p> +<p> +“It is the United States flag,” pursued the colonel, +“as you say. It is the national emblem of the country +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span> +where you were born; the country you are renouncing, +to become a subject of the All Highest.” +</p> +<p> +“Meanin’ Gawd?” asked Cash. +</p> +<p> +He wanted to be sure of every step. While he did +not at all know the meaning of “renounce,” yet his +attendance at mountain camp-meeting revivals had +given him a possible inkling as to what “All Highest” +meant. +</p> +<p> +“What?” inquired the puzzled colonel, not catching +his drift. +</p> +<p> +“The ‘All Highest’ is Gawd, ain’t it?” said Cash. +</p> +<p> +“It is His Imperial Majesty, the Kaiser,” sharply +retorted the scandalized colonel. +</p> +<p> +“Oh!” exclaimed Cash, much interested. “I see. +In Wes’ V’ginny we call Him ‘Gawd.’ An’ over in +this neck of the woods your Dutch name for Him is +‘Kaiser.’ What a ninny I am! I’d allers had the idee +the Kaiser was jes’ a man, with somethin’ the same +sort of job as Pres’dent Wilson’s. But——” +</p> +<p> +“This picture represents the flag of the United +States,” resumed the impatient Von Scheurer, waiving +the subject of theology for the point in hand. “You +have renounced it. You have declared your wish to +fight against it. Prove that. Prove it by tearing +that sketch in two—and spitting upon it!” +</p> +<p> +“Hold on!” interposed Cash, speaking with tolerant +kindness as to a somewhat stupid child. “Hold on, +Cap! You got me wrong. Or may be I didn’t make it +so very clear. I didn’t ever say I wanted to fight Old +Glory. All I said I wanted to do was to fight that +crowd of smart Alecks over yonder who jail me all the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span> +time an’ won’t let me fight in my own way. I’ve got +nothin’ agin th’ old flag. Why, that ’ere’s the flag I +was borned under! Me an’ pop an’ gran’ther an’ the +hull b’ilin’ of us—as fur back as there was any ’Merica, +I reckon. I don’t go ’round wavin’ it none. That ain’t +my way. But I sure ain’t goin’ to tear it up. And I +most gawdamightysure ain’t goin’ to spit on it. I——” +</p> +<p> +He checked himself. Not that he had no more to +say, but because to his astonishment he found he was +beginning to lose his temper. This phenomenon halted +his speech and turned his wondering thoughts inward. +</p> +<p> +Cash could not understand his own strange surge +of choler. He had not been aware of any special +interest in the American flag. A little bunting representation +of the Stars and Stripes—now faded close +to whiteness—hung on the wall of his shack at home, +where his grandmother, a rabid Unionist, had hung it +nearly sixty years earlier, when West Virginia had +refused to join the Confederacy. Every day of his life +Cash had seen it there; had seen without noting or +caring. +</p> +<p> +Camp Lee, too, had been ablaze with American flags. +And after he had learned the rules as to the flag salute +Cash had never given the banners a second thought. +The regimental flags, too, here in France, had seemed +to him but a natural part of the Army’s equipment, +and no more to be venerated than the twin bars on his +captain’s tunic. +</p> +<p> +Thus he could not in the very least account for the +fiery flare of rebellion that gripped him at this ramrod-like +Prussian’s command to defile the emblem. Yet +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span> +grip him it did. And it held him there, quivering and +purple, the strange emotion waxing more and more +overpoweringly potent at each passing fraction of a +second. Dumb and shaking he glowered down at the +amused colonel. +</p> +<p> +Von Scheurer watched him placidly for a few moments; +then with a short laugh he advanced the test. +Reaching for the sheet of paper whereon he had sketched +the flag the colonel held it lightly between the fingers +of his outstretched hands. +</p> +<p> +“It is really a very simple thing to do,” he said +carelessly, yet keeping a covert watch upon the mountaineer. +“And it is a thing that every loyal German +subject should rejoice to do. All I required was that +you first tear the emblem in two and then spit upon +it—as I do now.” +</p> +<p> +But the colonel did not suit action to words. As +his fingers tightened on the sheet of paper the dugout +echoed to a low snarl that would have done credit to a +Cumberland catamount. +</p> +<p> +And with the snarl six feet of lean and wiry bulk +shot through the air across the narrow table that separated +Cash from the colonel. +</p> +<p> +Von Scheurer with admirable presence of mind +snatched his pistol from its temporary resting place +in his lap. With the speed of the wind he seized the +weapon. But with the speed of the whirlwind Cash +Wyble was upon him, his clawlike fingers deep in the +colonel’s full throat, his hundred and sixty pounds of +bone and gristle smiting Von Scheurer on chest and +shoulder. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span> +</p> +<p> +Cash had literally risen in air and pounced on the +Prussian. Under the impact Von Scheurer’s chair +collapsed. Both men shot to earth, the colonel undermost +and the pistol flying unheeded from his grasp. +Over, too, went the table, and the electric light upon +it. And the dugout was in pitch blackness. +</p> +<p> +There in the dark Cash Wyble deliriously tackled +his prey, making queer and hideous little worrying +sounds now and then far down in his throat, like a dog +that mangles its meat. +</p> +<p> +And there the sentry from the earthen passageway +found them when he rushed in with an electric torch, +and followed by a rabble of fellow soldiers. +</p> +<p> +Cash at sound of the running footsteps jumped to +his feet. The man he had attacked was lying very +still, in a crumpled and yet sprawling heap—in a +posture never designed by Nature. +</p> +<p> +With one wild sweep of his windmill arms Cash +grabbed up the sheet of paper on which Von Scheurer +had made his life’s last sketch. With a simultaneous +sweep he knocked the glass-bulbed torch from the +sentinel, just as a rifle or two were centering their +aim toward him; and, head down, he tore into the +group of men who blocked the dugout entrance. +</p> +<p> +Cash had a faintly conscious sense of dashing down +one passageway and up another, following by forestry +instinct the course he noted when he was led into the +colonel’s presence. +</p> +<p> +He collided with a sentinel; he butted another from +his flying path. He heard yells and shots—especially +shots. Once something hit him on the shoulder, whirling +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81'></a>81</span> +him half round without breaking his stride. Again +something hot whipped him across the cheek. And at +last he was out, under the foggy stars, with excited +Germans firing in his general direction and loosing +off star shells. +</p> +<p> +Again instinct and scout skill came to the rescue +as he plunged into a bramble thicket and wriggled +through long grass on his heaving stomach. +</p> +<p> +An hour before dawn Cash Wyble was led before his +sleepy and unloving company commander. The returned +wanderer was caked with dirt and blood. His +face was scored by briers. Across one cheek ran the +red wale of a bullet. A very creditable flesh wound +adorned his left shoulder. His clothes were in ribbons. +</p> +<p> +Before the captain could frame the first of a thousand +scathing words Cash broke out pantingly: “Stick me +in the hoosgow if you’re a mind to, Cap! Stick me +there for life. Or wish me onto a kitchen-police job +forever! I’m not kickin’. It’s comin’ to me, all right, +arter what I done. +</p> +<p> +“I git the drift of the hull thing now. I’m onter +what it means. It—it means Old Glory! It means—<em>this!</em>” +</p> +<p> +He stuck out one muddy hand wherein was clutched +a wad of scratch-pad paper. +</p> +<p> +Then the company commander did a thing that +stamped him as a genius. Instead of administering +the planned rebuke and following it by sending the +wretch to the guard house he began to ask questions. +</p> +<p> +“What do you make of it all?” dazedly queried the +captain of Top Sergeant Mahan when Cash had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span> +taken to the trench hospital to have his shoulder +dressed. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” reported Mahan meditatively, “for +one thing, I take it, we’ve got a new soldier in the +company. A soldier, not a varmint. For another +thing, I take it, Uncle Sam’s got a new American on +his list of nephews. And—and, unless I’m wrong, +Kaiser Bill is short one crackajack sniper and one +perfectly good Prussian colonel too. War’s a funny +thing, sir.” +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Albert Payson Terhune</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85'></a>85</span><a name='chIV' id='chIV'></a>IV—THE CITIZEN</h2> +<p> +The President of the United States was speaking. +His audience comprised two thousand foreign-born +men who had just been admitted to citizenship. They +listened intently, their faces, aglow with the light of a +new-born patriotism, upturned to the calm, intellectual +face of the first citizen of the country they now +claimed as their own. +</p> +<p> +Here and there among the newly made citizens +were wives and children. The women were proud of +their men. They looked at them from time to time, +their faces showing pride and awe. +</p> +<p> +One little woman, sitting immediately in front of +the President, held the hand of a big, muscular man +and stroked it softly. The big man was looking at the +speaker with great blue eyes that were the eyes of a +dreamer. +</p> +<p> +The President’s words came clear and distinct: +</p> +<p> +<em>You were drawn across the ocean by some beckoning +finger of hope, by some belief, by some vision of a new +kind of justice, by some expectation of a better kind of +life. You dreamed dreams of this country, and I hope +you brought the dreams with you. A man enriches the +country to which he brings dreams, and you who have +brought them have enriched America.</em> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span> +</p> +<p> +The big man made a curious choking noise and his +wife breathed a soft “Hush!” The giant was strangely +affected. +</p> +<p> +The President continued: +</p> +<p> +<em>No doubt you have been disappointed in some of us, +but remember this, if we have grown at all poor in the +ideal, you brought some of it with you. A man does not +go out to seek the thing that is not in him. A man does +not hope for the thing that he does not believe in, and if +some of us have forgotten what America believed in, you +at any rate imported in your own hearts a renewal of the +belief. Each of you, I am sure, brought a dream, a +glorious, shining dream, a dream worth more than gold +or silver, and that is the reason that I, for one, make you +welcome.</em> +</p> +<p> +The big man’s eyes were fixed. His wife shook him +gently, but he did not heed her. He was looking +through the presidential rostrum, through the big +buildings behind it, looking out over leagues of space +to a snow-swept village that huddled on an island in +the Beresina, the swift-flowing tributary of the mighty +Dnieper, an island that looked like a black bone stuck +tight in the maw of the stream. +</p> +<p> +It was in the little village on the Beresina that the +Dream came to Ivan Berloff, Big Ivan of the Bridge. +</p> +<p> +The Dream came in the spring. All great dreams +come in the spring, and the Spring Maiden who brought +Big Ivan’s Dream was more than ordinarily beautiful. +She swept up the Beresina, trailing wondrous draperies +of vivid green. Her feet touched the snow-hardened +ground and armies of little white and blue +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87'></a>87</span> +flowers sprang up in her footsteps. Soft breezes escorted +her, velvety breezes that carried the aromas of +the far-off places from which they came, places far to +the southward, and more distant towns beyond the +Black Sea whose people were not under the sway of +the Great Czar. +</p> +<p> +The father of Big Ivan, who had fought under +Prince Menshikov at Alma fifty-five years before, +hobbled out to see the sunbeams eat up the snow +hummocks that hid in the shady places, and he told +his son it was the most wonderful spring he had ever +seen. +</p> +<p> +“The little breezes are hot and sweet,” he said, +sniffing hungrily with his face turned toward the +south. “I know them, Ivan! I know them! They +have the spice odor that I sniffed on the winds that +came to us when we lay in the trenches at Balaklava. +Praise God for the warmth!” +</p> +<p> +And that day the Dream came to Big Ivan as he +plowed. It was a wonder dream. It sprang into his +brain as he walked behind the plow, and for a few +minutes he quivered as the big bridge quivers when +the Beresina sends her ice squadrons to hammer the +arches. It made his heart pound mightily, and his +lips and throat became very dry. +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan stopped at the end of the furrow and tried +to discover what had brought the Dream. Where had +it come from? Why had it clutched him so suddenly? +Was he the only man in the village to whom it had +come? +</p> +<p> +Like his father, he sniffed the sweet-smelling breezes. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span> +He thrust his great hands into the sunbeams. He +reached down and plucked one of a bunch of white +flowers that had sprung up overnight. The Dream +was born of the breezes and the sunshine and the +spring flowers. It came from them and it had sprung +into his mind because he was young and strong. He +knew! It couldn’t come to his father or Donkov, the +tailor, or Poborino, the smith. They were old and +weak, and Ivan’s dream was one that called for youth +and strength. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, for youth and strength,” he muttered as he +gripped the plow. “And I have it!” +</p> +<p> +That evening Big Ivan of the Bridge spoke to his +wife, Anna, a little woman, who had a sweet face and +a wealth of fair hair. +</p> +<p> +“Wife, we are going away from here,” he said. +</p> +<p> +“Where are we going, Ivan?” she asked. +</p> +<p> +“Where do you think, Anna?” he said, looking +down at her as she stood by his side. +</p> +<p> +“To Bobruisk,” she murmured. +</p> +<p> +“No.” +</p> +<p> +“Farther?” +</p> +<p> +“Ay, a long way farther.” +</p> +<p> +Fear sprang into her soft eyes. Bobruisk was eighty-nine +versts away, yet Ivan said they were going farther. +</p> +<p> +“We—we are not going to Minsk?” she cried. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, and beyond Minsk!” +</p> +<p> +“Ivan, tell me!” she gasped. “Tell me where we +are going!” +</p> +<p> +“We are going to America.” +</p> +<p> +“<em>To America?</em>” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span> +</p> +<p> +“Yes, to America!” +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan of the Bridge lifted up his voice when he +cried out the words “To America,” and then a sudden +fear sprang upon him as those words dashed through +the little window out into the darkness of the village +street. Was he mad? America was 8,000 versts +away! It was far across the ocean, a place that was +only a name to him, a place where he knew no one. +He wondered in the strange little silence that followed +his words if the crippled son of Poborino, the smith, +had heard him. The cripple would jeer at him if the +night wind had carried the words to his ear. +</p> +<p> +Anna remained staring at her big husband for a few +minutes, then she sat down quietly at his side. There +was a strange look in his big blue eyes, the look of a +man to whom has come a vision, the look which came +into the eyes of those shepherds of Judea long, long +ago. +</p> +<p> +“What is it, Ivan?” she murmured softly, patting +his big hand. “Tell me.” +</p> +<p> +And Big Ivan of the Bridge, slow of tongue, told +of the Dream. To no one else would he have told it. +Anna understood. She had a way of patting his hands +and saying soft things when his tongue could not find +words to express his thoughts. +</p> +<p> +Ivan told how the Dream had come to him as he +plowed. He told her how it had sprung upon him, a +wonderful dream born of the soft breezes, of the sunshine, +of the sweet smell of the upturned sod and of +his own strength. “It wouldn’t come to weak men,” +he said, baring an arm that showed great snaky muscles +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span> +rippling beneath the clear skin. “It is a dream +that comes only to those who are strong and those who +want—who want something that they haven’t got.” +Then in a lower voice he said: “What is it that we +want, Anna?” +</p> +<p> +The little wife looked out into the darkness with +fear-filled eyes. There were spies even there in that +little village on the Beresina, and it was dangerous to +say words that might be construed into a reflection on +the Government. But she answered Ivan. She +stooped and whispered one word into his ear, and he +slapped his thigh with his big hand. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” he cried. “That is what we want! You and +I and millions like us want it, and over there, Anna, +over there we will get it. It is the country where a +muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!” +</p> +<p> +Anna stood up, took a small earthenware jar from +a side shelf, dusted it carefully and placed it upon the +mantel. From a knotted cloth about her neck she +took a ruble and dropped the coin into the jar. Big +Ivan looked at her curiously. +</p> +<p> +“It is to make legs for your Dream,” she explained. +“It is many versts to America, and one rides on rubles.” +</p> +<p> +“You are a good wife,” he said. “I was afraid that +you might laugh at me.” +</p> +<p> +“It is a great dream,” she murmured. “Come, we +will go to sleep.” +</p> +<p> +The Dream maddened Ivan during the days that +followed. It pounded within his brain as he followed +the plow. It bred a discontent that made him hate +the little village, the swift-flowing Beresina and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span> +gray stretches that ran toward Mogilev. He wanted +to be moving, but Anna had said that one rode on +rubles, and rubles were hard to find. +</p> +<p> +And in some mysterious way the village became +aware of the secret. Donkov, the tailor, discovered +it. Donkov lived in one-half of the cottage occupied +by Ivan and Anna, and Donkov had long ears. The +tailor spread the news, and Poborino, the smith, and +Yanansk, the baker, would jeer at Ivan as he passed. +</p> +<p> +“When are you going to America?” they would ask. +</p> +<p> +“Soon,” Ivan would answer. +</p> +<p> +“Take us with you!” they would cry in chorus. +</p> +<p> +“It is no place for cowards,” Ivan would answer. +“It is a long way, and only brave men can make the +journey.” +</p> +<p> +“Are you brave?” the baker screamed one day as +he went by. +</p> +<p> +“I am brave enough to want liberty!” cried Ivan +angrily. “I am brave enough to want——” +</p> +<p> +“Be careful! Be careful!” interrupted the smith. +“A long tongue has given many a man a train journey +that he never expected.” +</p> +<p> +That night Ivan and Anna counted the rubles in the +earthenware pot. The giant looked down at his wife +with a gloomy face, but she smiled and patted his hand. +</p> +<p> +“It is slow work,” he said. +</p> +<p> +“We must be patient,” she answered. “You have +the Dream.” +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” he said. “I have the Dream.” +</p> +<p> +Through the hot, languorous summertime the +Dream grew within the brain of Big Ivan. He saw +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span> +visions in the smoky haze that hung above the Beresina. +At times he would stand, hoe in hand, and +look toward the west, the wonderful west into which +the sun slipped down each evening like a coin dropped +from the fingers of the dying day. +</p> +<p> +Autumn came, and the fretful whining winds that +came down from the north chilled the Dream. The +winds whispered of the coming of the Snow King, and +the river grumbled as it listened. Big Ivan kept out +of the way of Poborino, the smith, and Yanansk, the +baker. The Dream was still with him, but autumn is +a bad time for dreams. +</p> +<p> +Winter came, and the Dream weakened. It was +only the earthenware pot that kept it alive, the pot +into which the industrious Anna put every coin that +could be spared. Often Big Ivan would stare at the +pot as he sat beside the stove. The pot was the cord +which kept the Dream alive. +</p> +<p> +“You are a good woman, Anna,” Ivan would say +again and again. “It was you who thought of saving +the rubles.” +</p> +<p> +“But it was you who dreamed,” she would answer. +“Wait for the spring, husband mine. Wait.” +</p> +<p> +It was strange how the spring came to the Beresina +that year. It sprang upon the flanks of winter before +the Ice King had given the order to retreat into the +fastnesses of the north. It swept up the river escorted +by a million little breezes, and housewives opened +their windows and peered out with surprise upon their +faces. A wonderful guest had come to them and +found them unprepared. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span> +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan of the Bridge was fixing a fence in the +meadow on the morning the Spring Maiden reached +the village. For a little while he was not aware of her +arrival. His mind was upon his work, but suddenly +he discovered that he was hot, and he took off his +overcoat. He turned to hang the coat upon a bush, +then he sniffed the air, and a puzzled look came upon +his face. He sniffed again, hurriedly, hungrily. He +drew in great breaths of it, and his eyes shone with a +strange light. It was wonderful air. It brought life +to the Dream. It rose up within him, ten times more +lusty than on the day it was born, and his limbs trembled +as he drew in the hot, scented breezes that breed +the <em>Wanderlust</em> and shorten the long trails of the +world. +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan clutched his coat and ran to the little +cottage. He burst through the door, startling Anna, +who was busy with her housework. +</p> +<p> +“The Spring!” he cried. “<em>The Spring!</em>” +</p> +<p> +He took her arm and dragged her to the door. Standing +together they sniffed the sweet breezes. In silence +they listened to the song of the river. The Beresina +had changed from a whining, fretful tune into a lilting, +sweet song that would set the legs of lovers dancing. +Anna pointed to a green bud on a bush beside the +door. +</p> +<p> +“It came this minute,” she murmured. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Ivan. “The little fairies brought it +there to show us that spring has come to stay.” +</p> +<p> +Together they turned and walked to the mantel. +Big Ivan took up the earthenware pot, carried it to the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span> +table, and spilled its contents upon the well-scrubbed +boards. He counted while Anna stood beside him, her +fingers clutching his coarse blouse. It was a slow +business, because Ivan’s big blunt fingers were not +used to such work, but it was over at last. He stacked +the coins into neat piles, then he straightened himself +and turned to the woman at his side. +</p> +<p> +“It is enough,” he said quietly. “We will go at +once. If it was not enough, we would have to go because +the Dream is upon me and I hate this place.” +</p> +<p> +“As you say,” murmured Anna. “The wife of +Littin, the butcher, will buy our chairs and our bed. +I spoke to her yesterday.” +</p> +<p> +Poborino, the smith; his crippled son; Yanansk, +the baker; Donkov, the tailor, and a score of others +were out upon the village street on the morning that +Big Ivan and Anna set out. They were inclined to +jeer at Ivan, but something upon the face of the giant +made them afraid. Hand in hand the big man and +his wife walked down the street, their faces turned +toward Bobruisk, Ivan balancing upon his head a +heavy trunk that no other man in the village could +have lifted. +</p> +<p> +At the end of the street a stripling with bright eyes +and yellow curls clutched the hand of Ivan and looked +into his face. +</p> +<p> +“I know what is sending you,” he cried. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, <em>you</em> know,” said Ivan, looking into the eyes +of the other. +</p> +<p> +“It came to me yesterday,” murmured the stripling. +“I got it from the breezes. They are free, so are the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span> +birds and the little clouds and the river. I wish I +could go.” +</p> +<p> +“Keep your dream,” said Ivan softly. “Nurse it, +for it is the dream of a man.” +</p> +<p> +Anna, who was crying softly, touched the blouse of +the boy. “At the back of our cottage, near the bush +that bears the red berries, a pot is buried,” she said. +“Dig it up and take it home with you and when you +have a kopeck drop it in. It is a good pot.” +</p> +<p> +The stripling understood. He stooped and kissed +the hand of Anna, and Big Ivan patted him upon the +back. They were brother dreamers and they understood +each other. +</p> +<p> +Boris Lugan has sung the song of the versts that +eat up one’s courage as well as the leather of one’s +shoes. +</p> +<p> + “Versts! Versts! Scores and scores of them!<br /> + Versts! Versts! A million or more of them!<br /> + Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it<br /> + Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it.”<br /> +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan and Anna faced the long versts to Bobruisk, +but they were not afraid of the dust devils. They had +the Dream. It made their hearts light and took the +weary feeling from their feet. They were on their way. +America was a long, long journey, but they had started, +and every verst they covered lessened the number +that lay between them and the Promised Land. +</p> +<p> +“I am glad the boy spoke to us,” said Anna. +</p> +<p> +“And I am glad,” said Ivan. “Some day he will +come and eat with us in America.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96'></a>96</span> +</p> +<p> +They came to Bobruisk. Holding hands, they +walked into it late one afternoon. They were eighty-nine +versts from the little village on the Beresina, but +they were not afraid. The Dream spoke to Ivan, and +his big hand held the hand of Anna. The railway ran +through Bobruisk, and that evening they stood and +looked at the shining rails that went out in the moonlight +like silver tongs reaching out for a low-hanging +star. +</p> +<p> +And they came face to face with the Terror that +evening, the Terror that had helped the spring breezes +and the sunshine to plant the Dream in the brain of +Big Ivan. +</p> +<p> +They were walking down a dark side street when +they saw a score of men and women creep from the +door of a squat, unpainted building. The little group +remained on the sidewalk for a minute as if uncertain +about the way they should go, then from the corner of +the street came a cry of “Police!” and the twenty +pedestrians ran in different directions. +</p> +<p> +It was no false alarm. Mounted police charged +down the dark thoroughfare swinging their swords as +they rode at the scurrying men and women who raced +for shelter. Big Ivan dragged Anna into a doorway, +and toward their hiding place ran a young boy who, +like themselves, had no connection with the group and +who merely desired to get out of harm’s way till the +storm was over. +</p> +<p> +The boy was not quick enough to escape the charge. +A trooper pursued him, overtook him before he reached +the sidewalk, and knocked him down with a quick +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span> +stroke given with the flat of his blade. His horse +struck the boy with one of his hoofs as the lad stumbled +on his face. +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan growled like an angry bear, and sprang +from his hiding place. The trooper’s horse had carried +him on to the sidewalk, and Ivan seized the bridle and +flung the animal on its haunches. The policeman +leaned forward to strike at the giant, but Ivan of the +Bridge gripped the left leg of the horseman and tore +him from his saddle. +</p> +<p> +The horse galloped off, leaving its rider lying beside +the moaning boy who was unlucky enough to be in a +street where a score of students were holding a meeting. +</p> +<p> +Anna dragged Ivan back into the passageway. +More police were charging down the street, and their +position was a dangerous one. +</p> +<p> +“Ivan!” she cried, “Ivan! Remember the Dream! +America, Ivan! <em>America!</em> Come this way! <em>Quick!</em>” +</p> +<p> +With strong hands she dragged him down the passage. +It opened into a narrow lane, and, holding each +other’s hands, they hurried toward the place where +they had taken lodgings. From far off came screams +and hoarse orders, curses and the sound of galloping +hoofs. The Terror was abroad. +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan spoke softly as they entered the little room +they had taken. “He had a face like the boy to whom +you gave the lucky pot,” he said. “Did you notice +it in the moonlight when the trooper struck him +down?” +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. “I saw.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span> +</p> +<p> +They left Bobruisk next morning. They rode away +on a great, puffing, snorting train that terrified Anna. +The engineer turned a stopcock as they were passing +the engine, and Anna screamed while Ivan nearly +dropped the big trunk. The engineer grinned, but the +giant looked up at him and the grin faded. Ivan of the +Bridge was startled by the rush of hot steam, but he +was afraid of no man. +</p> +<p> +The train went roaring by little villages and great +pasture stretches. The real journey had begun. They +began to love the powerful engine. It was eating up +the versts at a tremendous rate. They looked at each +other from time to time and smiled like two children. +</p> +<p> +They came to Minsk, the biggest town they had +ever seen. They looked out from the car windows at +the miles of wooden buildings, at the big church of St. +Catharine, and the woolen mills. Minsk would have +frightened them if they hadn’t had the Dream. The +farther they went from the little village on the Beresina +the more courage the Dream gave to them. +</p> +<p> +On and on went the train, the wheels singing the +song of the road. Fellow travelers asked them where +they were going. “To America,” Ivan would answer. +</p> +<p> +“To America?” they would cry. “May the little +saints guide you. It is a long way, and you will be +lonely.” +</p> +<p> +“No, we shall not be lonely,” Ivan would say. +</p> +<p> +“Ha! you are going with friends?” +</p> +<p> +“No, we have no friends, but we have something +that keeps us from being lonely.” And when Ivan +would make that reply Anna would pat his hand and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span> +the questioner would wonder if it was a charm or a +holy relic that the bright-eyed couple possessed. +</p> +<p> +They ran through Vilna, on through flat stretches +of Courland to Libau, where they saw the sea. They +sat and stared at it for a whole day, talking little but +watching it with wide, wondering eyes. And they +stared at the great ships that came rocking in from +distant ports, their sides gray with the salt from the +big combers which they had battled with. +</p> +<p> +No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the +brave ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose +dreams are like the guiding sign that was given to the +Israelites of old—a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of +fire by night. +</p> +<p> +The harbor master spoke to Ivan and Anna as they +watched the restless waters. +</p> +<p> +“Where are you going, children?” +</p> +<p> +“To America,” answered Ivan. +</p> +<p> +“A long way. Three ships bound for America went +down last month.” +</p> +<p> +“Ours will not sink,” said Ivan. +</p> +<p> +“Why?” +</p> +<p> +“Because I know it will not.” +</p> +<p> +The harbor master looked at the strange blue eyes +of the giant, and spoke softly. “You have the eyes +of a man who sees things,” he said. “There was a +Norwegian sailor in the <em>White Queen</em>, who had eyes +like yours, and he could see death.” +</p> +<p> +“I see life!” said Ivan boldly. “A free life——” +</p> +<p> +“Hush!” said the harbor master. “Do not speak +so loud.” He walked swiftly away, but he dropped a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span> +ruble into Anna’s hand as he passed her by. “For +luck,” he murmured. “May the little saints look +after you on the big waters.” +</p> +<p> +They boarded the ship, and the Dream gave them +a courage that surprised them. There were others +going aboard, and Ivan and Anna felt that those others +were also persons who possessed dreams. She saw the +dreams in their eyes. There were Slavs, Poles, Letts, +Jews, and Livonians, all bound for the land where +dreams come true. They were a little afraid—not two +per cent of them had ever seen a ship before—yet their +dreams gave them courage. +</p> +<p> +The emigrant ship was dragged from her pier by a +grunting tug and went floundering down the Baltic +Sea. Night came down, and the devils who, according +to the Esthonian fishermen, live in the bottom of the +Baltic, got their shoulders under the stern of the ship +and tried to stand her on her head. They whipped up +white combers that sprang on her flanks and tried to +crush her, and the wind played a devil’s lament in her +rigging. Anna lay sick in the stuffy women’s quarters, +and Ivan could not get near her. But he sent her +messages. He told her not to mind the sea devils, to +think of the Dream, the Great Dream that would +become real in the land to which they were bound. +Ivan of the Bridge grew to full stature on that first +night out from Libau. The battered old craft that +carried him slouched before the waves that swept over +her decks, but he was not afraid. Down among the +million and one smells of the steerage he induced a +thin-faced Livonian to play upon a mouth organ, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101'></a>101</span> +Big Ivan sang Paleer’s “Song of Freedom” in a voice +that drowned the creaking of the old vessel’s timbers, +and made the seasick ones forget their sickness. They +sat up in their berths and joined in the chorus, their +eyes shining brightly in the half gloom: +</p> +<p> + “Freedom for serf and for slave,<br /> + Freedom for all men who crave<br /> + Their right to be free<br /> + And who hate to bend knee<br /> + But to Him who this right to them gave.”<br /> +</p> +<p> +It was well that these emigrants had dreams. They +wanted them. The sea devils chased the lumbering +steamer. They hung to her bows and pulled her +for’ard deck under emerald-green rollers. They clung +to her stern and hoisted her nose till Big Ivan thought +that he could touch the door of heaven by standing on +her blunt snout. Miserable, cold, ill, and sleepless, +the emigrants crouched in their quarters, and to them +Ivan and the thin-faced Livonian sang the “Song of +Freedom.” +</p> +<p> +The emigrant ship pounded through the Cattegat, +swung southward through the Skagerrack and the +bleak North Sea. But the storm pursued her. The +big waves snarled and bit at her, and the captain and +the chief officer consulted with each other. They +decided to run into the Thames, and the harried +steamer nosed her way in and anchored off Gravesend. +</p> +<p> +An examination was made, and the agents decided +to transship the emigrants. They were taken to London +and thence by train to Liverpool, and Ivan and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span> +Anna sat again side by side, holding hands and smiling +at each other as the third-class emigrant train from +Euston raced down through the green Midland counties +to grimy Liverpool. +</p> +<p> +“You are not afraid?” Ivan would say to her each +time she looked at him. +</p> +<p> +“It is a long way, but the Dream has given me +much courage,” she said. +</p> +<p> +“To-day I spoke to a Lett whose brother works in +New York City,” said the giant. “Do you know how +much money he earns each day?” +</p> +<p> +“How much?” she questioned. +</p> +<p> +“Three rubles, and he calls the policemen by their +first names.” +</p> +<p> +“You will earn five rubles, my Ivan,” she murmured. +“There is no one as strong as you.” +</p> +<p> +Once again they were herded into the bowels of a +big ship that steamed away through the fog banks of +the Mersey out into the Irish Sea. There were more +dreamers now, nine hundred of them, and Anna and +Ivan were more comfortable. And these new emigrants, +English, Irish, Scotch, French, and German, +knew much concerning America. Ivan was certain +that he would earn at least three rubles a day. He was +very strong. +</p> +<p> +On the deck he defeated all comers in a tug of war, +and the captain of the ship came up to him and felt his +muscles. +</p> +<p> +“The country that lets men like you get away +from it is run badly,” he said. “Why did you leave +it?” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span> +</p> +<p> +The interpreter translated what the captain said, +and through the interpreter Ivan answered. +</p> +<p> +“I had a Dream,” he said, “a Dream of freedom.” +</p> +<p> +“Good,” cried the captain. “Why should a man +with muscles like yours have his face ground into the +dust?” +</p> +<p> +The soul of Big Ivan grew during those days. He +felt himself a man, a man who was born upright to +speak his thoughts without fear. +</p> +<p> +The ship rolled into Queenstown one bright morning, +and Ivan and his nine hundred steerage companions +crowded the for’ard deck. A boy in a rowboat +threw a line to the deck, and after it had been fastened +to a stanchion he came up hand over hand. The +emigrants watched him curiously. An old woman +sitting in the boat pulled off her shoes, sat in a loop of +the rope, and lifted her hand as a signal to her son on +deck. +</p> +<p> +“Hey, fellers,” said the boy, “help me pull me +muvver up. She wants to sell a few dozen apples, an’ +they won’t let her up the gangway!” +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan didn’t understand the words, but he +guessed what the boy wanted. He made one of a half +dozen who gripped the rope and started to pull the +ancient apple woman to the deck. +</p> +<p> +They had her halfway up the side when an undersized +third officer discovered what they were doing. +He called to a steward, and the steward sprang to +obey. +</p> +<p> +“Turn a hose on her!” cried the officer. “Turn a +hose on the old woman!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span> +</p> +<p> +The steward rushed for the hose. He ran with it +to the side of the ship with the intention of squirting +the old woman, who was swinging in midair and exhorting +the six men who were dragging her to the +deck. +</p> +<p> +“Pull!” she cried. “Sure, I’ll give every one of ye +a rosy red apple an’ me blessing with it.” +</p> +<p> +The steward aimed the muzzle of the hose, and Big +Ivan of the Bridge let go of the rope and sprang at him. +The fist of the great Russian went out like a battering +ram; it struck the steward between the eyes, and he +dropped upon the deck. He lay like one dead, the +muzzle of the hose wriggling from his limp hands. +</p> +<p> +The third officer and the interpreter rushed at Big +Ivan, who stood erect, his hands clenched. +</p> +<p> +“Ask the big swine why he did it,” roared the +officer. +</p> +<p> +“Because he is a coward!” cried Ivan. “They +wouldn’t do that in America!” +</p> +<p> +“What does the big brute know about America?” +cried the officer. +</p> +<p> +“Tell him I have dreamed of it,” shouted Ivan. +“Tell him it is in my Dream. Tell him I will kill him +if he turns the water upon this old woman.” +</p> +<p> +The apple seller was on deck then, and with the +wisdom of the Celt she understood. She put her lean +hand upon the great head of the Russian and blessed +him in Gaelic. Ivan bowed before her, then as she +offered him a rosy apple he led her toward Anna, a +great Viking leading a withered old woman who walked +with the grace of a duchess. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span> +</p> +<p> +“Please don’t touch him,” she cried, turning to the +officer. “We have been waiting for your ship for six +hours, and we have only five dozen apples to sell. It’s +a great man he is. Sure he’s as big as Finn MacCool.” +</p> +<p> +Some one pulled the steward behind a ventilator +and revived him by squirting him with water from the +hose which he had tried to turn upon the old woman. +The third officer slipped quietly away. +</p> +<p> +The Atlantic was kind to the ship that carried Ivan +and Anna. Through sunny days they sat up on deck +and watched the horizon. They wanted to be among +those who would get the first glimpse of the wonderland. +</p> +<p> +They saw it on a morning with sunshine and soft +winds. Standing together in the bow, they looked at +the smear upon the horizon, and their eyes filled with +tears. They forgot the long road to Bobruisk, the +rocking journey to Libau, the mad buckjumping boat +in whose timbers the sea devils of the Baltic had bored +holes. Everything unpleasant was forgotten, because +the Dream filled them with a great happiness. +</p> +<p> +The inspectors at Ellis Island were interested in +Ivan. They walked around him and prodded his +muscles, and he smiled down upon them good-naturedly. +</p> +<p> +“A fine animal,” said one. “Gee, he’s a new white +hope! Ask him can he fight?” +</p> +<p> +An interpreter put the question, and Ivan nodded. +“I have fought,” he said. +</p> +<p> +“Gee!” cried the inspector. “Ask him was it for +purses or what?” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106'></a>106</span> +</p> +<p> +“For freedom,” answered Ivan. “For freedom to +stretch my legs and straighten my neck!” +</p> +<p> +Ivan and Anna left the Government ferryboat at the +Battery. They started to walk uptown, making for +the East Side, Ivan carrying the big trunk that no +other man could lift. +</p> +<p> +It was a wonderful morning. The city was bathed +in warm sunshine, and the well-dressed men and +women who crowded the sidewalks made the two +immigrants think that it was a festival day. Ivan and +Anna stared at each other in amazement. They had +never seen such dresses as those worn by the smiling +women who passed them by; they had never seen +such well-groomed men. +</p> +<p> +“It is a feast day for certain,” said Anna. +</p> +<p> +“They are dressed like princes and princesses,” +murmured Ivan. “There are no poor here, Anna. +None.” +</p> +<p> +Like two simple children, they walked along the +streets of the City of Wonder. What a contrast it was +to the gray, stupid towns where the Terror waited to +spring upon the cowed people. In Bobruisk, Minsk, +Vilna, and Libau the people were sullen and afraid. +They walked in dread, but in the City of Wonder +beside the glorious Hudson every person seemed happy +and contented. +</p> +<p> +They lost their way, but they walked on, looking at +the wonderful shop windows, the roaring elevated +trains, and the huge skyscrapers. Hours afterward +they found themselves in Fifth Avenue near Thirty-third +Street, and there the miracle happened to the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span> +two Russian immigrants. It was a big miracle inasmuch +as it proved the Dream a truth, a great truth. +</p> +<p> +Ivan and Anna attempted to cross the avenue, but +they became confused in the snarl of traffic. They +dodged backward and forward as the stream of automobiles +swept by them. Anna screamed, and, in response +to her scream, a traffic policeman, resplendent in a +new uniform, rushed to her side. He took the arm +of Anna and flung up a commanding hand. The +charging autos halted. For five blocks north and +south they jammed on the brakes when the unexpected +interruption occurred, and Big Ivan gasped. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t be flurried, little woman,” said the cop. +“Sure I can tame ’em by liftin’ me hand.” +</p> +<p> +Anna didn’t understand what he said, but she knew +it was something nice by the manner in which his Irish +eyes smiled down upon her. And in front of the waiting +automobiles he led her with the same care that he +would give to a duchess, while Ivan, carrying the big +trunk, followed them, wondering much. Ivan’s mind +went back to Bobruisk on the night the Terror was +abroad. +</p> +<p> +The policeman led Anna to the sidewalk, patted +Ivan good-naturedly upon the shoulder, and then with +a sharp whistle unloosed the waiting stream of cars +that had been held up so that two Russian immigrants +could cross the avenue. +</p> +<p> +Big Ivan of the Bridge took the trunk from his head +and put it on the ground. He reached out his arms +and folded Anna in a great embrace. His eyes were +wet. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span> +</p> +<p> +“The Dream is true!” he cried. “Did you see, +Anna? We are as good as they! This is the land where +a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!” +</p> +<p> +The President was nearing the close of his address. +Anna shook Ivan, and Ivan came out of the trance +which the President’s words had brought upon him. +He sat up and listened intently: +</p> +<p> +<em>We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. +They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the +red fire of a long winter’s evening. Some of us let those +great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them, +nurse them through bad days till they bring them to the +sunshine and light which comes always to those who +sincerely hope that their dreams will come true.</em> +</p> +<p> +The President finished. For a moment he stood +looking down at the faces turned up to him, and Big +Ivan of the Bridge thought that the President smiled +at him. Ivan seized Anna’s hand and held it tight. +</p> +<p> +“He knew of my Dream!” he cried. “He knew of +it. Did you hear what he said about the dreams of a +spring day?” +</p> +<p> +“Of course he knew,” said Anna. “He is the wisest +man in America, where there are many wise men. +Ivan, you are a citizen now.” +</p> +<p> +“And you are a citizen, Anna.” +</p> +<p> +The band started to play “My Country, ’tis of +Thee,” and Ivan and Anna got to their feet. Standing +side by side, holding hands, they joined in with the +others who had found after long days of journeying +the blessed land where dreams come true. +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>James Francis Dwyer</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109'></a>109</span><a name='chV' id='chV'></a>V—THE INDIAN OF THE RESERVATION</h2> +<p> +The big, square, barren, rude room which in its +existence had progressed from store to schoolroom +and on to council hall, was filled to overflowing with a +throng of anachronous humanity, rank on rank, tier +behind tier. There was the sound of moccasins slipping +grittily over the knotty floor, of the dull, rhythmic +thudding of a mother’s foot as she trotted her fretful +baby, the rustling of soft garments, the stirring of +unhurried bodies, the hissing of stealthy whispers. +Here and there two Indians might be seen conversing +in the sign language; their hands, shielded from sight +by encircling backs, were lifted scarcely above the +level of their laps. +</p> +<p> +The people were massed one might say ethnologically. +The main part of the crowd was Indian, squatting, +seated on benches, or standing leaning against +the walls. The two tribes sat separately, as did also +the sexes of each. To right and left at the tapering +ends of the rows were the mixed-bloods, dressed mainly +like the whites except that their garments looked more +home-made, more patternless, more illy put. Then +quite at one end of the room and grouped about the +chairman’s table sat the whites; school and Agency +employees, traders, soldiers, ranch neighbors; an indifferent, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span> +self-seeking, heterogeneous group. In the +midst of these last, dapper, conspicuously well-dressed, +and well-groomed, presided the inspector from Washington. +His old, dignified face, slightly pompous, +was crowned with gray hair brushed back from his +brow. His hands rested squarely upon his knees. By +his side, taking notes, sat his stenographer, his glance +half curious and half supercilious playing constantly +over the faces of the throng. At either end of the little +table behind which sat the inspector, were stationed +the interpreters, one for each tribe. The eyes of these +men were searching, though their lips seemed to mock +slightly, and when they spoke, rising to interpret, even +though they passed on the phrases with a certain +guarded vehemence, they seemed consciously to preserve +a detached attitude, as do those who speak but +will not be held accountable for what they say. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps the arrangement that caused the mixed-bloods +and the other younger Indians to be the first +to deliver their speeches was intentional on the part of +someone. At any rate one by one they arose, in overalls, +in spurs, in bright neckerchiefs, differing from +each other in type and temperament, as differed also +those two tribes, and indeed, the two races, represented +there within the council room. +</p> +<p> +Occasionally after some speech the inspector would +get up and pronounce in continuance a few elucidating +words. He gesticulated slightly and conventionally. +He bent a little toward the interpreters, each in turn. +His words came slowly and with unction. +</p> +<p> +The subject of the council was the desire of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111'></a>111</span> +Indian Bureau to throw open to white settlement a +half of the reservation. The mixed-bloods and the +younger Indians were, though they spoke but briefly, +in accord in favoring the execution of the plan. Their +words, however, from some lack in themselves of +knowledge or of conviction, were not uttered in a +manner calculated to tip the scale greatly their way. +</p> +<p> +“It’s a question of water rights,” they said. “We +must have money to buy those rights and how else can +we obtain it? It’s an obligation to our children.” +</p> +<p> +Again and again the same note was struck. One by +one the young men arose, and one by one sat down +again. The interpreters mopped their tired brows. +The inspector sipped frequently from a glass of water +upon his table. +</p> +<p> +The air was full of the odor of people, pungent with +the herb perfume worn by the Indians in little sacks +sewed to the clothing, acrid with the smell of sage +clinging to shawls and dresses, with the flavor of +smoke-tanned buckskin. A half-open window let in +a little fitful breeze that played wantonly with the +dust showing in the sunlight of the upper reaches of +the room, flirting and whisking about the heads of +the throng. +</p> +<p> +At last it came time for the weightier speeches, for +those of the councilmen, of the chiefs, of indeed the +older men of the two tribes, the patriarchs of this +patriarchal people. +</p> +<p> +“Sell our land?” they cried. “Retreat? Give up? +Be forced into contact with intermingling whites? +Take money in place of our land? What, money for +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span> +the good of these traders who will get it all from us +in the end?” Their old faces hardened; their eyes +flamed. “Give up? Retreat? Move on? Abrogate +the old promises, the old treaties? What, <em>again?</em>” +Their lips twisted bitterly. “Do you not know, does +not the Great Father at Washington know, that all we +ask now of life is a little land, a little peace, a little +place wherein to live quietly our quiet life, and in the +end a little ground for our narrow bed? Move on! +That we think was the first word the whites—” the +“outsiders,” the “aliens,” was the name they in the Indian +tongue gave this other race—“said to us. It seems +they are saying it yet.” The soft bitter voices ceased; +the old men sank into their seats, the interpreters, too, +relaxed, wiping their faces. +</p> +<p> +The inspector stood up cautiously, apologetically +even. “But these old men, the chiefs, do not seem to +have caught the point. The whole question of selling +or not selling turns on the matter of their water rights; +on theirs and their children’s as has been said. Land +even in this beautiful Wyoming valley is a mockery +without water. They can I am sure understand that; +water they must have.” +</p> +<p> +An old chief rose solemnly, turned deep, scornful +eyes upon the inspector. “Let the white man from +Washington go but a mile yonder,” extended arm +pointed that way, “and he will see the river that flows +down our valley and waters our land. It is there. It +is ours. It is born in these mountains above us. God +made them, I suppose as he made it. It is ours.” +</p> +<p> +Along the packed rows there was a slight stirring. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span> +</p> +<p> +Patiently again the inspector arose. “I know that it +is hard for the old people to understand that having +<em>water</em> does not necessarily mean having <em>rights</em> to that +water. There exist hundreds of white men below you, +beyond the border of your reservation, who have taken +up claims along this same stream and who have filed +on its water prior to any Indian having done so. The +State must recognize this priority. The whites have +filed on the water and have paid the dues. Beside +that as the law stands now the Indians cannot individually +take out water rights. I know that you will say +that when this reservation was given to these two +tribes, a matter of a generation and a half ago, the +water was included with the land, ‘to the center of the +streams bordering the reservation,’ as your old treaty +reads. But times and conditions have changed since +then. At that period the Federal Government controlled +the water of Wyoming, now its disposition +has been turned over to the State. Where the Indians +stand in this matter has never been decided by law.” +</p> +<p> +The mixed-bloods who understood at least partially, +shifted uneasily. +</p> +<p> +“But now—although the question of priority has +still not been decided—the Indian Bureau—which I +represent—says that you as a tribe may buy your +water rights. For this you must have money.” He +named a sum reaching far into the thousands. “The +sale of your land will bring you this amount of money, +at least. This thing is intricate and impossible I believe +to elucidate to the older people, your leaders. +They must, I fear, just hear my statements and, if +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span> +they can, believe.” With his hands he made a deprecating +little gesture. Then he sat down. +</p> +<p> +There was silence in the room, complete save for a +slight stirring, the sound of deep breathing, and the +fretting, here and there, of a hungry child. +</p> +<p> +Finally at the back of the room, by some shifting of +his pose, by thrusting himself forward beyond the +relief of his line, an Indian made his presence known. +He was a man of powerful build, of nobly moulded +head; his hair instead of having been braided, had been +gathered forward into two loosely twisted strands; his +eyes showed, speculative yet keen, his mouth was +sharply chiseled though withal soft in its lines, and +there was a kindly look on his face which gave somehow +the impression of the morning light seen upon the +rugged side of a great mountain. In age he seemed to +be between the young and the old. +</p> +<p> +As he made his presence known there was a slow +turning of the heads in his direction, a slight tensing +of the crowd. The old chiefs appeared suddenly eager +and filled with hope; as for the younger men and the +mixed-bloods they glanced at him and looked away +again, as if, sighing they said: “Another on the wrong +side. Ah, the blind old men!” +</p> +<p> +Then he spoke. His voice was deep, very virile, +carefully subdued as something held in leash, and yet +through it there seemed to run a tremor, a quaver +almost, that gave an impression of strange intensity. +</p> +<p> +I repeat his words with elision. +</p> +<p> +“I am not one of the old men,” he said, “and yet I +can easily remember the time when this valley, these +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115'></a>115</span> +mountains, were ours; not because someone had given +them to us, but because we had taken them for ourselves, +because our arrows flew straightest, our spears +reached furthest, our horsemen rode fastest, our hearts +were bravest.” +</p> +<p> +Here several of the old men grunted sympathetically. +More and more the faces of the throng were turned +toward the speaker. +</p> +<p> +“Then everything was changed. The strangers came +like a flood, like our rivers in the spring; they surged +over us and they left us—as we are. Perhaps this was +the will of the Stranger-on-High, we cannot tell.... +But these strangers on earth were not altogether unkind +to us. For what they took they gave a sort of +compensation. It was as though they carried away +from us fat buffaloes and then handed to us in exchange +each a little slice of their meat. They deprived +us of our valley and our mountains but instead they +gave us each eighty acres of the land. Then they sent +more strangers with chains and three-legged toys to +measure these off correctly for us. They gave us wire +for our fences but only enough so that we must spend +much money for more. They gave us seed, but also +so little that we were driven to buy more. We worked—some +of us with the chains and three-legged toys—some +at the ditches, every way we could, for now we +needed a new thing—something of which we had +before known nothing, <em>money</em>. We received it—and +then we spent it.” +</p> +<p> +Again faint grunts and groans encouraged him. +</p> +<p> +“For we cannot keep money long. We are children. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span> +This the Great Father in Washington understands, +and also that our ears are dull, that our eyes cannot +read his written words. Therefore, in his kindness, +he sends to us this man to speak to us face to face.” +He turned his slow gaze upon the inspector. In his +eyes was the look of mockery. “We have listened to +his words. But what has he said to us? ‘Give up the +eighty acres, for your children to be born, give up the +money you earned and spent, give up your homes; as +you gave up this valley and these mountains. The +white men need them. Your day is past. But I am +not unkind. Without compensation I will not deprive +you. See, I will give you even a little more money—’” +He stopped abruptly. His eyes drooped, his shoulders, +his hands, the whole man. +</p> +<p> +A strained silence had fallen upon the room, +smothered it. From it escaped the faint sighing of the +younger men. The chiefs stiffened as they sat. +</p> +<p> +By an effort the speaker seemed to rouse himself. +He stared strangely about the room. “There was a +little boy once,” he said, and his voice had grown +dreamy, slightly high in pitch, “and this little boy held +his hand out toward the flames, nearer,—I saw it—the +fire was so pretty, so warm, it danced, purred, +sparkled. His hand crept nearer, nearer. His father +watched him. At the last moment he caught him and +pulled him away. The child cried then, he struggled +in his father’s arms, he pushed away from him, he +fought. Again he reached out toward the flame. But +finally he looked up into the man’s face and suddenly +it seemed to dawn on him that, although he could not +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span> +understand, this was indeed his father, old and wise +and loving; and that he, by comparison, was only a +little misguided child....” The strange, vibrant +voice dwindled, broke. The speaker made a wide gesture +toward the attentive inspector, held it while the +interpreters got forth in English his last sentence. +Then he sank back into his old place against the wall; +with one bent hand he wiped the sweat from his brow. +</p> +<p> +A faint sound of muttering passed over the room; +old fierce eyes were veiled, young keen ones peered incredulously. +But the inspector was on his feet on +the instant, his hand outstretched to grasp the golden +moment. +</p> +<p> +“There is no more to be said,” he cried. “Our ears +are ringing with words. Our hearts are full. I have +here, prepared, a paper. Let those who for their own +good and the good of their children are of a mind to +sell, now sign it.” +</p> +<p> +Slowly, amidst moving and murmuring, the long +paper, in the hands of one of the interpreters, made its +deliberate rounds. Difficult signatures were inscribed +in slow succession. Ancient, unaccustomed hands, deft +enough with spear or bow, grasped awkwardly the +pen and with it made their wavering “mark.” +</p> +<p> +Some there were of the old men, indeed the majority +of them, who wrapping their blankets about them +arose, and shambling, withdrew, aloof and soundless. +</p> +<p> +Like a shaken kaleidoscope the council broke up. +</p> +<p> +The inspector leaned back in his chair, a hand +shielding the working of his mouth. His eyes searched +the variegated, dissolving throng. The stenographer, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span> +still seated and playing with his idle pencil, shot him +an understanding glance. +</p> +<p> +Later the Half-breed, standing on the board walk +outside the trading store, a box of crackers in one hand, +a paper containing pickles in the other, was lunching +heartily. Suddenly he shifted everything into his left +hand and strode down into the road. For in company +with his wife and a young son the last of the speakers +was passing. +</p> +<p> +The Half-breed’s extended hand grasped the Indian’s. +</p> +<p> +“I thank you for what you said,” he cried. “It was +a noble thing to have done. You faced them all; the +old timers, the chiefs, public opinion, prejudice. And +you won. It was a brave act.” +</p> +<p> +The rugged, illuminated face was turned to him, the +deep eyes rested squarely upon his. “You have perhaps +forgotten,” he said. “You are younger than I am and +too you have been for a long time with the whites—but +I remember well the time when we were boys and our +great head-chief Black Star used to sit and talk with +us. Yes, you have perhaps forgotten,” he repeated, +and his look, just touched with yearning, rested upon +the younger man. “But I remember—I have never +forgotten what he used to say to us. ‘Be brave,’ he +would tell us. ‘That is the chief thing to learn; to do +what each one believes is right, to speak for the right, +everywhere, always. To be fearless of tongues, of +persecution, to take counsel with our own minds and +being sure to speak out surely. That,’ he always said +to us, ‘and that only, is the man’s part.’” +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Grace Coolidge</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span><a name='chVI' id='chVI'></a>VI—THE NIGHT ATTACK</h2> +<p> +When B Company marched out of the camp for +the morning skirmish practice, Tom Kennedy of squad +five was feeling depressed. His corporal, John Wheeler, +had just given him a scolding, and now wore a stern +expression on his youthful yet somehow granite-like +countenance. Kennedy, glancing out of the corner of +his eye, saw and interpreted the expression. +</p> +<p> +He was a thin, pale youth, who had gone from high +school into the bank, where he was employed in a +humble capacity as clerk. His lack of physical strength +had prevented him from taking part in school athletics; +the impecuniosity of his family had kept him from a +share in many healthful, boyish activities. He had +been a bookish boy and had shown himself quick at +figures; many of his classmates envied him when, after +graduation, a subordinate place in the First National +Bank had been given him. In his second year of service +there he was promoted to a clerkship; and when +the bank announced its willingness to let some of its +employees attend the military training camp, Kennedy +had presented himself as a volunteer. +</p> +<p> +Without experience in the handling of arms, without +natural dexterity and without the self-confidence that +a boy derives from participation in sports or from a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span> +life outdoors, Kennedy was not the most promising of +“rookies.” He would have made a better showing in +the early drills perhaps had he been less concerned +with the dread of being regarded as a “dub.” What +made him especially self-conscious was the fact that +his corporal was the son of the president of the First +National Bank. It seemed to Kennedy, inexperienced +youth that he was, that his whole future might depend +on the impression he made on the president’s son. +</p> +<p> +He had long known John Wheeler by reputation. +Wheeler had been halfback on his college football +team; he was a yachtsman of more than local renown. +As corporal, he was alert, industrious and energetic; +his efficiency caused Kennedy to be only the more +keenly aware of his own incompetence. The other +men in the tent were all older than he, all better educated +than he, and without in the least intending to +make him feel inferior they did make him feel so. As +a matter of fact, they thought he was an unassuming +and obliging person, who had, as one of them expressed +it, not much small change in conversation. +</p> +<p> +Now, after a week at the camp, Kennedy had begun +to make himself a nuisance to his companions—the +thing that he had most dreaded being. He had caught +cold, and had coughed at frequent intervals throughout +the night; he had buried his head under his blankets +and tried to suppress the coughs, and he had blown his +nose with as little reverberation as possible, but he +had, nevertheless, received intimations that he was +disturbing the sleep of his tent mates. In the morning +one of them, Morrison, a student in a medical school, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span> +offered him some quinine pills and advised him to +report at sick call. But Kennedy had resolved not +to be knocked out by sickness; he thanked Morrison +for the pills and said he thought he should get through +all right. His feelings were hurt, however, when after +breakfast Wheeler said: +</p> +<p> +“Come, fellows, let’s roll up the tent; if we don’t +give the sun and air a chance in here, we’ll all of us be +sniffling.” +</p> +<p> +The corporal started in to undo the guy ropes and +then exclaimed wrathfully. “Who’s the man that tied +these ropes in hard knots? He’s a landlubber, all +right.” +</p> +<p> +“I should say!” remarked Morrison, who was at +work on the other side of the tent. “I’m not guilty.” +</p> +<p> +“I’m afraid I am.” Kennedy’s admission was the +more rueful because so croaking. +</p> +<p> +“A man who can only tie a hard knot or a granny +has no business ever to touch a rope.” Wheeler snapped +out the words while his fingers worked busily. “I +should think before coming to a camp a fellow would +learn to tie a few knots.” +</p> +<p> +Kennedy accepted the reproof in silence—if a sudden +access of coughing can be termed silence. He was +finding it hard work to disengage one of the knots of +his own making; presently Wheeler, having freed the +other ropes, came up and unceremoniously took possession +of that at which Kennedy was picking. +</p> +<p> +“Undo your pack, take the rope that’s fastened to +your shelter half and I’ll give you a lesson,” commanded +Wheeler. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span> +</p> +<p> +To the object lesson in tying hitches, half hitches, +slipknots and other useful knots Kennedy gave close +attention; but when he tried to do what he had just +seen his instructor do he became confused. +</p> +<p> +“Are you as slow as that counting bills in the bank?” +Wheeler asked. “I wonder that they keep you. You +don’t seem to have learned to use your hands.” +</p> +<p> +He snatched the rope and then began another demonstration +for the mortified youth; Kennedy could not +have been more hurt if he had been lashed with it. +The whistle blew; the order, “Fall in!” was shouted +at the head of the street. +</p> +<p> +“Quick, now! Do up your pack!” Wheeler tossed +back the rope, and Kennedy made a dive into the +tent where his equipment lay scattered. Hastily +cramming things together, he discovered when he had +his pack rolled up and fastened that he had left out +the rubber poncho. In the street the men were all +lined up at attention; he alone was unready. The +first sergeant was calling the roll; the corporals were +reporting: “Squad one?” “All present.” “Squad +two?” “All present.” Kennedy flung on his pack +and crammed his poncho under his mattress, where +it would not be visible. “Squad five?” “Private +Kennedy absent.” “Squad six?” “All present.” +</p> +<p> +Kennedy fastened his canteen to his belt, caught +up his rifle and took his place in the rear rank. +</p> +<p> +He heard the corporals far down the line reporting, +“All present.” He alone had been delinquent. Wheeler’s +face seemed more forbidding than ever. +</p> +<p> +And that was why, as the company marched out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123'></a>123</span> +for the day’s work, Kennedy felt depressed. He was +making a poor showing; he had won the outspoken disapproval +of the man whose good opinion he most +heartily desired. Besides, he was miserable in body; +nose, eyes and throat were all inflamed, the pack seemed +heavier than it ought to be, and there was no early-morning +enthusiasm in his legs. A glance at Wheeler’s +face still further depressed his spirits. He had never +seen the corporal look so black, and he knew it was all +on account of having such a “dub” in the squad! +</p> +<p> +It was really not on that account at all. What was +troubling the corporal was a sense of his severity toward +a subordinate who seemed to be doing the best he could. +He was chagrined that he had been so sharp-tongued +with the little fellow; he had got into the habit of thinking +of Kennedy rather pityingly as “the little fellow.” +</p> +<p> +All the long morning B Company was put through +skirmish drill; the sun was hot, the air heavy; with +all too brief intermissions the men were kept at work; +running, leaping, casting themselves on their faces, +and pulling the trigger and throwing the bolt of their +rifles. Lying prone, with neck and shoulder muscles +aching under the weight of the pack, Kennedy experienced +the greatest discomfort, for then his nose +became an abomination to him. And at those times, +snuffling, coughing and gasping, he was painfully +aware that to the other members of the squad, and +particularly to the corporal, he must seem nothing +less than a curse. +</p> +<p> +The luncheon hour afforded him a little rest. But +all the afternoon there was drill on the parade ground; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span> +and at supper Kennedy was almost too tired to eat. +His cold was no better, his cough was more frequent +and racking, and he feared that he should be a greater +nuisance to his tent mates than on the preceding night. +After supper he thought he should go into the town +and get some cough drops; but that was a mile walk, +and before undertaking it he decided to stretch himself +out on his bed for a few minutes’ rest. Wheeler came +up and asked him how he was feeling. +</p> +<p> +“All right, if only I don’t keep you fellows awake,” +Kennedy croaked, grateful for the question. +</p> +<p> +“You don’t sound all right. I should think you’d +better see the doctor.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, I sound worse than I am.” +</p> +<p> +Wheeler walked away, with a good-natured laugh +that made Kennedy feel better than a cough drop could +have done. It showed him that the corporal did not +have an unfriendly attitude toward him, and it stimulated +his resolve to let the corporal see that he did not +lack staying power. +</p> +<p> +For a few minutes he had been reclining on his bed, +when he was horrified to hear the B Company whistle, +followed by the shout, “Fall in, B Company!” When +he emerged from the tent, he heard the second order +that was being relayed down the street, “Fall in with +the rifle and the full pack!” For a dismal moment +Kennedy thought of going up to the captain and pleading +unfitness for further duty. Then he gritted his +teeth, slung his pack, which he had not yet unrolled, +on his aching shoulders and took up his rifle. The +other occupants of the tent made their appearance on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125'></a>125</span> +the run, uttering maledictions and cries of grief and +wonderment. Had not they been worked hard enough +for one day! This kind of thing was an outrage! +</p> +<p> +When the company was lined up, Captain Hughes +said, “B Company is ordered out to hold a section of +trench against an expected night attack. Squads +right!” +</p> +<p> +While the men proceeded at route step, they lamented +facetiously the ordeal ahead of them. Kennedy +snuffled and shuffled along, trying to keep his head +up and his shoulders from drooping. He looked apprehensively +at the western sky; the sun had gone +down in a black cloud wrack, which was swarming +higher and heavier. The sultry air was suddenly +fanned by a cool wind, lightning flashed in the mass of +clouds, and thunder pealed. +</p> +<p> +“Going to have a little real war this evening, I guess,” +observed Morrison. +</p> +<p> +“The storm may not hit us,” said Wheeler. +</p> +<p> +“Everything that can will hit us to-day,” replied +Morrison. +</p> +<p> +By the time the company had reached the trenches, +which were dug on the edge of a wide field, it was growing +dark. The wind was blowing hard and flung +splashes of rain into the men’s faces. +</p> +<p> +Captain Hughes halted his command and called the +members round him. +</p> +<p> +“This is the section that you are to defend,” he +said. “You see it consists of four separate front-line +trenches, each just long enough and wide enough to +accommodate eight men. Each front trench is connected +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span> +with the second line of trenches by a short +runway. Behind the second line is the shelter, or +dugout, for those who are not on duty in the trenches. +You will take turns in holding the front line; each +squad will be relieved every fifteen minutes. The rest +of you will keep under cover in the shelter—under +cover from the enemy, that is.” There was an uncertain +ripple of laughter; the rain was beginning now +to pour down. “At what hour the attack may develop +I can’t tell you,” continued the captain, “but it will +no doubt be sometime between now and sunrise.” +</p> +<p> +In the shelter, which was a large rectangular pit +six feet deep, the men opened their packs and got out +their ponchos—all except Kennedy, who stood looking +on while his comrades proceeded to protect themselves +against the now pelting rain. +</p> +<p> +Wheeler, poking his head through the opening in +his poncho, saw Kennedy standing thus. +</p> +<p> +“Why don’t you get out your poncho?” he asked. +</p> +<p> +“I forgot to put it in my pack.” +</p> +<p> +“That’s the limit, a night like this. You’ve got a +frightful cold, too.” Wheeler pulled off the poncho +that he had just put on. “Get into this and keep +yourself as dry as you can.” +</p> +<p> +“No, I wouldn’t think of taking your——” +</p> +<p> +“You’re under orders now, and you’ll take what +your corporal tells you.” Wheeler thrust the rubber +garment over his subordinate’s head. “There you +are; I don’t want to feel responsible for your having +pneumonia.” +</p> +<p> +Then, as Captain Hughes called, “Squad leaders, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span> +gather round!” Wheeler moved away to receive instructions. +</p> +<p> +Seating himself cross-legged, Kennedy arranged the +poncho as well as he could over his rifle. The rain +came down in sheets, poured from the brims of hats, +formed puddles on the ground, oozed through trousers +and boots and leggings. By the occasional lightning +flashes Kennedy could see the group of corporals holding +conference with the captain near by; he could see +the huddled forms of the privates like himself, the +ponchos shining on their shoulders, the pools glistening +at their feet. +</p> +<p> +In a few moments the conference broke up; then +Captain Hughes raised his voice sharply. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Wheeler, where is your poncho?” +</p> +<p> +“I haven’t got it, sir.” +</p> +<p> +“A man who is careless about himself is not likely +to look after his men, and that is an officer’s first duty. +You set a bad example to the members of your squad, +Mr. Wheeler.” +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> +<p> +Wheeler saluted and the captain turned away just +as Kennedy came forward. The corporal gripped +Kennedy’s wrist and held him fast, then led him in +silence back to his place. +</p> +<p> +“That’s all right,” he whispered in Kennedy’s ear. +“Don’t you butt in. You’d only get it in the neck if +you did.” +</p> +<p> +Kennedy, believing that a soldier’s first duty is to +obey, did not persist; he saw the captain leave the +shelter and join a group of officers on the bank. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span> +</p> +<p> +“It isn’t fair, though, for you to take the blame,” he +began. +</p> +<p> +“It’s of no importance,” Wheeler answered. +</p> +<p> +A few moments later Kennedy was convinced that +the corporal was mistaken. While Wheeler was talking +to another member of the squad, Morrison said to +Kennedy in a low voice: +</p> +<p> +“I guess Wheeler’s chance for promotion is gone +now. They’re going to make some new sergeants tomorrow, +and I thought Wheeler would surely be one; +but I guess that forgetting his poncho has queered him +with the captain. He’s a stickler about little things.” +</p> +<p> +“It doesn’t seem fair,” repeated Kennedy, as if +speaking to himself. +</p> +<p> +Night had settled down, the blackest kind of night, +when the first platoon was ordered into the advance +trenches. From ambush among the trees behind the +shelter searchlights began to play against the woods +five hundred yards away, out of which the attack was +expected to come. The watchers in the shelter and the +trenches remained in utter darkness while the streaming +lines of rain and the distant trees emerged into +view under the sweeping rays. Back and forth the +searchlights plied, raking the whole sector of forest +that bounded the field. The men in the shelter, who +had stood up to see what the searchlights might disclose, +soon sat down again and wrapped their ponchos +about themselves more snugly. The minutes passed; +there was no sound except that made by the determined, +trampling rain. +</p> +<p> +Wheeler, who had been peering over the top of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span> +embankment, came and seated himself between Kennedy +and Morrison. +</p> +<p> +“There’s one thing,” he murmured. “The enemy +are getting it same as we are.” +</p> +<p> +Morrison grunted. “How do you know? They’re +regulars, and maybe they haven’t left their barracks +yet. Maybe they won’t till about 2 A. M.” +</p> +<p> +“Don’t be always taking the joy out of life,” Wheeler +entreated. +</p> +<p> +At last came the turn of the second platoon. They +filed out through the runways into the second-line trench, +where they waited until the squads of the first platoon +returned from the sections that they had been holding. +</p> +<p> +“Second platoon, load!” +</p> +<p> +In the pitch blackness it was not an easy thing to do. +Kennedy got his clip jammed in the magazine and +for a few moments could not shove it down or pull it +out. Then, when he gave a final desperate wrench, +out it came with a jump, slipped through his fingers +and fell somewhere in the mud. +</p> +<p> +“Lock your pieces. Forward!” +</p> +<p> +Kennedy had to straighten up and move on without +having found his cartridges. When he was in his place +between Wheeler and Morrison, he took another clip +out of his belt and, working carefully and slowly, inserted +it in the magazine. The sound of others working +with their rifles let him know that he had not been +the only one to get into difficulty. +</p> +<p> +From somewhere behind, Captain Hughes gave instructions: +</p> +<p> +“Keep your eyes on that strip of woods. Squad on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span> +the right, take the sector from the ravine to the top +of the knoll. Next squad, the sector from the top of +the knoll to that tree that stands out in front of the +woods. Next squad, the sector from that tree to the +big rock. Fourth squad, the sector from the big rock +to the road. If anyone comes out of the woods in your +sector, fire on him.” +</p> +<p> +“No one will come,” murmured Morrison. “Not +for five or six hours yet.” +</p> +<p> +But they all stood peering intently over the low ridge +of earth that protected the top of the trench and on +which their rifles rested. Without cessation the searchlights +swept back and forth along the belt of woods; +for only the briefest interval was any section left in +darkness. Time passed, and still the only sound was +the steady drumming of the rain. +</p> +<p> +Then suddenly out of the belt of woods broke a line +of men and charged forward. Instantly all along the +advance trenches burst jets of flame and the vicious +crackle and bang of the rifles. After the wearisome and +uncomfortable vigil, Kennedy felt warmed into excitement; +he got off three shots before the enemy dropped +to the ground and began shooting in their turn. Then +an enemy platoon on the right made a short rush +forward and dropped, and immediately resumed firing. +By platoon rushes the line advanced, and its fire seemed +to grow steadier and stronger as it drew nearer. In +contrast, the fire of the defenders of the trenches +weakened. Only three men in Wheeler’s squad were +maintaining a steady fire; the other squads displayed a +corresponding feebleness of resistance. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span> +</p> +<p> +“Fire faster, men!” cried Captain Hughes. +</p> +<p> +But fire faster they did not—and could not. More +than half of them were now having the trouble in loading +their rifles that Kennedy had experienced—and was +having again. Fumbling in the darkness with the wet, +slippery mechanism, trying hurriedly to slide the +cartridge clips into place, man after man had jammed +his magazine, and with clumsy fingers was frantically +trying to adjust it. Meanwhile, the fire of the enemy +became more intense; they drew nearer and nearer by +platoon rushes; and at last Captain Hughes gave the +order to the defenders of the trenches, “Cease firing!” +</p> +<p> +Then, a few yards away, up sprang the enemy and, +with bayonets fixed and a wild yell that at the last +fizzled out into laughter, charged down on the trenches. +They stopped on the edge and greeted the defenders +derisively: “Well, boys, all dead, ain’t you?” “Fired +as if you were, anyway.” “How’d you have liked it +if this had been a real attack?” “Any of you boys +want to have a little bayonet practice?” +</p> +<p> +Captain Hughes gave the command to unload. After +“inspection arms” had been ordered, the captain +pointed the moral of the evening’s experience: “You +see, it’s not enough to be good daylight soldiers—important +though that is. You have got to be able to +use your rifles as well in the dark.” +</p> +<p> +B Company marched back to camp; Kennedy sought +an audience with Captain Hughes. He could only say +in a husky whisper: +</p> +<p> +“I want to explain about Corporal Wheeler’s poncho.” +He had to stop for a fit of coughing; the captain bent +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span> +down and looked at him sharply. “He took off his +poncho and made me put it on—I’d forgotten mine. +I hope it won’t count against him.” +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by staying on duty in this +condition?” demanded the captain. +</p> +<p> +“I sound worse than I am.” +</p> +<p> +The captain grunted. “Report at sick call tomorrow. +I’ll remember what you say about Wheeler. +Goodnight!” +</p> +<p> +The next morning, when Kennedy returned from +the hospital tent, having been pronounced fit to +continue on active duty, he found the members of +squad five congratulating Wheeler on his promotion +to the rank of sergeant. +</p> +<p> +“Here’s the fellow that saved the job for me.” +Wheeler clapped Kennedy’s shoulder. “Captain +Hughes said you went to him and told tales out of +school.” +</p> +<p> +Kennedy looked pleased. “I heard the captain tell +you that you mightn’t be good at looking after your +men,” he answered. “I thought I’d show him.” +</p> +<p> +“Business, just business,” said Wheeler with a +twinkle in his eyes. “Dad would never forgive me +if I let anything happen to you. I feel just as responsible +for the bank, having you up here, as he does. Now +come and I’ll give you another lesson in how to tie a +knot.” +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Arthur Stanwood Pier</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span><a name='chVII' id='chVII'></a>VII—THE PATH OF GLORY</h2> +<p> +<span style='font-weight:bold;'>I</span> +</p> +<p> +It was so poor a place—a bitten-off morsel “at the +beyond end of nowhere”—that when a February gale +came driving down out of a steel sky and shut up the +little lane road and covered the house with snow a +passer-by might have mistaken it all, peeping through +its icy fleece, for just a huddle of the brown bowlders so +common to the country thereabouts. +</p> +<p> +And even when there was no snow it was as bad—worse, +almost, Luke thought. When everything else +went brave and young with new greenery; when the +alders were laced with the yellow haze of leaf bud, and +the brooks got out of prison again, and arbutus and +violet and buttercup went through their rotation of +bloom up in the rock pastures and maple bush—the +farm buildings seemed only the bleaker and barer. +</p> +<p> +That forlorn unpainted little house, with its sagging +blinds! It squatted there through the year like a one-eyed +beggar without a friend—lost in its venerable +white-beard winters, or contemplating an untidy welter +of rusty farm machinery through the summers. +</p> +<p> +When Luke brought his one scraggy little cow up the +lane he always turned away his head. The place made +him think of the old man who let the birds build nests in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134'></a>134</span> +his whiskers. He preferred, instead, to look at the +glories of Bald Mountain or one of the other hills. +There was nothing wrong with the back drop in the +home stage-set; it was only home itself that hurt one’s +feelings. +</p> +<p> +There was no cheer inside, either. The sagging old +floors, though scrubbed and spotless, were uncarpeted; +the furniture meager. A pine table, a few old chairs, a +shabby scratched settle covered by a thin horse blanket +as innocent of nap as a Mexican hairless—these for essentials; +and for embellishment a shadeless glass lamp +on the table, about six-candle power, where you might +make shift to read the <em>Biweekly</em>—times when there was +enough money to have a Biweekly—if you were so +minded; and window shelves full of corn and tomato +cans, still wearing their horticultural labels, where +scrawny one-legged geraniums and yellowing coleus and +begonia contrived an existence of sorts. +</p> +<p> +And then, of course, the mantelpiece with the black-edged +funeral notice and shiny coffin plate, relics of +Grampaw Peel’s taking-off; and the pink mug with the +purple pansy and “Woodstock, N. Y.,” on it; the photograph +of a forgotten cousin in Iowa, with long antennæ-shaped +mustaches; the Bible with the little china +knobs on the corners; and the pile of medicine testimonials +and seed catalogues—all these contributed +something. +</p> +<p> +If it was not a beautiful place within, it was, also, not +even a pleasant place spiritually. What with the open +door into his father’s room, whence you could hear the +thin frettings made by the man who had lain these ten +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span> +years with chronic rheumatism, and the untuneful +whistlings of whittling Tom, the big brother, the shapely +supple giant whose mind had never grown since the fall +from the barn room when he was eight years old, and +the acrid complaints of the tall gaunt mother, stepping +about getting their inadequate supper, in her gray +wrapper, with the ugly little blue shawl pinned round +her shoulders, it was as bad a place as you might find +in a year’s journeying for anyone to keep bright and +“chirk up” in. +</p> +<p> +Not that anyone in particular expected “them poor +Hayneses” to keep bright or “chirk up.” As far back +as he could remember, Luke had realized that the hand +of God was laid on his family. Dragging his bad leg up +the hill pastures after the cow, day in and day out, he +had evolved a sort of patient philosophy about it. It +was just inevitable, like a lot of things known in that +rock-ribbed and fatalistic region—as immutably decreed +by heaven as foreordination and the damnation of unbaptized +babes. The Hayneses had just “got it hard.” +</p> +<p> +Yet there were times, now he was come to a gangling +fourteen, when Luke’s philosophy threatened to fail +him. It wasn’t fair—so it wasn’t! They weren’t bad +folks; they’d done nothing wicked. His mother worked +like a dog—“no fair for her,” any way you looked at it. +There were times when the boy drank in bitterly every +detail of the miserable place he called home and knew +the depths of an utter despair. +</p> +<p> +If there was only some way to better it all! But +there was no chance. His father had been a failure at +everything he touched in early life, and now he was a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span> +hopeless invalid. Tom was an idiot—or almost—and +himself a cripple. And Nat! Well, Nat “wa’n’t +willin”—not that one should blame him. Times like +these, a lump like a roc’s egg would rise in the +boy’s throat. He had to spit—and spit hard—to +conquer it. +</p> +<p> +“If we hain’t the gosh-awfulest lot!” he would gulp. +</p> +<p> +To-day, as he came up the lane, June was in the land. +She’d done her best to be kind to the farm. All the old +heterogeneous rosebushes in the wood-yard and front +“lawn” were piled with fragrant bloom. Usually Luke +would have lingered to sniff it all, but he saw only one +thing now with a sudden skipping at his heart—an automobile +standing beside the front porch. +</p> +<p> +It was not the type of car to cause cardiac disturbance +in a connoisseur. It was, in fact, of an early vintage, +high-set, chunky, brassily æsthetic, and given to asthmatic +choking on occasion; but Luke did not know this. +He knew only that it spelled luxury beyond all dreams. +It belonged, in short, to his Uncle Clem Cheesman, the +rich butcher who lived in the village twelve miles away; +and its presence here signaled the fact that Uncle Clem +and Aunt Mollie had come to pay one of their detestable +quarterly visits to their poor relations. They had come +while he was out, and Maw was in there now, bearing +it all alone. +</p> +<p> +Luke limped into the house hastily. He was not mistaken. +There was a company air in the room, a stiff +hostile-polite taint in the atmosphere. Three visitors +sat in the kitchen, and a large hamper, its contents +partly disgorged, stood on the table. Luke knew that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span> +it contained gifts—the hateful, merciful, nauseating +charity of the better-off. +</p> +<p> +Aunt Mollie was speaking as he entered—a large, +high-colored, pouter-pigeon-chested woman, with a +great many rings with bright stones, and a nodding +pink plume in her hat. She was holding up a bifurcated +crimson garment, and greeted Luke absently. +</p> +<p> +“Three pair o’ them underdrawers, Delia—an’ not a +break in one of ’em! I sez, as soon as I see Clem layin’ +’em aside this spring, ‘Them things’ll be jest right fur +Delia’s Jere, layin’ there with the rheumatiz.’ They +may come a little loose; but, of course, you can’t be +choicey. I’ve b’en at Clem fur five years to buy him +union suits; but he’s always b’en so stuck on red flannen. +But now he’s got two aut’mobiles, countin’ the new +delivery, I guess he’s gotta be more tony; so he made out +to spare ’em. And now that hat, Delia—it ain’t a mite +wore out, an’ fur all you’ll need one it’s plenty good +enough. I only had it two years and I guess folks won’t +remember; an’ what if they do—they all know you get +my things. Same way with that collarette. It’s a +little moth-eaten, but it won’t matter fur you.... +The gray suit you can easy cut down fur Luke, +there—” +</p> +<p> +She droned on, the other woman making dry automatic +sounds of assent. She looked cool—Maw—Luke +thought; but she wasn’t. Not by a darn sight! There +was a spot of pink in each cheek and she stared hard +every little bit at Grampaw Peel’s funeral plate on the +mantel. Luke knew what she was thinking of—poor +Maw! She was burning in a fire of her own lighting. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span> +She had brought it all on herself—on the whole lot of +them. +</p> +<p> +Years ago she had been just like Aunt Mollie. The +daughters of a prosperous village carpenter, they had +shared beads, beaux and bangles until Maw, in a moment’s +madness, had chucked it all away to marry poor +Paw. Now she had made her bed, she must lie in it. +Must sit and say “Thank you!” for Aunt Mollie’s +leavings, precious scraps she dared not refuse—Maw, +who had a pride as fierce and keen as any! It was +devilish! Oh, it was kind of Aunt Mollie to give; it was +the taking that came so bitter hard. And then they +weren’t genteel about their giving. There was always +that air of superiority, that conscious patronage, as now, +when Uncle Clem, breaking off his conversation with +the invalid in the next room about the price of mutton +on the hoof and the chances of the Democrats’ getting +in again, stopped fiddling with his thick plated watch +chain and grinned across at big Tom to fling his undeviating +flower of wit: +</p> +<p> +“Runnin’ all to beef, hain’t ye, Tom, boy? Come on +down to the market an’ we’ll git some A 1 sirloins outen +ye, anyway. Do your folks that much good.” +</p> +<p> +It was things like this that made Luke want to burn, +poison, or shoot Uncle Clem. He was not a bad man, +Uncle Clem—a thick sandy chunk of a fellow, given to +bright neckties and a jocosity that took no account of +feelings. Shaped a little like a log, he was—back of +his head and back of his neck—all of a width. Little +lively green eyes and bristling red mustaches. A complexion +a society bud might have envied. Why was it a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139'></a>139</span> +butcher got so pink and white and sleek? Pork, that’s +what Uncle Clem resembled, Luke thought—a nice, +smooth, pale-fleshed pig, ready to be skinned. +</p> +<p> +His turn next! When crops and politics failed and the +joke at poor Tom—Tom always giggled inordinately at +it, too—had come off, there was sure to be the one about +himself and the lame duck next. To divert himself of +bored expectation, Luke turned to stare at his cousin, +S’norta. +</p> +<p> +S’norta, sitting quietly in a chair across the room, was +seldom known to be emotional. Indeed, there were +times when Luke wondered whether she had not died +in her chair. One had that feeling about S’norta, so +motionless was she, so uncompromising of glance. She +was very prosperous-looking, as became the heiress to +the Cheesman meat business—a fat little girl of twelve, +dressed with a profusion of ruffles, glass pearls, gilt +buckles, and thick tawny curls that might have come +straight from the sausage hook in her papa’s shop. +</p> +<p> +S’norta had been consecrated early in life to the unusual. +Even her name was not ordinary. Her romantic +mother, immersed in the prenatal period in the hair-lifting +adventures of one Señorita Carmena, could think +of no lovelier appellation when her darling came than +the first portion of that sloe-eyed and restless lady’s +title, which she conceived to be baptismal; and in due +course she had conferred it, together with her own pronunciation, +on her child. A bold man stopping in at +Uncle Clem’s market, as Luke knew, had once tried to +pronounce and expound the cognomen in a very different +fashion; but he had been hustled unceremoniously from +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span> +the place, and S’norta remained in undisturbed possession +of her honors. +</p> +<p> +Now Luke was recalled from his contemplation by his +uncle’s voice again. A lull had fallen and out of it broke +the question Luke always dreaded. +</p> +<p> +“Nat, now!” said Uncle Clem, leaning forward, his +thick fingers clutching his fat knees. “You ain’t had +any news of him since quite a while ago, have you?” +The wit that was so preponderable a feature of Uncle +Clem’s nature bubbled to the surface. “Dunno but +he’s landed in jail a spell back and can’t git out again!” +The lively little eyes twinkled appreciatively. +</p> +<p> +Nobody answered. It set Maw’s mouth in a thin, +hard line. You wouldn’t get a rise out of old Maw with +such tactics—Maw, who believed in Nat, soul and body. +Into Luke’s mind flashed suddenly a formless half +prayer: “Don’t let ’em nag her now—make ’em talk +other things!” +</p> +<p> +The Lord, in the guise of Aunt Mollie, answered him. +For once, Nat and Nat’s character and failings did not +hold her. She drew a deep breath and voiced something +that claimed her interest: +</p> +<p> +“Well, Delia, I see you wasn’t out at the Bisbee’s +funeral. Though I don’t s’pose anyone really expected +you, knowin’ how things goes with you. Time was, +when you was a girl, you counted in as big as any and +traveled with the best; but now”—she paused delicately, +and coughed politely with an appreciative glance +round the poor room—“they ain’t anyone hereabouts +but’s talkin’ about it. My land, it was swell! I couldn’t +ask no better for my own. Fourteen cabs, and the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span> +hearse sent over from Rockville—all pale gray, with +mottled gray horses. It was what I call tasty. +</p> +<p> +“Matty wasn’t what you’d call well-off—not as lucky +as some I could mention; but she certainly went off +grand! The whole Methodist choir was out, with three +numbers in broken time; and her cousin’s brother-in-law +from out West—some kind of bishop—to preach. +Honest, it was one of the grandest sermons I ever heard! +Wasn’t it, Clem?” +</p> +<p> +Uncle Clem cleared his throat thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Humiliatin’!—that’s what I’d call it. A strong +maur’l sermon all round. A man couldn’t hear it ’thout +bein’ humiliated more ways’n one.” He was back at +the watch-chain again. +</p> +<p> +“It’s a pity you couldn’t of gone, Delia—you an’ +Matty always was so intimate too. You certainly +missed a grand treat, I can tell you; though, if you +hadn’t the right clothes—” +</p> +<p> +“Well, I haven’t,” Maw spoke dryly. “I don’t go no-wheres, +as you know—not even church.” +</p> +<p> +“I s’pose not. Time was it was different, though, +Delia. Ain’t nobody but talks how bad off you are. +Ann Chester said she seen you in town a while back and +wouldn’t of knowed it was you if it hadn’t of b’en you +was wearin’ my old brown cape, an’ she reconnized it. +Her an’ me got ’em both alike to the same store in Rockville. +You was so changed, she said she couldn’t hardly +believe it was you at all.” +</p> +<p> +“Sometimes I wonder myself if it is,” said Maw +grimly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, ’s I was sayin’, it was a grand funeral. None +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142'></a>142</span> +better! They even had engraved invites, over a hundred +printed—and they had folks from all over the +state. They give Clem, here, the contract fur the +supper meat——” +</p> +<p> +“The best of everything!” Uncle Clem broke in. +“None o’ your cheap graft. Gimme a free hand. Jim +Bisbee tole me himself. ‘I want the best ye got,’ he +sez; an’ I give it. Spring lamb and prime ribs, fancy +hotel style——” +</p> +<p> +“An’ Em Carson baked the cakes fur ’em, sixteen of +’em; an’ Dickison the undertaker’s tellin’ all over they +got the best quality shroud he carries. Well, you’ll +find it all in the <em>Biweekly</em>, under Death’s Busy Sickle. +Jim Bisbee shore set a store by Matty oncet she was +dead. It was a grand affair, Delia. Not but what +we’ve had some good ones in our time too.” +</p> +<p> +It was Aunt Mollie’s turn to stare pridefully at the +Peel plate on the chimney shelf. +</p> +<p> +“A thing like that sets a family up, sorta.” +</p> +<p> +Uncle Clem had taken out a fat black cigar with a +red-white-and-blue band. He bit off the end and +alternately thrust it between his lips or felt of its thickness +with a fondling thumb and finger. Luke, watching, +felt a sudden compassion for the cigar. It looked so +harried. +</p> +<p> +“I always say,” Aunt Mollie droned on, “a person +shows up what he really is at the last—what him and +his family stands fur. It’s what kind of a funeral you’ve +got that counts—who comes out an’ all. An’ that was +true with Matty. There wa’n’t a soul worth namin’ +that wasn’t out to hers.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span> +</p> +<p> +How Aunt Molly could gouge—even amicably! +And funerals! What a subject, even in a countryside +where a funeral is a social event and the manner of its +furniture marks a definite social status! Would they +never go? But it seemed at last they would. Incredibly, +somehow, they were taking their leave, Aunt +Mollie kissing Maw good-by, with the usual remark +about “hopin’ the things would help some,” and about +being “glad to spare somethin’ from my great plenty.” +</p> +<p> +She and Señorita were presently packed into the +car and Tom had gone out to goggle at Uncle Clem +cranking up, the cold cigar still between his lips. Now +they were off—choking and snorting their way out of +the wood-yard and down the lane. Aunt Mollie’s pink +feather streamed into the breeze like a pennon of +triumph. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Maw was standing by the stove, a queer look in her +eyes; so queer that Luke didn’t speak at once. He +limped over to finger the spilled treasures on the table. +</p> +<p> +“Gee! Lookit, Maw! More o’ them prunes we +liked so; an’ a bag o’ early peaches; an’ fresh soup +meat fur a week—” +</p> +<p> +A queer trembling had seized his mother. She was +so white he was frightened. +</p> +<p> +“Did you sense what it meant, Luke—what Aunt +Molly told us about Matty Bisbee? We was left out +deliberate—that’s what it meant. Her an’ me that was +raised together an’ went to school and picnics all our +girlhood together! Never could see one ’thout the +other when we was growin’ up—Jim Bisbee knew that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144'></a>144</span> +too! But”—her voice wavered miserably—“I didn’t +get no invite to her funeral. I don’t count no more, +Lukey. None of us, anywheres.... We’re jest them +poor Gawd-forsaken Hayneses.” +</p> +<p> +She slipped down suddenly into a chair and covered +her face, her thin shoulders shaking. Luke went and +touched her awkwardly. Times he would have liked +to put his arms round Maw—now more than ever; +but he didn’t dare. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t take on, Maw! Don’t!” +</p> +<p> +“Who’s takin’ on?” She lifted a fierce, sallow, tear-wet +face. “Hain’t no use makin’ a fuss. All’s left’s to +work—to work, an’ die after a while.” +</p> +<p> +“I hate ’em! Uncle Clem an’ her, I mean.” +</p> +<p> +“They mean kindness—their way.” But her tears +started afresh. +</p> +<p> +“I hate ’em!” Luke’s voice grew shriller. “I’d like—I’d +like—Oh, damn ’em!” +</p> +<p> +“Don’t swear, boy!” +</p> +<p> +It was Tom who broke in on them. “It’s a letter +from Rural Free Delivery. He jest dropped it.” +</p> +<p> +He came up, grinning, with the missive. The +mother’s fingers closed on it nervously. +</p> +<p> +“From Nat, mebbe—he ain’t wrote in months.” +</p> +<p> +But it wasn’t from Nat. It was a bill for a last +payment on the “new harrow,” brought three years +before. +</p> +<p> + <br /> +</p> +<p> +<span style='font-weight:bold;'>II</span> +</p> +<p> +One of the earliest memories Luke could recall was +the big blurred impression of Nat’s face bending over +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span> +his crib of an evening. At first flat, indefinite, remote +as the moon, it grew with time to more human, intimate +proportions. It became the face of “brother,” the +black-haired, blue-eyed big boy who rollicked on the +floor with or danced him on his knee to— +</p> +<p> + This is the way the lady rides!<br /> + Tritty-trot-trot; tritty-trot-trot!<br /> +</p> +<p> +Or who, returning from school and meeting his faltering +feet in the lane, would toss him up on his shoulder and +canter him home with mad, merry scamperings. +</p> +<p> +Not that school and Nat ever had much in common. +Even as a little shaver Luke had realized that, Nat was +the family wilding, the migratory bird that yearned +for other climes. There were the times when he sulked +long days by the fire, and the springs and autumns +when he played an unending round of hookey. There +were the days when he was sent home from school in +disgrace; when protesting notes, and sometimes even +teacher, arrived. +</p> +<p> +“It’s not that Nat’s a bad boy, Mrs. Haynes,” he +remembered one teacher saying; “but he’s so active, +so full of restless animal spirits. How are we ever +going to tame him?” +</p> +<p> +Maw didn’t know the answer—that was sure. She +loved Nat best—Luke had guessed it long ago, by the +tone of her voice when she spoke to him, by the touch +of her hand on his head, or the size of his apple turnover, +so much bigger than the others’. Maw must have built +heavily on her hopes of Nat those days—her one perfect +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span> +child. She was so proud of him! In the face of +all ominous prediction she would fling her head high. +</p> +<p> +“My Nat’s a Peel!” she would say. “Can’t never +tell how he’ll turn out.” +</p> +<p> +The farmers thereabouts thought they could tell her. +Nat was into one scrape after another—nothing especially +wicked; but a compound of the bubbling mischief +in a too ardent life—robbed orchards, broken windows, +practical jokes, Halloween jinks, vagrant whimsies of +an active imagination. +</p> +<p> +It was just that Nat’s quarters were too small for +him, chiefly. Even he realized this presently. Luke +would never forget the sloppy March morning when +Nat went away. He was wakened by a flare of candle +in the room he shared with his brothers. Tom, the +twelve-year-old, lay sound asleep; but Nat, the big +man of fifteen, was up, dressed, bending over something +he was writing on a paper at the bureau. There was a +fat little bundle beside him, done up in a blue-and-white +bandanna. +</p> +<p> +Day was still far off. The window showed black; +there was the sound of a thaw running off the eaves; +the whitewashed wall was painted with grotesque leaping +shadows by the candle flame. At the first murmur, +Nat had come and put his arms about him. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t ye holler, little un; don’t ye do it! ’Tain’t +nothin’—on’y Natty’s goin’ away a spell; quite a spell, +little un. Now kiss Natty.... That’s right!... +An’ you lay still there an’ don’t holler. An’ listen +here, too: Natty’s goin’ to bring ye somethin’—a grand +red ball, mebbe—if you’re good. You wait an’ see!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span> +</p> +<p> +But Natty hadn’t brought the ball. Two years had +passed without a scrap of news of him; and then—he +was back. Slipped into the village on a freighter at dusk +one evening. A forlorn scarecrow Nat was; so tattered +of garment, so smeared of coal dust, you scarcely knew +him. So full of strange sophistications, too, and new +trails of thought—so oddly rich of experience. He +gave them his story. The tale of an exigent life in a +great city; a piecework life made of such flotsam labors +as he could pick up, of spells of loafing, of odd incredible +associates, of months tagging a circus, picking up a +task here and there, of long journeyings through the +country, “riding the bumpers”—even of alms asked +at back doors! +</p> +<p> +“Oh, not a tramp, Nat!” +</p> +<p> +The hurt had quivered all through Maw. +</p> +<p> +But Nat only laughed. +</p> +<p> +“Jiminy Christmas, it was great!” +</p> +<p> +He had thrown back his head, laughing. That was +Nat all through—sipping of life generously, no matter +in what form. +</p> +<p> +He had stayed just three weeks. He had spent +them chiefly defeating Maw’s plans to keep him. +Wanderlust kept him longer the next time. That was +eight years ago. Since then he had been back home +three times. Never so poor and shabby as at first—indeed, +Nat’s wanderings had prospered more or less—but +still remote, somewhat mysterious, touched by +new habits of life, new ways of speech. +</p> +<p> +The countryside, remembering the manner of his +first return, shook its head darkly. A tramp—a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span> +burglar, even. God knew what! When, on his third +visit home, he brought an air of extreme opulence, +plenty of money, and a sartorial perfection undreamed +of locally, the heads wagged even harder. A gambler +probably; a ne’er-do-well certainly; and one to break +his mother’s heart in the end. +</p> +<p> +But none of this was true, as Luke knew. It was just +that Nat hated farming; that he liked to rove and take +a floater’s fortune. He had a taste for the mechanical +and followed incomprehensible quests. San Francisco +had known him; the big races at Cincinnati; the +hangars at Mineola. He was restless—Nat; but he +was respectable. No one could look into his merry +blue eyes and not know it. If his labors were uncertain +and sporadic, and his address that of a nomad, it all +sufficed, at least for himself. +</p> +<p> +If at times Luke felt a stirring doubt that Nat was not +acquitting himself of his family duty, he quenched it +fiercely. Nat was different. He was born free; you +could tell it in his talk, in his way of thinking. He was +like an eagle and hated to be bound by earthly ties. +He cared for them all in his own way. Times when +he was back he helped Maw all he could. If he brought +money he gave of it freely; if he had none, just the look +of his eye or the ready jest on his lip helped. +</p> +<p> +Upstairs in a drawer of the old pine bureau lay some +of Nat’s discarded clothing—incredible garments to +Luke. The lame boy, going to them sometimes, fingered +them, pondering, reconstructing for himself the +fabric of Nat’s adventures, his life. The ice-cream +pants of a by-gone day; the pointed, shriveled yellow +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span> +Oxfords! the silk-front shirt; the odd cuff link or stud—they +were like a genie-in-a-bottle, these poor clothes! +You rubbed them and a whole Arabian Night’s dream +unfurled from them. +</p> +<p> +And Nat lived it all! But people—dull stodgy +people like Uncle Clem and Aunt Mollie, and old Beckonridge +down at the store, and a dozen others—these +criticized him for not “workin’ reg’lar” and giving a +full account of himself. +</p> +<p> +Luke, thinking of all this, would flush with impotent +anger. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, let ’em talk, though! He’ll show ’em some +day! They dunno Nat. He’ll do somethin’ big fur +us all some day.” +</p> +<p> + <br /> +</p> +<p> +<span style='font-weight:bold;'>III</span> +</p> +<p> +Midsummer came to trim the old farm with her +wreaths. It was the time Luke loved best of all—the +long, sweet, loam-scented evenings with Maw and Tom +on the old porch; and sometimes—when there was no +fog—Paw’s cot, wheeled out in the stillness. But Maw +was not herself this summer. Something had fretted +and eaten into her heart like an acid ever since +Aunt Mollie’s visit and the news of Matty Bisbee’s +funeral. +</p> +<p> +When, one by one, the early summer festivities of +the neighborhood had slipped by, with no inclusion +of the Hayneses, she had fallen to brooding deeply,—to +feeling more bitterly than ever the ignominy and +wretchedness of their position. +</p> +<p> +Luke tried to comfort her; to point out that this +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span> +summer was like any other; that they “never had +mattered much to folks.” But Maw continued to +brood; to allude vaguely and insistently to “the straw +that broke the camel’s back.” It was bitter hard to +have Maw like that—home was bad enough, anyway. +Sometimes on clear, soft nights, when the moon came +out all splendid and the “peepers” sang so plaintively +in the Hollow, the boy’s heart would fill and grow +enormous in his chest with the intolerable sadness he +felt. +</p> +<p> +Then Maw’s mood lifted—pierced by a ray of heavenly +sunlight—for Nat came home! +</p> +<p> +Luke saw him first—heard him, rather; for Nat +came up the lane—oh, miraculous!—driving a motor +car. It was not a car like Uncle Clem’s—not even a +step-brother to it. It was low and almost noiseless, and +shaped like one of those queer torpedoes they were +fighting with across the water. It was colored a soft +dust-gray and trimmed with nickel; and, huge and +powerful though it was, it swung to a mere touch of +Nat’s hand. +</p> +<p> +Nat stood before them, clad in black leather Norfolk +and visored cap and leggings. +</p> +<p> +“Look like a fancy brand of chauffeur, don’t I?” +he laughed, with the easy resumption of a long-broken +relation that was so characteristically Nat. +</p> +<p> +But Nat was not a chauffeur. Something much +bigger and grander. The news he brought them on +top of it all took their breaths away. Nat was a special +demonstrator, out on a brand-new high-class job for a +house handling a special line of high-priced goods. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span> +And he was to go to Europe in another week—did they +get it straight? Europe! Jiminy! He and another +fellow were taking cars over to France and England. +</p> +<p> +No; they didn’t quite get it. They could not grasp +its significance, but clung humbly, instead, to the mere +glorious fact of his presence. +</p> +<p> +He stayed two days and a night; and summer was +never lovelier. Maw was like a girl, and there was +such a killing of pullets and extravagance with new-laid +eggs as they had never known before. At the last +he gave them all presents. +</p> +<p> +“Tell the truth,” he laughed, “I’m stony broke. +’Tisn’t mine, all this stuff you see. I got some kale in +advance—not much, but enough to swing me; but of +course, the outfit’s the company’s. But I’ll tell you +one thing: I’m going to bring some long green home +with me, you can bet! And when I do”—Nat had +given Maw a prodigious nudge in the ribs—“when I +do—I ain’t goin’ to stay an old bachelor forever! Do +you get that?” +</p> +<p> +Maw’s smile had faded for a moment. But the presents +were fine—a new knife for Tom, a book for Luke, +and twenty whole round dollars for Maw, enough to +pay that old grocery bill down at Beckonridge’s and +Paw’s new invoice of patent medicine. +</p> +<p> +They all stood on the porch and watched him as +far as they could see; and Maw’s black mood didn’t +return for a whole week. +</p> +<p> +Evenings now they had something different to talk +about—journeys in seagoing craft; foreign countries +and the progress of the “Ee-ropean” war, and Nat’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span> +likelihood—he had laughed at this—of touching even +its fringe. They worked it all up from the boiler-plate +war news in the <em>Biweekly</em> and Luke’s school geography. +Yes; for a little space the blackness was lifted. +</p> +<p> +Then came the August morning when Paw died. +This was an unexpected and unsettling contingency. +One doesn’t look for a “chronic’s” doing anything +so unscheduled and foreign to routine; but Paw spoiled +all precedent. They found him that morning with +his heart quite still, and Luke knew they stood in the +presence of imminent tragedy. +</p> +<p> +It’s all very well to peck along, hand-to-mouth +fashion. You can manage a living of sorts; and farm +produce, even scanty, unskillfully contrived, and the +charity of relatives, and the patience of tradesmen, +will see you through. But a funeral—that’s different! +Undertaker—that means money. Was it possible +that the sordid epic of their lives must be capped by +the crowning insult, the Poormaster and the Pauper’s +Field? If only poor Paw could have waited a little +before he claimed the spotlight—until prices fell a +little or Nat got back with that “long green”! +</p> +<p> +Maw swallowed her bitter pill. +</p> +<p> +She went to see Uncle Clem and ask! And Uncle +Clem was kind. +</p> +<p> +“He’ll buy a casket—he’s willin’ fur that—an’ send +a wreath and pay fur notices, an’ even half on a buryin’ +lot; but he said he couldn’t do no more. The high cost +has hit him too.... An’ where are we to git the +rest? He said—at the last—it might be better all +round fur us to take what Ellick Flick would gimme +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span> +outen the Poor Fund—” Maw hadn’t been able to +go on for a spell. +</p> +<p> +A pauper’s burial for Paw! Surely Maw would +manage better than that! She tried to find a better +way that very night. +</p> +<p> +“This farm’s mortgaged to the neck; but I calculate +Ben Travis won’t care if I’m a mind to put Paw in the +south field. It hain’t no mortal good fur anything +else, anyhow; an’ he can lay there if we want. It’s a +real pleasant place. An’ I can git the preacher myself—I’ll +give him the rest o’ the broilers; an’ they’s seasoned +hickory plankin’ in the lean-to. Tom, you come along +with me.” +</p> +<p> +All night Luke had lain and listened to the sound of +big Tom’s saw and hammer. Tom was real handy if +you told him how—and Maw would be showing him +just how to shape it all out. Each hammer blow struck +deep on the boy’s heart. +</p> +<p> +Maw lined the home-made box herself with soft old +quilts, and washed and dressed her dead herself in his +faded outlawed wedding clothes. And on a morning +soft and sweet, with a hint of rain in the air, they rode +down in the farm wagon to the south field together—Paw +and Maw and Luke—with big Tom walking beside +the aged knobby horse’s head. +</p> +<p> +Abel Gazzam, a neighbor, had seen to the grave; +and in due course the little cavalcade reached the +appointed spot inside the snake fence—a quiet place +in a corner, under a graybeard elm. As Maw had +said, it was “a pleasant place for Paw to lay in.” +</p> +<p> +There were some old neighbors out in their own rigs, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span> +and Uncle Clem had brought his family up in his car, +with a proper wreath; and Reverend Kearns came up +and—declining all lien on the broilers—read the burial +service, and spoke a little about poor Paw. But it +wasn’t a funeral, no how. No supper; no condolence; +no viewing “the remains”—not even a handshake! +Maw didn’t even look at her old friends, riding back +home between Tom and Luke, with her head fiercely +high in the air. +</p> +<p> +A dull depression settled on Luke’s heart. It was +all up with the Hayneses now. They had saved Paw +from charity with their home-made burial; but what +had it availed? They might as well have gone the +whole figure. Everybody knew! There wasn’t any +comeback for a thing like this. They were just no-bodies—the +social pariahs of the district. +</p> +<p> + <br /> +</p> +<p> +<span style='font-weight:bold;'>IV</span> +</p> +<p> +Somehow, after the fashion of other years, they got +their meager crops in—turnips, potatoes and Hubbard +squashes put up in the vegetable cellar; oats cradled; +corn husked; the buckwheat ready for the mill; even +Tom’s crooked furrows for the spring sowings made. +Somehow, Maw helping like a man and Tom obeying +like a docile child, they took toll of their summer. And +suddenly September was at their heels—and then the +equinox. +</p> +<p> +It seemed to Luke that it had never rained so much +before. Brown vapor rose eternally from the valley +flats; the hilltops lay lost entirely in clotted murk. By +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155'></a>155</span> +periods hard rains, like showers of steel darts, beat on +the soaking earth. Gypsy gales of wind went ricocheting +among the farm buildings, setting the shingles to +snapping and singing; the windows moaned and rattled. +The sourest weather the boy could remember! +</p> +<p> +And on the worst day of all they got the news. Out +of the mail box in the lane Luke got it—going down +under an old rubber cape in a steady blinding pour. It +got all damp—the letter, foreign postmark, stamp and +all—by the time he put it into Maw’s hand. +</p> +<p> +It was a double letter—or so one judged, first opening +it. There was another inside, complete, sealed, and +addressed in Nat’s hand; but one must read the paper +inclosed with it first—that was obvious. It was just +a strip, queer, official looking, with a few lines typed +upon it and a black heading that sprang out at one +strangely. They read it together—or tried to. At first +they got no sense from it. Paris—from clear off in +France—and then the words below—and Maw’s name +at the top, just like the address on the newspaper: +</p> +<p> + <span class='sc'>Mrs. Jere Haynes</span>,<br /> + Stony Brook, New York.<br /> +</p> +<p> +It was for Maw all right. Then quite suddenly the +words came clear through the blur: +</p> +<p style='text-align:left; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em;;'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Jere Haynes</span>,</p> +<p style='text-align:left; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em;;'>Stony Brook, New York.</p> +<p style='margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;'> +<em>Dear Madam</em>: We regret to inform you that the official +<em>communiqué</em> for September sixth contains the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span> +tidings that the writer of the enclosed letter, Nathaniel +Haynes, of Stony Brook, New York, U. S. A., was killed +while on duty as an ambulance driver in the Sector of +Verdun, and has been buried in that region. Further +details will follow. +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; margin-right:2em;;'>The American Ambulance, Paris.</p> +<p> +Even when she realized, Maw never cried out. She +sat wetting her lips oddly, looking at the words that had +come like evil birds across the wide spaces of earth. It +was Luke who remembered the other letter: +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +“<em>My dear kind folks—Father, Mother and Brothers</em>: +I guess I dare call you that when I get far enough away +from you. Perhaps you won’t mind when I tell you my +news. +</p> +<p> +“Well we came over from England last Thursday and +struck into our contract here. Things was going pretty +good; but you might guess yours truly couldn’t stand +the dead end of things. I bet Maw’s guessed already. +Well sir it’s that roving streak in me I guess. Never +could stick to nothing steady. It got me bad when I +got here any how. +</p> +<p> +“To cut it short I throwed up my job with the firm +yesterday and have volunteered as an Ambulance +driver. Nothing but glory; but I’m going to like it fine! +They’re short-handed anyhow and a fellow likes to help +what he can. Wish I could send a little money; but it +took all I had to outfit me. Had to cough up eight +bucks for a suit of underclothes. What do you know +about that? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157'></a>157</span> +</p> +<p> +“You can write me in care of the Ambulance, Paris. +</p> +<p> +“Now Maw don’t worry! I’m not going to fight. I +did try to get into the Foreign Legion but had no chance. +I’m all right. Think of me as a nice little Red Cross boy +and the Wise Willie on the gas wagon. And won’t I +have the hot stuff to make old Luke’s eyes pop out! +Hope Paw’s legs are better. And Maw have a kiss on +me. Mebbe you folks think I don’t appreciate you. If +I was any good at writing I’d tell you different. +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>“Your Son and Brother,</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>“<span class='sc'>Nat Haynes</span>.”</p> +<p> +The worst of it all was about Maw’s not crying—just +sitting there staring at the fire, or where the fire had +been when the wood had died out of neglect. It’s not in +reason that a woman shouldn’t cry, Luke felt. He tried +some words of comfort: +</p> +<p> +“He’s safe, anyhow, Maw—’member that! That’s a +whole lot too. Didn’t always know that, times he was +rollin’ round so over here. You worried a whole lot +about him, you know.” +</p> +<p> +But Maw didn’t answer. She seldom spoke at all—moved +about as little as possible. When she had put +out food for him and Tom she always went back to her +corner and stared into the fire. Luke had to bring a +plate to her and coax her to eat. Even the day Uncle +Clem and Aunt Mollie came up she did not notice them. +Only once she spoke of Nat to Luke. +</p> +<p> +“You loved him the most, didn’t ye, Maw?” he +asked timidly one dreary evening. +</p> +<p> +She answered in a sort of dull surprise. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span> +</p> +<p> +“Why, lad, he was my first!” she said; and after a +bit, as though to herself: “His head was that round and +shiny when he was a little fellow it was like to a little +round apple. I mind, before he ever come, I bought me +a cap fur him over to Rockville, with a blue bow onto it. +He looked awful smart an’ pretty in it.” +</p> +<p> +Sometimes in the night Luke, sleeping ill and thinking +long, lay and listened for possible sounds from +Maw’s room. Perhaps she cried in the nights. If she +only would—it would help break the tension for them +all. But he never heard anything but the rain—steadily, +miserably beating on the sodden shingles overhead. +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +It was only Luke who watched the mail box now. +One morning his journey to it bore fruit. No sting any +longer; no fear in the thick foreign letter he carried. +</p> +<p> +“It’ll tell ye all’s to it, I bet!” he said eagerly. +</p> +<p> +Maw seemed scarcely interested. It was Luke who +broke the seal and read it aloud. +</p> +<p> +It was written from the Ambulance Headquarters, in +Paris—written by a man of rare insight, of fine and +delicate perception. All that Nat’s family might have +wished to learn he sought to tell them. He had himself +investigated Nat’s story and he gave it all fully and +freely. He spoke in praise of Nat; of his friendly associations +with the Ambulance men; of his good nature and +cheerful spirits; his popularity and ready willingness to +serve. People, one felt, had loved Nat over there. +</p> +<p> +He wrote of the preliminary duties in Paris, the preparations—of +Nat’s final going to join one of the three +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span> +sections working round Verdun. It wasn’t easy work +that waited for Nat there. It was a stiff contract guiding +the little ambulance over the shell-rutted roads, +with deftness and precision, to those distant dressing +stations where the hurt soldiers waited for him. It +was a picture that thrilled Luke and made his pulses +tingle—the blackness of the nights; the rumble of +moving artillery and troops; the flash of starlights; the +distant crackling of rifle fire; the steady thunder of +heavy guns. +</p> +<p> +And the shells! It was mighty close they swept to a +fellow, whistling, shrieking, low overhead; falling to tear +out great gouges in the earth. It was enough to wreck +one’s nerve utterly; but the fellows that drove were all +nerve. Just part of the day’s work to them! And that +was Nat too. Nat hadn’t known what fear was—he’d +eaten it alive. The adventurer in him had gone out to +meet it joyously. +</p> +<p> +Nat was only on his third trip when tragedy had come +to him. He and a companion were seeking a dressing +station in the cellar of a little ruined house in an obscure +French village, when a shell had burst right at their feet, +so to speak. That was all. Simple as that. Nat was +dead instantly and his companion—oh, Nat was really +the lucky one.... +</p> +<p> +Luke had to stop for a little time. One couldn’t go on +at once before a thing like that.... When he did, it +was to leave behind the darkness, the shell-torn houses, +the bruised earth, the racked and mutilated humans.... +Reading on, it was like emerging from Hades into a +great Peace. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160'></a>160</span> +</p> +<p> +“I wish it were possible to convey to you, my dear +Mrs. Haynes, some impression of the moving and +beautiful ceremony with which your son was laid to +rest on the morning of September ninth, in the little +village of Aucourt. Imagine a warm, sunny, late-summer +day, and a village street sloping up a hillside, +filled with soldiers in faded, dusty blue, and American +Ambulance drivers in khaki. +</p> +<p> +“In the open door of one of the houses, the front of +which was covered with the tri-color of France, the +coffin was placed, wrapped in a great French flag, and +covered with flowers and wreaths sent by the various +American sections. At the head a small American flag +was placed, on which was pinned the <em>Croix de Guerre</em>—a +gold star on a red-and-green ribbon—a tribute from +the army general to the boy who gave his life for +France. +</p> +<p> +“A priest, with six soldier attendants, led the procession +from the courtyard. Six more soldiers bore the coffin, +the Americans and representatives of the army +branches following, bearing wreaths. After these came +the General of the Army Corps, with a group of officers, +and a detachment of soldiers with arms reversed. At +the foot of the hill a second detachment fell in and joined +them.... +</p> +<p> +“The scene was unforgettable, beautiful and impressive. +In the little church a choir of soldiers sang and a +soldier-priest played the organ, while the Chaplain of +the Army Division held the burial service. The chaplain’s +sermon I have asked to have reproduced and +sent to you, together with other effects of your son’s.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161'></a>161</span> +</p> +<p> +“The chaplain spoke most beautifully and at length, +telling very tenderly what it meant to the French people +that an American should give his life while trying to +help them in the hour of their extremity. The name of +this chaplain is Henri Deligny, <em>Aumônier Militaire</em>, +Ambulance 16-27, Sector 112; and he was assisted by +the permanent curé of the little church, Abbé Blondelle, +who wishes me to assure you that he will guard most +reverently your son’s grave, and be there to receive you +when the day may come that you shall wish to visit it. +</p> +<p> +“After leaving the church the procession marched to +the military cemetery, where your son’s body was laid +beside the hundreds of others who have died for France. +Both the lieutenant and general here paid tributes of appreciation, +which I will have sent to you. The general, +various officers of the army, and ambulance assisted in +the last rites.... +</p> +<p> +“I have brought back and will send you the <em>Croix de +Guerre</em>....” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +Oh, but you couldn’t read any further—for the great +lump of pride in your throat, the thick mist of tears in +your eyes. A sob escaped the boy. He looked over at +Maw and saw the miraculous. Maw was awake at last +and crying—a new-fledged pulsating Maw emerged from +the brown chrysalis of her sorrows. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Maw!... Our Nat!... All that—that-funeral!... +Some funeral, Maw!” The boy choked. +</p> +<p> +“My Nat!” Maw was saying. “Buried like a king! +... Like a King o’ France!” She clasped her hands +tightly. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span> +</p> +<p> +It was like some beautiful fantasy. A Haynes—the +despised and rejected of earth—borne to his last home +with such pomp and ceremony! +</p> +<p> +“There never was nothin’ like it heard of round here, +Maw.... If folks could only know—” +</p> +<p> +She lifted her head as at a challenge. +</p> +<p> +“Why, they’re goin’ to know, Luke—for I’m goin’ to +tell ’em. Folks that have talked behind Nat’s back—folks +that have pitied us—when they see this—like a +King o’ France!” she repeated softly. “I’m goin’ down +to town to-day, Luke.” +</p> +<p> + <br /> +</p> +<p> +<span style='font-weight:bold;'>V</span> +</p> +<p> +It was dusk when Maw came back; dusk of a clear +day, with a rosy sunset off behind the hills. Luke +opened the door for her and he saw that she had brought +some of the sun along in with her—its colors in her +worn face; its peace in her eyes. She was the same, +yet somehow new. Even the tilt of her crazy old +bonnet could not detract from a strange new dignity +that clothed her. +</p> +<p> +She did not speak at once, going over to warm her +gloveless hands at the stove, and staring up at the +Grampaw Peel plate; then: +</p> +<p> +“When it comes—my Nat’s medal—it’s goin’ to set +right up here, ’stead o’ this old thing—an’ the letters +and the sermons in my shell box I got on my weddin’ +trip.... Lawyer Ritchie told me to-day what it +means, the name o’ that medal—Cross o’ War! It’s +a decoration fur soldiers and earned by bravery.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span> +</p> +<p> +She paused; then broke out suddenly: +</p> +<p> +“I b’en a fool, settin’ here grievin’. My Nat was a +hero, an’ I never knew it!... A hero’s folks hadn’t +ought to cry. It’s a thing too big for that. Come here, +you little Luke! Maw hain’t b’en real good to you an’ +Tommy lately. You’re gittin’ all white an’ peaked. +Too much frettin’ ’bout Nat. You an’ me’s got to +stop it, I tell you. Folks round here ain’t goin’ to let +us fret—” +</p> +<p> +“Folks! Maw!” The words burst from the boy’s +heart. “Did they find out?... You showed it to +’em? Uncle Clem—” +</p> +<p> +Maw sniffed. +</p> +<p> +“Clem! Oh, he was real took aback; but he don’t +count in on this—not big enough.” Then triumph +hastened her story. “It’s the big ones that’s mixin’ +into this, Lukey. Seems like they’d heard somethin’ +a spell back in one o’ the county papers, an’ we didn’t +know.... Anyhow, when I first got into town I met +Judge Geer. He had me right into his office in Masonic +Hall, ’fore I could git my breath almost—had +me settin’ in his private room, an’ sent his stenugifer +out fur a cup o’ cawfee fur me. He had me give him +the letter to read, an’ asked dare he make some copies. +The stenugifer took ’em like lightnin’, right there. +</p> +<p> +“The judge had a hard time of it, coughin’ an’ +blowin’ over that letter. He’s goin’ to send some +copies to the New York papers right off. He took me +acrost the hall and interduced me to Lawyer Ritchie. +Lawyer Ritchie, he read the letter too. ‘A hero!’ +they called Nat; an’ me ‘A hero’s mother!’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span> +</p> +<p> +“‘We ain’t goin’ to forgit this, Mis’ Haynes,’ Lawyer +Ritchie said. ‘This here whole town’s proud o’ your +Nat.’ ... My land! I couldn’t sense it all!... +Me, Delia Haynes, gettin’ her hand wrung, ’count o’ +anything Nat’d b’en doin’, by the big bugs round +town! Judge Geer, he fetched ’em all out o’ their +offices—Slade, the supervisor, and Fuller Brothers, +and old Sumner Pratt—an’ all! An’ Ben Watson +asked could he have a copy to put in the <em>Biweekly</em>. +It’s goin’ to take the whole front page, with an editor’al +inside. He said the Rockville Center News’d most +likely copy it too. +</p> +<p> +“I was like in a dream!... All I’d aimed to do +was to let some o’ them folks know that those people +acrost the ocean had thought well of our Nat, an’ here +they was breakin’ their necks to git in on it too!... +Goin’ down the street they was more of it. Lu Shiffer +run right out o’ the hardware store an’ left the nails +he was weighin’ to shake hands with me; and Jem +Brand came; and Lan’lord Peters come out o’ the +Valley House an’ spoke to me.... I felt awful +public. An’ Jim Beckonridge come out of the Emporium +to shake too. +</p> +<p> +“‘I ain’t seen you down in town fur quite a spell,’ +he sez. ‘How are you all up there to the farm?... +Want to say I’m real proud o’ Nat—a boy from round +here!’ he sez.... Old Beckonridge, that was always +wantin’ to arrest Nat fur takin’ his chestnuts or foolin’ +down in the store! +</p> +<p> +“I just let ’em drift—seein’ they had it all fixed fur +me. All along the street they come an’ spoke to me. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span> +Mame Parmlee, that ain’t b’en able to see me fur +three years, left off sweepin’ her porch an’ come down +an’ shook my hand, an’ cried about it; an’ that stylish +Mis’ Willowby, that’s president o’ the Civil Club, +followed me all over the Square and asked dare she +read a copy o’ the letter an’ tell about Nat to the school-house +next Wednesday. +</p> +<p> +“It seems Judge Geer had gone out an’ spread it +broadcast that I was in town, for they followed me +everywhere. Next thing I run into Reverend Kearns +and Reverend Higby, huntin’ me hard. They both +had one idee. +</p> +<p> +“‘We wanted to have a memor’al service to the +churches ’bout Nat,’ they sez; ‘then it come over us +that it was the town’s affair really. So, Mis’ Haynes,’ +they sez, ‘we want you should share this thing with +us. You mustn’t be selfish. You gotta give us a little +part in it too. Are you willin’?’” +</p> +<p> +“It knocked me dumb—me givin’ anybody anything! +Well, to finish, they’s to be a big public service +in the Town Hall on Friday. They’ll have it all flags—French +ones, an’ our’n too. An’ the ministers’ll preach; +an’ Judge Geer’ll tell Nat’s story an’ speak about him; +an’ the Ladies’ Guild’ll serve a big hot supper, because +they’ll probably be hundreds out; an’ they’ll read the +letters an’ have prayers for our Nat!” She faltered +a moment. “An’ we’ll be there too—you an’ me an’ +Tom—settin’ in the seat o’ honor, right up front!... +It’ll be the greatest funeral service this town’s ever +seen, Luke.” +</p> +<p> +Maw’s face was crimson with emotion. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span> +</p> +<p> +“An’ Uncle Clem an’ Aunt Mollie—” +</p> +<p> +“Oh—them!” Maw came back to earth and smiled +tolerantly. “They was real sharp to be in it too. +Mollie took me into the parlor an’ fetched a glass o’ +wine to stren’then me up.” Maw mused a moment; +then spoke with a touch of patronage: “I’m goin’ to +knit Clem some new socks this winter. He says he +can’t git none like the oldtime wool ones; an’ the market +floors are cold. Clem’s done what he could, an’ +I’ll be real glad to help him out.... Oh, I asked +’em to come an’ set with us at the service—S’norta +too. I allowed we could manage to spare ’em the +room.” +</p> +<p> +She dreamed again, launched on a sea of glory; then +roused to her final triumph: +</p> +<p> +“But that’s only part, Luke. The best’s comin’. +Jim Beckonridge wants you to go down an’ see him. +‘That lame boy o’ yours,’ he sez, ‘was in here a spell +ago with some notion about raisin’ bees an’ buckwheat +together, an’ gittin’ a city market fur buckwheat +honey. Slipped my mind,’ he sez, ’till I heard what +Nat’d done; an’ then it all come back. City party +this summer had the same notion an’ was lookin’ out +for a likely place to invest some cash in. You send +that boy down an’ we’ll talk it over. Shouldn’t wonder +if he’d get some backin’. I calculate I might help him, +myself,’ he sez, ‘I b’en thinkin’ of it too.’ ... Don’t +seem like it could hardly be true.” +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Maw!” Luke’s pulses were leaping wildly. +Buckwheat honey was the dear dream of many a long +hour’s wistful meditation. “If we could—I could +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167'></a>167</span> +study up about it an’ send away fur printed books. +We could make some money—” +</p> +<p> +But Maw had not yet finished. +</p> +<p> +“An’ they’s some about Tom, too, Luke! That +young Doctor Wells down there—he’s on’y b’en there +a year—he come right up, an’ spoke to me, in the +midst of several. ‘I want to talk about your boy,’ he +sez. ‘I’ve wanted to fur some time, but didn’t like to +make bold; but now seem’s as good a time as any.’ +‘They’re all talkin’ of him,’ I sez. ‘Well,’ he sez, ‘I +don’t mean the dead, but the livin’ boy—the one folks +calls Big Tom. I’ve heard his story, an’ I got a good +look over him down here in the store a while ago. +Woman’—he sez it jest like that—‘if that big boy o’ +your’n had a little operation, he’d be as good as +any.’ +</p> +<p> +“I answered him patient, an’ told him what ailed +Tom an’ why he couldn’t be no different—jest what +old Doc Andrews told us—that they was a little piece +o’ bone druv deep into his skull that time he fell. He +spoke real vi’lent then. ‘But—my Lord!—woman,’ +he sez, ‘that’s what I’m talkin’ about. If we jack up +that bone’—trepannin’, he called it too—’his brains’d +git to be like anybody else’s.’ Told me he wants fur us +to let him look after it. Won’t cost anything unless +we want. They’s a hospital to Rockville would tend +to it, an’ glad to—when we git ready.... My poor +Tommy!... Don’t seem’s if it could be true.” +</p> +<p> +Her face softened, and she broke up suddenly. +</p> +<p> +“I got good boys all round,” she wept. “I always +said it; an’ now folks know.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span> +</p> +<p> +Luke lay on the old settle, thinking. In the air-tight +stove the hickory fagots crackled, with jeweled +color-play. On the other side Tom sat whittling silently—Tom, +who would presently whittle no more, +but rise to be a man. +</p> +<p> +It was incredible! Incredible that the old place +might some day shake off its shackles of poverty and +be organized for a decent struggle with life! Incredible +that Maw—stepping briskly about getting the supper—should +be singing! +</p> +<p> +Already the room seemed filled and warmed with +the odors of prosperity and self-respect. Maw had +put a red geranium on the table; there was the crispy +fragrance of frying salt pork and soda biscuit in the +air. +</p> +<p> +These the Hayneses! These people, with hope and +self-esteem once more in their hearts! These people, +with a new, a unique place in the community’s respect! +It was all like a beautiful miracle; and, +thinking of its maker, Luke choked suddenly and +gulped. +</p> +<p> +There was a moist spot on the old Mexican hairless +right under his eyes; but it had been made by tears of +pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A hero’s folks +hadn’t ought to cry. And he wouldn’t. Nat was +better off than ever—safe and honored. He had trod +the path of glory. A line out of the boy’s old Reader +sprang to his mind: “The paths of glory lead but to +the grave.” Oh, but it wasn’t true! Nat’s path led +to life—to hope; to help for all of them, for Nat’s own. +In his death, if not in his life, he had rehabilitated +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span> +them. And Nat—who loved them—would look down +and call it good. +</p> +<p> +In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his +brother’s face. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Nat!” he whispered. “I knew you’d do it! +I always said you’d do somethin’ big for us all.” +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Mary Brecht Pulver</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span><a name='chVIII' id='chVIII'></a>VIII—SERGT. WARREN COMES BACK FROM FRANCE</h2> +<p> +Immediately after voting, the Rev. Jeremiah Soule +stepped outside the town hall to fortify himself with +fresh air for the coming meeting. Several others had +done the same. +</p> +<p> +“Been a hard winter, Mr. Soule,” politely remarked +one of the loiterers about the door. He was clad for +the gusts of March like a sealer about to venture forth +upon an Arctic floe. +</p> +<p> +“And especially for the boys in the trenches,” said +the minister. +</p> +<p> +“That’s a fact, sir. I didn’t mean we’d ought to +complain. We had our share of coal and wood, I guess, +if the wood <em>was</em> green and the coal mostly slate.” +</p> +<p> +“And we had the money to pay for it.” +</p> +<p> +The group of men stirred a little uneasily. +</p> +<p> +“Honestly made, I think you’ll admit that, sir,” said +Arthur Watts, a strapping fellow of thirty years, who +had been called in the first draft and rejected on account +of his poor teeth. +</p> +<p> +“I believe so—quite,” admitted Mr. Soule. “We +are making good rope for the government and our allies, +and no one is better pleased over it than I. I’m proud +of the cordage plant. Yes, since this dreadful war +had to be, the town has come honestly enough by its +prosperity.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172'></a>172</span> +</p> +<p> +The group felt that Mr. Soule had tactfully dodged +the real issue, and they were content to have it so. Just +then the polls were closed, and those who had brought +lunch boxes proceeded to consume the contents. Others +presented themselves at the anteroom, where George +Bassett was dispensing his famous chowder and coffee, +together with pickles and bread and butter. +</p> +<p> +“It frets the parson to see us keeping our money +instead of blowing it all out in charity,” remarked Watts, +across a steaming mug of strong coffee. He laughed +indulgently. +</p> +<p> +His friends did not echo his amusement. They +looked, if not exactly ill at ease, at any rate somewhat +sober. +</p> +<p> +The hall was packed when Joel Holmes, a massive +and imperturbable person, was chosen moderator for +the tenth successive time. Warrant in one large hand +and gavel in the other, he inscrutably stared upon the +expectant voters for a weighty minute. +</p> +<p> +“The meeting will please come to order,” he announced. +The gavel smote the desk resoundingly. +</p> +<p> +As usual, the first person to be recognized was fiery +little Mr. Abel Crabbe, who had a few withering remarks +to make concerning the warrant as a whole. He was +greatly applauded. As a conscientious objector +to everything, Abel was looked upon as an interesting +feature of town meeting. +</p> +<p> +A number of articles were then discussed and disposed +of without excitement until Henry Torrey rose. +He was as much of an objector as Mr. Crabbe, but he +dealt in irony rather than in blunt scorn. With a grim +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span> +smile he proceeded to ridicule the library directors. +When he had exposed them in their true colors, he +made an impassioned motion to halve the appropriation +they asked for in Article 6 of the warrant. +</p> +<p> +The motion was enthusiastically seconded, but on +being put to vote Torrey’s was the only ay. The crowd +enjoyed Torrey as they enjoyed Abel Crabbe, but they +had perfect faith in the library directors, the town +officers and the warrant. +</p> +<p> +Early in the proceedings it was evident that Article +No. 10 was to furnish the event of the day. It ran as +follows: +</p> +<p> +“That the sum of $25,000 be appropriated for the +improvement and embellishment of Farragut Square, +said improvement to include the removal of the four +old buildings now abutting upon it, the erection of a +flagpole and a suitable band stand and the widening of +Brig Street on the bay side of the square.” +</p> +<p> +When the article was reached, no disposition was +shown to dispose of it quickly. Fenville wished to hear +the report of the committee and the opinions and impressions +of each and every member thereon. The +plan had caught the popular fancy. Nearly every man +there was ready to back it firmly, even boastfully. +</p> +<p> +Pompous Mr. Baxter, the chairman of the committee, +sounded the keynote. He sketched the history of the +cordage plant, which had begun as an unaspiring rope-walk. +He compared it to the ugly duckling that became +a regal swan. And the swan, he said, pursuing the +simile, had not flown out of their hands in spite of the +great wings it had grown. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span> +</p> +<p> +At this point the moderator’s voice and gavel were +called upon to quell a disturbance in the rear of the hall +apparently occasioned by the entrance of some late +arrivals. +</p> +<p> +When order was restored Mr. Baxter, continuing the +pæan to the town’s prosperity, spoke of the uniquely +local character of the cordage plant; of the fact that +virtually everyone, from the president down to the office +boy, concerned with it was a native of Fenville. And +besides a liberal salary everyone had a share in the +profits. Nearly every penny of the stock was owned +right in the town of Fenville. All of which was no news, +but everyone relished Baxter’s glowing phrases just the +same. +</p> +<p> +The speeches of the other committeemen were in +the same tenor. Fenville had made money out of its +cordage; was still making money. It could afford to +pat its own back, and the pat might well take the form +of a renovated and beautified town square that would +advertise its business smartness to all beholders. +</p> +<p> +As the last of the committeemen sat down, some one +in the rear of the hall addressed the moderator. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. ——?” queried that official, unable to see the +speaker clearly. Like the old hall, recently destroyed +by fire, the new structure had made a concession to +the fair and inquisitive sex in the shape of a deep rear +balcony. +</p> +<p> +“Warren—Miles Warren.” +</p> +<p> +An excited craning of heads followed, and even Joel +Holmes showed the human being beneath the armor of +officialdom. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span> +</p> +<p> +“Miles Warren!” he ejaculated. Then his gavel +mechanically reminded him of his duties and he recalled +the meeting to order. It took vigorous rapping +to still the persistent murmurs and the eager +turnings. +</p> +<p> +“I’d like to say a few words about Article 10,” said +the man under the low balcony. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I guess you can!” boomed the moderator. +He was preserving his self-control with difficulty. His +hands fidgeted and his circular face showed a deepening +crimson. “But we can’t hear what you say way back +there—or see you, either,” he added. “Please step a +little farther forward if you will, Mr. Warren.” +</p> +<p> +The storm of welcoming applause for the son who +had so unexpectedly returned to his native town after +two years of splendid service in the far-famed Foreign +Legion suddenly fell to a shocked silence. They saw +now why Sergt. Warren had come home. His father +stood beside him. Miles needed some one to guide +him up the narrow aisle—for he was blind. +</p> +<p> +Fenville had heard of the metal cross pinned to the +faded tunic and had shared the pride of John Warren +and his wife, Abigail; but it had not heard of the +scarred face and sightless eyes. Miles had gone forth +to fight for democracy “like a true knight of old,” +the Fenville Weekly Gazette had said. The townspeople +had not smiled at the phrase, for there had always +been something gallant in Miles; he had always +had a fearless and honorable outlook upon life. +</p> +<p> +“I’m not much use to them over there, so it seems +good to get home,” he said. “And on town-meeting +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span> +day. I knew father wanted to be here, and I did, too, +so we came right over from the depot.” +</p> +<p> +Sightless: thrown back into the discard. But there +was the same firm mouth and the same upright carriage +of the well-shaped head. Broken? Not a bit of +it. Everyone could see that. The old spirit was there, +just as gallant as when he had set out for the battlefields +of France. +</p> +<p> +“This Article No. 10,” continued the sergeant. “You +don’t know how strange it sounds. Because I’ve come +straight home from over there, you know. I was going +to say, without seeing anything on the way.” He +smiled. “And that’s true, too. What I mean is, I +haven’t had time to get adjusted to the change. It +wasn’t till just now that I said to myself, the war’s +thousands of miles off, way across the ocean. Not that +the ocean would stop Fritz from getting at us mighty +quick if he ever beats us over there. You may depend +on that. +</p> +<p> +“Some one has to make the things that are needed +and get paid for them. That’s of course. But I haven’t +been seeing that side. I’ve been seeing France and +England and our own boys with their backs to the wall. +I’ve been seeing new graveyards grow; bigger than big +towns—as big as cities. And cities that were nothing +but graveyards. Towns that were nothing but ash +heaps. Rich lands churned up into terrible deserts. +</p> +<p> +“And I’ve met men—met them all the time—who’d +been seeing the same and worse in Russia and Poland, +Serbia and Roumania—the whole Christian world +being battered and ripped to pieces. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span> +</p> +<p> +“That is the way you think about it over there. +What can you do to stop it—how can you help the +millions that have lost their fathers or mothers, husbands +or wives, or children—that have no food or homes +or country? That is what you ask yourself day and +night. +</p> +<p> +“You can never give them back what they have +lost. But if you had money, you could keep some +of them from dying of cold and hunger; little children +at least. That is about all money means to you over +there. +</p> +<p> +“So when I come home to hear that Fenville has +grown rich, why, I can’t seem to sense it! And that +you want to fix up Farragut Square,—make it pretty,—buy +the town a kind of decoration because it has been +lucky enough and smart enough to make money—out +of the war. It’s like blood money to me—like blood +itself; a drop for every penny.” +</p> +<p> +Fenville had never tolerated criticism, but the man +in the faded uniform with the cross on his tunic and +his head up, and his poor, blind, scarred face, exerted a +strange influence over the audience. Even the least +imaginative man had his vision of what that figure symbolized. +</p> +<p> +“It was looking at him, as much as hearing him +speak—why, I seemed to get a sight right over to +France as clear as if I had been there,” explained Mr. +Totten afterwards. “France made Farragut Square +look kind of small.” +</p> +<p> +“I’ll say just one thing more,” Miles went on, and +you could have heard a pin drop in that hall. “If any +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178'></a>178</span> +of our boys don’t come back,—Lem Chapman and +Frank Keeler and the others,—those that do, will they +think a prettified Farragut Square is the best monument +for the ones who died for us over there?” +</p> +<p> +The sergeant turned, and John Warren took hold of +his arm to lead him back. Mr. Chapman, Lem’s father, +was up like a flash. +</p> +<p> +“Hold on!” he shouted. “No, it ain’t, by Jupiter!” +</p> +<p> +Crash! Out came the handclapping like the rattle of +rifle fire. More than one shrewd old eye was moist, +and few were the hearts that did not beat with a more +generous quickness. +</p> +<p> +“What can we do, Sergt. Miles?” asked Mr. Chapman. +“You have told us what we shouldn’t do, and I +for one thank you for it. We want to do the right thing. +Every man of us here does. Tell us what it is.” +</p> +<p> +“Let us dispose of Article 10 first,” said Dr. Shepard. +The house approved, and Mr. Chapman gave way. +The article was put in the form of a motion, was voted +upon, and defeated as if it had never had a friend in the +world. +</p> +<p> +“Make a motion, Miles!” shouted a score of +voices. +</p> +<p> +“Do you want to know what I should do?” said the +soldier. “There are places in France and Belgium that +used to be towns. Some haven’t even the cellars left. +An American society has been formed to take hold of +the work of building up those places after the war. +We could write to that society and get the name of a +town that once was—a little one; one where perhaps +our own boys have fought. Fenville could put the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span> +money she meant to spend on herself into helping to +make it a town again. It would help, don’t you worry +about that. So Fenville could feel, always, long after +our time, that that little French town was her camarade. +And it would be her bit; Fenville’s bit.” +</p> +<p> +When he could make himself heard, the Rev. Jeremiah +Soule made a motion, the gist of which was that +a committee be appointed to correspond with the +society with the object of learning the name of some +small devastated town in France or Belgium that would +be a worthy recipient of twenty-five thousand dollars +from Fenville’s treasury, the same to be expended toward +rebuilding the town at the end of the war. +</p> +<p> +A dozen voices seconded the motion, and on being +put to vote it was carried unanimously. Mr. Crabbe, +the conscientious objector, was one of the first to rise +on the ay vote. The fiery little man had his streak of +sentiment, after all. +</p> +<p> +So had Henry Torrey, who said gruffly that he was +glad to see the town’s money spent for a really useful +purpose for once. +</p> +<p> +“Three cheers for Sergt. Warren, then!” shouted Mr. +Chapman. “And make them rousers!” +</p> +<p> +“He and John went out,” said a voice in the rear +of the hall. +</p> +<p> +“Cheer him from the steps!” cried another. +</p> +<p> +The crowd filed out. The two Warrens were walking +down the road. The sergeant had his father’s arm; +but his head was up, and it was not he, but the older +man, that had the air of being led. For some reason +the crowd fell silent. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span> +</p> +<p> +Finally some one said crisply, “Miles Warren always +could see straight. And I tell you he can see as +straight’s ever, even if he is blind.” +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Fisher Ames, Jr.</span></p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span><a name='chIX' id='chIX'></a>IX—THE COWARD</h2> +<p> +We will call him Albert Lloyd. That wasn’t his name, +but it will do: +</p> +<p> +Albert Lloyd was what the world terms a coward. +</p> +<p> +In London they called him a slacker. +</p> +<p> +His country had been at war nearly eighteen months, +and still he was not in khaki. +</p> +<p> +He had no good reason for not enlisting, being alone +in the world, having been educated in an Orphan +Asylum, and there being no one dependent upon him +for support. He had no good position to lose, and +there was no sweetheart to tell him with her lips to go, +while her eyes pleaded for him to stay. +</p> +<p> +Every time he saw a recruiting sergeant, he’d slink +around the corner out of sight, with a terrible fear +gnawing at his heart. When passing the big recruiting +posters, and on his way to business and back he passed +many, he would pull down his cap and look the other +way, to get away from that awful finger pointing at +him, under the caption, “Your King and Country +Need You”; or the boring eyes of Kitchener, which +burned into his very soul, causing him to shudder. +</p> +<p> +Then the Zeppelin raids—during them, he used to +crouch in a corner of his boarding-house cellar, whimpering +like a whipped puppy and calling upon the +Lord to protect him. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span> +</p> +<p> +Even his landlady despised him, although she had +to admit that he was “good pay.” +</p> +<p> +He very seldom read the papers, but one momentous +morning, the landlady put the morning paper at his +place before he came down to breakfast. Taking his +seat, he read the flaring headline, “Conscription Bill +Passed,” and nearly fainted. Excusing himself, he +stumbled upstairs to his bedroom, with the horror of +it gnawing into his vitals. +</p> +<p> +Having saved up a few pounds, he decided not to +leave the house, and to sham sickness, so he stayed +in his room and had the landlady serve his meals +there. +</p> +<p> +Every time there was a knock at the door, he trembled +all over, imagining it was a policeman who had +come to take him away to the army. +</p> +<p> +One morning his fears were realized. Sure enough +there stood a policeman with the fatal paper. Taking +it in his trembling hand, he read that he, Albert Lloyd, +was ordered to report himself to the nearest recruiting +station for physical examination. He reported immediately, +because he was afraid to disobey. +</p> +<p> +The doctor looked with approval upon Lloyd’s six +feet of physical perfection, and thought what a fine +guardsman he would make, but examined his heart +twice before he passed him as “physically fit”; it was +beating so fast. +</p> +<p> +From the recruiting depot Lloyd was taken, with +many others, in charge of a sergeant, to the training +depot at Aldershot, where he was given an outfit of +khaki, and drew his other equipment. He made a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span> +fine-looking soldier, except for the slight shrinking in +his shoulders, and the hunted look in his eyes. +</p> +<p> +At the training depot it does not take long to find +out a man’s character, and Lloyd was promptly dubbed +“Windy.” In the English Army, “windy” means +cowardly. +</p> +<p> +The smallest recruit in the barracks looked on him +with contempt, and was not slow to show it in many +ways. +</p> +<p> +Lloyd was a good soldier, learned quickly, obeyed +every order promptly, never groused at the hardest +fatigues. He was afraid to. He lived in deadly fear +of the officers and “Non-Coms” over him. They also +despised him. +</p> +<p> +One morning about three months after his enlistment, +Lloyd’s company was paraded, and the names +picked for the next draft to France were read. When +his name was called, he did not step out smartly, two +paces to the front, and answer cheerfully, “Here, sir,” +as the others did. He just fainted in ranks, and was +carried to barracks amid the sneers of the rest. +</p> +<p> +That night was an agony of misery to him. He +could not sleep. Just cried and whimpered in his bunk, +because on the morrow the draft was to sail for France, +where he would see death on all sides, and perhaps be +killed himself. On the steamer, crossing the Channel, +he would have jumped overboard to escape, but was +afraid of drowning. +</p> +<p> +Arriving in France, he and the rest were huddled +into cattle cars. On the side of each appeared in white +letters, “Chevaux 8, Hommes 40.” After hours of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span> +bumping over the uneven French roadbeds they arrived +at the training base of Rouen. +</p> +<p> +At this place they were put through a week’s rigid +training in trench warfare. On the morning of the +eighth day, they paraded at ten o’clock, and were +inspected and passed by General H——, then were +marched to the Quartermaster’s, to draw their gas +helmets and trench equipment. +</p> +<p> +At four in the afternoon, they were again hustled +into cattle cars. This time, the journey lasted two +days. They disembarked at the town of Frévent, and +could hear a distant dull booming. With knees shaking, +Lloyd asked the Sergeant what the noise was, and +nearly dropped when the Sergeant replied in a somewhat +bored tone: +</p> +<p> +“Oh, them’s the guns up the line. We’ll be up there +in a couple o’ days or so. Don’t worry, my laddie, +you’ll see more of ’em than you want before you +get ’ome to Blighty again, that is, if you’re lucky +enough to get back. Now lend a hand there unloadin’ +them cars, and quit that everlastin’ shakin’. I believe +yer scared.” The last with a contemptuous +sneer. +</p> +<p> +They marched ten kilos, full pack, to a little dilapidated +village, and the sound of the guns grew louder, +constantly louder. +</p> +<p> +The village was full of soldiers who turned out to +inspect the new draft, the men who were shortly to be +their mates in the trenches, for they were going “up +the line” on the morrow, to “take over” their certain +sector of trenches. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span> +</p> +<p> +The draft was paraded in front of Battalion Headquarters, +and the men were assigned to companies. +</p> +<p> +Lloyd was the only man assigned to “D” Company. +Perhaps the officer in charge of the draft had something +to do with it, for he called Lloyd aside, and said: +</p> +<p> +“Lloyd, you are going to a new company. No one +knows you. Your bed will be as you make it, so for +God’s sake, brace up and be a man. I think you have +the stuff in you, my boy, so good-bye, and the best of +luck to you.” +</p> +<p> +The next day the battalion took over their part of +the trenches. It happened to be a very quiet day. +The artillery behind the lines was still, except for an +occasional shell sent over to let the Germans know the +gunners were not asleep. +</p> +<p> +In the darkness, in single file, the Company slowly +wended their way down the communication trench +to the front line. No one noticed Lloyd’s white and +drawn face. +</p> +<p> +After they had relieved the Company in the trenches, +Lloyd, with two of the old company men, was put on +guard in one of the traverses. Not a shot was fired +from the German lines, and no one paid any attention +to him crouched on the firing step. +</p> +<p> +On the first time in, a new recruit is not required to +stand with his head “over the top.” He only “sits it +out,” while the older men keep watch. +</p> +<p> +At about ten o’clock, all of a sudden, he thought +hell had broken loose, and crouched and shivered up +against the parapet. Shells started bursting, as he +imagined, right in their trench, when in fact they were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span> +landing about a hundred yards in rear of them, in the +second lines. +</p> +<p> +One of the older men on guard, turning to his mate, +said: +</p> +<p> +“There goes Fritz with those trench mortars again. +It’s about time our artillery ‘taped’ them, and sent +over a few. Where’s that blighter of a draft man +gone to? There’s his rifle leaning against the parapet. +He must have legged it. Just keep your eye peeled, +Dick, while I report it to the Sergeant. I wonder if +the fool knows he can be shot for such tricks as leavin’ +his post.” +</p> +<p> +Lloyd had gone. When the trench mortars opened +up, a maddening terror seized him and he wanted to +run, to get away from that horrible din, anywhere to +safety. So quietly sneaking around the traverse, he +came to the entrance of a communication trench, and +ran madly and blindly down it, running into traverses, +stumbling into muddy holes, and falling full length +over trench grids. +</p> +<p> +Groping blindly, with his arms stretched out in +front of him, he at last came out of the trench into the +village, or what used to be a village, before the German +artillery razed it. +</p> +<p> +Mixed with his fear, he had a peculiar sort of cunning, +which whispered to him to avoid all sentries, +because if they saw him he would be sent back to that +awful destruction in the front line, and perhaps be +killed or maimed. The thought made him shudder, +the cold sweat coming out in beads on his face. +</p> +<p> +On his left, in the darkness, he could make out the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span> +shadowy forms of trees; crawling on his hands and +knees, stopping and crouching with fear at each shell-burst, +he finally reached an old orchard, and cowered +at the base of a shot-scarred apple-tree. +</p> +<p> +He remained there all night, listening to the sound +of the guns and ever praying, praying that his useless +life would be spared. +</p> +<p> +As dawn began to break, he could discern little dark +objects protruding from the ground all about him. +Curiosity mastered his fear and he crawled to one of +the objects, and there, in the uncertain light, he read +on a little wooden cross: +</p> +<p> +“Pte. H.S. Wheaton, No. 1670, 1st London Regt. +R.F. Killed in action, April 25, 1916. R.I.P.” +(Rest in Peace). +</p> +<p> +When it dawned on him that he had been hiding all +night in a cemetery, his reason seemed to leave him, +and a mad desire to be free from it all made him rush +madly away, falling over little wooden crosses, smashing +some and trampling others under his feet. +</p> +<p> +In his flight, he came to an old French dugout, half +caved in, and partially filled with slimy and filthy +water. +</p> +<p> +Like a fox being chased by the hounds, he ducked +into this hole, and threw himself on a pile of old empty +sandbags, wet and mildewed. Then—unconsciousness. +</p> +<p> +On the next day, he came to; far distant voices +sounded in his ears. Opening his eyes, in the entrance +of the dugout he saw a Corporal and two men with +fixed bayonets. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span> +</p> +<p> +The Corporal was addressing him: +</p> +<p> +“Get up, you white-livered blighter! Curse you +and the day you ever joined ‘D’ Company, spoiling +their fine record! It’ll be you up against the wall, and +a good job too. Get a hold of him, men, and if he +makes a break, give him the bayonet, and send it home, +the cowardly sneak. Come on, you, move, we’ve +been looking for you long enough.” +</p> +<p> +Lloyd, trembling and weakened by his long fast, +tottered out, assisted by a soldier on each side of +him. +</p> +<p> +They took him before the Captain, but could get +nothing out of him but: +</p> +<p> +“For God’s sake, sir, don’t have me shot, don’t +have me shot!” +</p> +<p> +The Captain, utterly disgusted with him, sent him +under escort to Division Headquarters for trial by +court-martial, charged with desertion under fire. +</p> +<p> +They shoot deserters in France. +</p> +<p> +During his trial, Lloyd sat as one dazed, and could +put nothing forward in his defense, only an occasional +“Don’t have me shot!” +</p> +<p> +His sentence was passed: “To be shot at 3:38 o’clock +on the morning of May 18, 1916.” This meant that +he had only one more day to live. +</p> +<p> +He did not realize the awfulness of his sentence, his +brain seemed paralyzed. He knew nothing of his trip, +under guard, in a motor lorry to the sand-bagged +guardroom in the village, where he was dumped on the +floor and left, while a sentry with a fixed bayonet +paced up and down in front of the entrance. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span> +</p> +<p> +Bully beef, water, and biscuits were left beside him +for his supper. +</p> +<p> +The sentry, seeing that he ate nothing, came inside +and shook him by the shoulder, saying in a kind voice: +</p> +<p> +“Cheero, laddie, better eat something. You’ll feel +better. Don’t give up hope. You’ll be pardoned +before morning. I know the way they run these things. +They’re only trying to scare you, that’s all. Come +now, that’s a good lad, eat something. It’ll make the +world look different to you.” +</p> +<p> +The good-hearted sentry knew he was lying about +the pardon. He knew nothing short of a miracle could +save the poor lad. +</p> +<p> +Lloyd listened eagerly to his sentry’s words, and +believed them. A look of hope came into his eyes, and +he ravenously ate the meal beside him. +</p> +<p> +In about an hour’s time, the Chaplain came to see +him, but Lloyd would have none of him. He wanted +no parson; he was to be pardoned. +</p> +<p> +The artillery behind the lines suddenly opened up +with everything they had. An intense bombardment +of the enemy’s lines had commenced. The roar of the +guns was deafening. Lloyd’s fears came back with a +rush, and he cowered on the earthen floor with his +hands over his face. +</p> +<p> +The sentry, seeing his position, came in and tried +to cheer him by talking to him: +</p> +<p> +“Never mind them guns, boy, they won’t hurt you. +They are ours. We are giving the ‘Boches’ a dose of +their own medicine. Our boys are going over the top +at dawn of the morning to take their trenches. We’ll +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span> +give ’em a taste of cold steel with their sausages and +beer. You just sit tight now until they relieve you. +I’ll have to go now, lad, as it’s nearly time for my +relief, and I don’t want them to see me a-talkin’ with +you. So long, laddie, cheero.” +</p> +<p> +With this, the sentry resumed the pacing of his +post. In about ten minutes’ time he was relieved, and +a “D” Company man took his place. +</p> +<p> +Looking into the guardhouse, the sentry noticed the +cowering attitude of Lloyd, and, with a sneer, said +to him: +</p> +<p> +“Instead of whimpering in that corner, you ought +to be saying your prayers. It’s bally conscripts like +you what’s spoilin’ our record. We’ve been out here +nigh onto eighteen months, and you’re the first man +to desert his post. The whole Battalion is laughin’ +and pokin’ fun at ‘D’ Company, bad luck to you! +but you won’t get another chance to disgrace us. +They’ll put your lights out in the mornin’.” +</p> +<p> +After listening to this tirade, Lloyd, in a faltering +voice, asked: “They are not going to shoot me, are +they? Why, the other sentry said they’d pardon me. +For God’s sake—don’t tell me I’m to be shot!” and +his voice died away in a sob. +</p> +<p> +“Of course, they’re going to shoot you. The other +sentry was jest a-kiddin’ you. Jest like old Smith. +Always a-tryin’ to cheer some one. You ain’t got no +more chance o’ bein’ pardoned than I have of gettin’ +to be Colonel of my ‘Batt.’” +</p> +<p> +When the fact that all hope was gone finally entered +Lloyd’s brain, a calm seemed to settle over him, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span> +rising to his knees, with his arms stretched out to +heaven, he prayed, and all of his soul entered into the +prayer: +</p> +<p> +“Oh, good and merciful God, give me strength to +die like a man! Deliver me from this coward’s death. +Give me a chance to die like my mates in the fighting +line, to die fighting for my country. I ask this of thee.” +</p> +<p> +A peace, hitherto unknown, came to him, and he +crouched and cowered no more, but calmly waited the +dawn, ready to go to his death. The shells were bursting +all around the guardroom, but he hardly noticed +them. +</p> +<p> +While waiting there, the voice of the sentry, singing +in a low tone, came to him. He was singing the chorus +of the popular trench ditty: +</p> +<p> + “I want to go home, I want to go home.<br /> + I don’t want to go to the trenches no more.<br /> + Where the ‘whizzbangs’ and ‘sausages’ roar galore.<br /> + Take me over the sea, where the Allemand can’t get at me.<br /> + Oh my, I don’t want to die! I want to go home.”<br /> +</p> +<p> +Lloyd listened to the words with a strange interest, +and wondered what kind of a home he would go to +across the Great Divide. It would be the only home +he had ever known. +</p> +<p> +Suddenly there came a great rushing through the +air, a blinding flash, a deafening report, and the sand-bag +walls of the guardroom toppled over, and then—blackness. +</p> +<p> +When Lloyd recovered consciousness, he was lying +on his right side, facing what used to be the entrance +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192'></a>192</span> +of the guardroom. Now, it was only a jumble of rent +and torn sandbags. His head seemed bursting. He +slowly rose on his elbow, and there in the east the +dawn was breaking. But what was that mangled +shape lying over there among the sandbags? Slowly +dragging himself to it, he saw the body of the sentry. +One look was enough to know that he was dead. The +sentry had had his wish gratified. He had “gone +home.” He was safe at last from the “whizzbangs” +and the Allemand. +</p> +<p> +Like a flash it came to Lloyd that he was free. Free +to go “over the top” with his Company. Free to die +like a true Briton fighting for his King and Country. +A great gladness and warmth came over him. Carefully +stepping over the body of the sentry, he started +on a mad race down the ruined street of the village, +amid the bursting shells, minding them not, dodging +through or around hurrying platoons on their way to +also go “over the top.” Coming to a communication +trench he could not get through. It was blocked with +laughing, cheering, and cursing soldiers. Climbing +out of the trench, he ran wildly along the top, never +heeding the rain of machine-gun bullets and shells, not +even hearing the shouts of the officers, telling him to +get back into the trench. He was going to join his +Company who were in the front line. He was going +to <em>fight</em> with them. He, the despised coward, had +come into his own. +</p> +<p> +While he was racing along, jumping over trenches +crowded with soldiers, a ringing cheer broke out all +along the front line, and his heart sank. He knew he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193'></a>193</span> +was too late. His Company had gone over. But still +he ran madly. He would catch them. He would die +with them. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile his Company had gone “over.” They, +with the other companies had taken the first and +second German trenches, and had pushed steadily on +to the third line. “D” Company, led by their Captain, +the one who had sent Lloyd to Division Headquarters +for trial, charged with desertion, had pushed +steadily forward until they found themselves far in +advance of the rest of the attacking force. “Bombing +out” trench after trench, and using their bayonets, +they came to a German communication trench, which +ended in a blindsap, and then the Captain, and what +was left of his men, knew they were in a trap. They +would not retire. “D” Company never retired, and +they were “D” Company. Right in front of them +they could see hundreds of Germans preparing to rush +them with bomb and bayonet. They would have +some chance if ammunition and bombs could reach +them from the rear. Their supply was exhausted, and +the men realized it would be a case of dying as bravely +as possible, or making a run for it. But “D” Company +would not run. It was against their traditions and +principles. +</p> +<p> +The Germans would have to advance across an open +space of three to four hundred yards before they could +get within bombing distance of the trench, and then +it would be all their own way. +</p> +<p> +Turning to his Company, the Captain said: +</p> +<p> +“Men, it’s a case of going West for us. We are out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span> +of ammunition and bombs, and the ‘Boches’ have us +in a trap. They will bomb us out. Our bayonets are +useless here. We will have to go over and meet them, +and it’s a case of thirty to one, so send every thrust +home, and die like the men of ‘D’ Company should. +When I give the word, follow me, and up and at them. +If we only had a machine gun, we could wipe them +out! Here they come, get ready, men.” +</p> +<p> +Just as he finished speaking, the welcome “pup-pup” +of a machine gun in their rear rang out, and the +front line of the onrushing Germans seemed to melt +away. They wavered, but once again came rushing +onward. Down went their second line. The machine +gun was taking an awful toll of lives. Then again +they tried to advance, but the machine gun mowed +them down. Dropping their rifles and bombs, they +broke and fled in a wild rush back to their trench, +amid the cheers of “D” Company. They were forming +again for another attempt, when in the rear of +“D” Company came a mighty cheer. The ammunition +had arrived and with it a battalion of Scotch to +reinforce them. They were saved. The unknown +machine gunner had come to the rescue in the nick +of time. +</p> +<p> +With the reinforcements, it was an easy task to take +the third German line. +</p> +<p> +After the attack was over, the Captain and three of +his non-commissioned officers, wended their way back +to the position where the machine gun had done its +deadly work. He wanted to thank the gunner in the +name of “D” Company for his magnificent deed. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span> +They arrived at the gun, and an awful sight met their +eyes. +</p> +<p> +Lloyd had reached the front line trench, after his +Company had left it. A strange company was nimbly +crawling up the trench ladders. They were reinforcements +going over. They were Scotties, and they made +a magnificent sight in their brightly colored kilts and +bare knees. +</p> +<p> +Jumping over the trench, Lloyd raced across “No +Man’s Land,” unheeding the rain of bullets, leaping +over dark forms on the ground, some of which lay still, +while others called out to him as he speeded past. +</p> +<p> +He came to the German front line, but it was deserted, +except for heaps of dead and wounded—a grim +tribute to the work of <em>his</em> Company, good old “D” +Company. Leaping trenches, and gasping for breath, +Lloyd could see right ahead of him <em>his</em> Company in a +dead-ended sap of a communication trench, and across +the open, away in front of them, a mass of Germans +preparing for a charge. Why didn’t “D” Company +fire on them? Why were they so strangely silent? +What were they waiting for? Then he knew—their +ammunition was exhausted. +</p> +<p> +But what was that on his right? A machine gun. +Why didn’t it open fire and save them? He would make +that gun’s crew do their duty. Rushing over to the gun, +he saw why it had not opened fire. Scattered around +its base lay six still forms. They had brought their +gun to consolidate the captured position, but a German +machine gun had decreed they would never fire again. +</p> +<p> +Lloyd rushed to the gun, and grasping the traversing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span> +handles, trained it on the Germans. He pressed +the thumb piece, but only a sharp click was the result. +The gun was unloaded. Then he realized his helplessness. +He did not know how to load the gun. Oh, why +hadn’t he attended the machine-gun course in England? +He’d been offered the chance, but with a blush of +shame he remembered that he had been afraid. The +nickname of the machine gunners had frightened him. +They were called the “Suicide Club.” Now, because +of this fear, his Company would be destroyed, the men +of “D” Company would have to die, because he, +Albert Lloyd, had been afraid of a name. In his shame +he cried like a baby. Anyway he could die with them, +and, rising to his feet, he stumbled over the body of +one of the gunners, who emitted a faint moan. A +gleam of hope flashed through him. Perhaps this man +could tell him how to load the gun. Stooping over the +body, he gently shook it, and the soldier opened his +eyes. Seeing Lloyd, he closed them again, and in a +faint voice said: +</p> +<p> +“Get away, you blighter, leave me alone. I don’t +want any coward around me.” +</p> +<p> +The words cut Lloyd like a knife, but he was desperate. +Taking the revolver out of the holster of the +dying man, he pressed the cold muzzle to the soldier’s +head, and replied: +</p> +<p> +“Yes, it is Lloyd, the coward of Company ‘D,’ but +if you don’t tell me how to load that gun, I’ll put a +bullet through your brain!” +</p> +<p> +A sunny smile came over the countenance of the +dying man, and he said in a faint whisper: +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span> +</p> +<p> +“Good old boy! I knew you wouldn’t disgrace our +Company——” +</p> +<p> +Lloyd interposed, “For God’s sake, if you want to +save that Company you are so proud of, tell me how +to load that gun!” +</p> +<p> +As if reciting a lesson in school, the soldier replied +in a weak, singsong voice: “Insert tag end of belt in +feed block, with left hand pull belt left front. Pull +crank handle back on roller, let go, and repeat +motion. Gun is now loaded. To fire, raise automatic +safety latch, and press thumb piece. Gun is +now firing. If gun stops, ascertain position of crank +handle——” +</p> +<p> +But Lloyd waited for no more. With wild joy at +his heart, he took a belt from one of the ammunition +boxes lying beside the gun, and followed the dying +man’s instructions. Then he pressed the thumb +piece, and a burst of fire rewarded his efforts. The +gun was working. +</p> +<p> +Training it on the Germans, he shouted for joy as +their front rank went down. +</p> +<p> +Traversing the gun back and forth along the mass +of Germans, he saw them break and run back to the +cover of their trench, leaving their dead and wounded +behind. He had saved his Company, he, Lloyd, the +coward, had “done his bit.” Releasing the thumb +piece, he looked at the watch on his wrist. He was +still alive, and the hands pointed to “3:38,” the time +set for his death by the court. +</p> +<p> +“Ping!”—a bullet sang through the air, and Lloyd +fell forward across the gun. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span> +</p> +<p> +The sentence of the court had been “duly carried +out.” +</p> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p> +The Captain slowly raised the limp form drooping +over the gun, and, wiping the blood from the white +face, recognized it as Lloyd, the coward of “D” Company. +Reverently covering the face with his handkerchief, +he turned to his “non-coms,” and in a voice +husky with emotion, addressed them: +</p> +<p> +“Boys, it’s Lloyd the deserter. He has redeemed +himself, died the death of a hero. Died that his mates +might live.” +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Arthur Guy Empey</span>.</p> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span><a name='chX' id='chX'></a>X—CHÂTEAU-THIERRY</h2> +<p> +When the United States of America finally declared +war against His Satanic Majesty, Wilhelm of Prussia, +Carter nodded his approval. The nation’s decision +was reached at a time when he was in a particularly +generous mood, for things had been coming his way for +some time and he had finally settled down comfortably +to enjoy them. In the preceding fall he had reached +the goal of his ambition, the managership of the New +York office of the Atlas Company, where he had been +employed for twenty-five years. This carried a salary +of seventy-five hundred—some jump from the petty +twelve hundred on which he had started; even some +jump from the forty-five hundred he had been drawing +for the past year. +</p> +<p> +The increase allowed Carter to make several very +satisfactory changes: first, to move from the rented +house in Edgemere, where he had lived for five years, +to a house of his own in the same town, for which he +gave a warranty deed to his wife; to take his son Ben +out of a commercial school and send him to Harvard +for a liberal education; and to purchase a classy little +runabout. There were certain other perquisites, too, +which made the world a better place to live in, such +as an added servant, a finer table, and, finally, the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span> +privilege of taking the eight-ten to town instead of +the seven-fifteen. +</p> +<p> +Carter enjoyed all these luxuries as only a man can +who has worked hard for them and waited long. He +had promised them to his pretty wife the day he married +her, and now, after twenty years, he had made good. +It was worth something to see him, after a substantial +breakfast, kiss Kitty good-by on the front porch, give +a proprietary look at the neat shingled house, and +stroll down the gravelly path at a leisurely pace, stopping +at the gate to light a fat cigar and wave a second +adieu to the little woman, who was still pretty and +who he knew admired him from the crown of his head +to the tips of his shoes. She was that kind. +</p> +<p> +On the eight-ten he was meeting a new class of +neighbors—all eight to ten thousand dollar men, with +a few above that figure, though the latter generally +moved to the Heights at round twelve thousand. +They were men whose lives were now polished and +round like stones on the seashore within reach of the +waves. They varied, mostly, in their dimensions, +with of course some differences of political coloring. +But they were fast becoming neutral even in politics. +With America at war the old issues were disappearing. +</p> +<p> +Most of the men had long since become used to each +other, but Carter, sitting in the smoker—it was almost +like a private car reserved for those not due at their +offices until nine—was actually thrilled by his associates. +And if ever he found an opportunity to refer +among them to “my son at Harvard” he was puffed +up all the rest of the day. The only thing he regretted +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201'></a>201</span> +was that the war had done away with football, because +in high school the lad had promised to make a name for +himself in the game. Still, even that had its redeeming +features: his neck was safe. Though the boy was +climbing toward six feet and weighed, at eighteen, +round one hundred and seventy, he threw himself into +the line in those final school games with a recklessness +that made Carter, looking on, catch his breath. +</p> +<p> +Carter had not been able to keep pace with the boy’s +physical growth. It still seemed to him but a brief +time ago that he had been carrying him round in his +arms as a baby. And he had carried him for miles. +He had not been able to keep his hands off him. He +had loved to feel the downy head against his cheek +and the frightened little heart pounding against his +own. Night after night he had walked the floor with +him with a sense of creation akin to God’s. And when +anything was really the matter with the child Carter +became a trembling wreck. +</p> +<p> +Well, those days were something to look back upon +now with a smile. They even played their part in the +present. They afforded the contrast necessary to allow +him to extract to the last drop his final triumphant +success. Some of those who had never taken the seven-fifteen +did not know what it meant to take the eight-ten. +</p> +<p> +Carter, who had previously been content with one +paper, now bought the <em>Times</em> and the <em>Sun</em> at the station +and glanced through the headlines. He had read with a +thrill of pride, as did everyone in the whole car on that +early spring morning, the President’s declaration of war. +</p> +<p> +He was sitting beside Culver, of the Second National +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span> +Bank, and exclaimed: “Guess that’ll make Wilhelm +sit up and take notice, eh?” +</p> +<p> +Culver was an older man. Carter could have punched +him for his response in a level voice: “Yes. But ’tis +going to make us sit up and take notice, too.” +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” demanded Carter with a +trace of aggressiveness. +</p> +<p> +“I mean that our resources are going to be tested +to the limit before we’re through with this.” +</p> +<p> +“You wait until the Huns see Uncle Sam with his +sleeves rolled up. Wouldn’t surprise me any if they +quit.” +</p> +<p> +Carter shifted his seat to a place near Barclay and +Newell, who were leading a group in three cheers for +the President. And on his way downtown that day +he stopped to buy a flag and pole to be sent to the +house. Before he reached his office these flags of red +and white and blue had begun to appear in numbers +on the tops of buildings and from windows, brightening +the dull gray backgrounds as with flowers. It made +him want to cheer. It made him walk more erect. +The whole downtown atmosphere became vibrant. +The declaration of war was the sole topic of conversation +in the office, and one of the first things he did was +to ring up Kitty and tell her about it. +</p> +<p> +“Well, old girl, we’ve done it!” he exclaimed. +</p> +<p> +“Done what?” she asked anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“Declared war,” he announced, as though in some +way he had been personally concerned in the act. +“Guess that will make the Huns rub their eyes.” +</p> +<p> +“War?” trembled Kitty. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span> +</p> +<p> +“You bet! Fritzie waited a little too long with his +apologies that last time.” +</p> +<p> +In the succeeding days Carter followed the nation’s +preparations for the task ahead with a feeling of reflected +glory. His favorite phrase was: “We’re going +at it man-fashion.” +</p> +<p> +He was keen for conscription and liked to speak of a +possible army of two million. When the First Liberty +Loan came along he subscribed for a thousand dollars. +He would have taken more, but he found that his +personal expenses had taken in the last few months a +decided jump. It was costing him more than twice +as much to maintain his new house as it had his old. +Besides that, Ben’s expenses at college were a considerable +item. His car, too, was costing more than +he had anticipated, and he had added unconsciously +a lot to his everyday expenditures. He was smoking +better cigars, eating better lunches and wearing better +clothes. At the same time each one of these items was +costing more. However, his new position in a way +called for these things, and, besides, he was entitled +to them. He had worked hard for them and they were +the fair reward of attainment. +</p> +<p> +Carter had hoped to do better on the Second Liberty +Loan, but when the time came he found it difficult +to take out even another thousand. He rather resented +the way Newell, the overzealous member of the +local committee, harried him about it. When Newell +suggested that he double the amount the man was +presuming to know Carter’s circumstances better than +he himself knew them. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span> +</p> +<p> +He had answered rather tartly: +</p> +<p> +“I’m capable of deciding my investments for +myself.” +</p> +<p> +In the interval between the two loans both the servants +had asked for an increase in wages, and Carter +had been forced to pay it or see them go. Kitty had +suggested that she be allowed to get along with one +and undertake some of the housework herself, but +he had set his foot down on that. +</p> +<p> +“You’ve had your share of housework, little woman,” +he said. “It’s time you took a rest and enjoyed yourself.” +</p> +<p> +But the servants were not the only ones who held +Carter up. The grocer, the butcher and the iceman +all conspired against him. When the Government +began to take control under Hoover and fix prices for +some of the essentials Carter was outspoken in his +approval. +</p> +<p> +“It’s time something of the sort was done to check +the food pirates,” he declared to Culver. +</p> +<p> +“Where’s this government control going to stop?” +questioned the latter. +</p> +<p> +“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Carter +aggressively. +</p> +<p> +“It’s a type of paternalism, and that’s dangerous,” +suggested Culver. +</p> +<p> +Carter replied with a glittering generality: “Your +Uncle Sam has rolled up his shirt sleeves and means +business.” +</p> +<p> +Carter always chuckled contentedly over the cartoons +of the tall, lank figure with the lean face, grimly +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205'></a>205</span> +set jaws and starred top hat. It expressed for him +in a human way his own patriotism. It filled him with +pride and gave him confidence. It satisfied his traditional +conception of Americanism. He even saw +in the face a reflection of his own ancestors who had +fought at Bunker Hill and through the Civil War. +It was distinctly New England, but New England +was still in his mind distinctly America. +</p> +<p> +And yet Carter was puzzled at first when he read the +names appearing in the final draft lists—puzzled and a +bit worried. These names were not like those that +were signed to the Declaration of Independence or +those who fell at Bunker Hill. Decidedly they were +more like those found in to-day’s New York directory. +This might have been expected, and yet it gave Carter +something of a shock until one afternoon he saw a +regiment of khaki-clad men marching down Fifth +Avenue. Then he felt a lump in his throat that prevented +him from cheering as loud as he wished. In +uniform and marching to the stirring music of a military +band these men were, every mother’s son of them, +Americans. He saw the same lean faces, the same +lank, sinewy bodies, the same clear eyes and set jaws. +Their lips were sealed, so that it did not matter what +language they spoke. In khaki they were all Americans—the +same who fought at Bunker Hill. +</p> +<p> +The sight sent Carter home with a renewed enthusiasm, +which helped him survive the shock of the +news that the cook had, without notice, packed up +her trunk and left to take some sort of job in a factory. +But fortunately he had brought along with him a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span> +sirloin steak, which, broiled, made a very satisfactory +dinner. A week later the second girl left. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Carter took it good-humoredly, even with a +certain amount of relief. She had turned to Red +Cross work and one thing or another, but still she +missed the care of her own home. Furthermore, she +had been genuinely disturbed by the way the expenses +had been creeping up. But Carter stormed round +and spent half the next day trying to find some new +girls. The agencies showed him a few old women and +shook their heads. +</p> +<p> +“We can’t compete with the factories,” they said +sadly. +</p> +<p> +“But, hang it all, what’s a man going to do?” he +inquired petulantly. +</p> +<p> +The agencies, perforce, left him to answer that for +himself. +</p> +<p> +As a matter of fact Carter was not wholly unselfish +in his desire to relieve his wife of the housework—particularly +the culinary part of it. She did her conscientious +best, but she had never been able satisfactorily +to master the fine art of cooking. Possibly it +was because she herself was more or less indifferent to +what she ate. A slice of bread and a cup of tea were +enough at any time to satisfy her, so that when she +did cook it was always for him and without any other +personal interest in the result. Sometimes she forgot; +in fact, more often than not she forgot. Perhaps it +was only some one little thing, like leaving the baking +powder out of the biscuits or the sugar out of the pies. +Or if she did get everything in, perhaps she failed to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span> +remember in time that the mixture was in the oven. +When she began fooling round with war recipes she +found herself even more bewildered. Lord knows, it +calls for deft fingers and inborn skill to make a good +pie crust out of honest wheat flour, with all thought of +economy thrown to the winds. It requires nothing +short of genius to produce the same results with substitutes +for everything except the apples. +</p> +<p> +She tried all one afternoon and created something +that had a fairly good surface appearance. She waited +anxiously until Carter tasted it, and then asked: “How +do you like it, Ben?” +</p> +<p> +“You want the truth?” he returned. +</p> +<p> +“Of course there is no white flour in the crust, but——” +</p> +<p> +“There isn’t anything in it that ought to be in a +pie,” he declared. “It tastes to me as though it were +made out of sawdust and motor oil.” +</p> +<p> +He did not eat it. It might have been possible had +he been starving, but he was in no such unfortunate +condition. A man does not ask for apple pie because +of its calory content, but because he wants apple pie. +It is a matter of taste. A primary essential is, then, +not that it shall look like apple pie, but that it shall +have the flavor of apple pie. He had been fond of +apple pie all his life, and it certainly seemed like an +innocent enough addiction. That was equally true of +doughnuts and coffee for breakfast. He had enjoyed +them all his life until they had become an integral +part of the morning meal. As a result of long practice +Mrs. Carter had finally succeeded in perfecting herself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span> +in the art of doughnut making. But now instead of +frying them in fat, she began to use an excellent vegetable +substitute. Not only that, but she followed this +by using a sirup for the sugar, and using eighty per +cent barley flour and twenty of wheat. She had been +given the recipe by the local conservation board and +been assured that the product was very satisfactory. +</p> +<p> +From the viewpoint of the conservation board that +may have been true, but to Carter it was nothing +short of criminal to allow these balls of fried barley +flour to masquerade under the same name. +</p> +<p> +“Don’t call ’em doughnuts,” he growled, “’cause +they aren’t. Invent a new name for them.” +</p> +<p> +“War doughnuts?” suggested Mrs. Carter anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“War nothing!” sputtered Carter. “They don’t +even belong to the same family.” +</p> +<p> +Whereupon he turned to his coffee, sweetened with +a new kind of sticky substance that tasted like an +inferior grade of molasses. There were those who +maintained that it was just as good as sugar for sweetening. +They were liars—bold-faced liars or they had +lost their sense of taste. They belonged to the same +class as people who maintained that coffee was better +without sugar—that so one enjoyed the taste of the +native berry. One might just as well argue that flapjacks +for the same reason were best without sirup; +cake without frosting; bread without butter. +</p> +<p> +Carter found his breakfast spoiled for him at precisely +the period in life when he was prepared most +to enjoy his breakfast. This was extremely irritating. +It sent him to the office every morning with a grouch +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span> +that did not wear off until toward noon, when it was +renewed by having to pay twice what he should for a +tasteless lunch. His cigars were the only thing that +held up well in flavor, and he began to smoke too +many of them. +</p> +<p> +Carter still followed each day’s news of the nation’s +part in the great war with honest pride. He liked +the big way his country was going about its preparations. +He rolled the dramatic figures over his tongue +and gloated over the scale of the various projects. +Six hundred millions appropriated for airplanes! +</p> +<p> +“We’ll show ’em,” he announced to Culver. “We’ll +have the air over there black with planes!” +</p> +<p> +And that job at Hog Island! They were planning to +build fifty ways there inside of a year—just put them +down on a marshy island. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing small about your Uncle Sam,” he chuckled. +</p> +<p> +When the inevitable scandals began to be whispered +and congressional investigations were started, Carter +frowned. +</p> +<p> +“If these stories are true,” he declared, “the grafters +ought to be lynched; if they’re not we ought to lynch +the darn-fool congressmen who are interrupting the +game.” +</p> +<p> +The investigations took place, changes were made, +and the work went on, with the investigations soon +forgotten. Nothing could check the onward movement. +Pershing landed in France, and soon was followed by +his men. Work on the same gigantic scale was begun +on the other side. Docks were built, railroads laid +down overnight, warehouses put up almost between +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210'></a>210</span> +dawn and twilight. This vanguard saw big and built +big, and when the news of its accomplishment began +to filter across to the men at home it made every American +feel bigger. +</p> +<p> +At the close of his freshman year in June, Ben came +back home, and that personal interest took the place +of every other in Carter’s mind. The boy was looking +fine. Drill with the Harvard regiment had taken the +place of athletics and had left him as rugged and tanned +as a seasoned soldier. Carter proudly took the boy +to town with him on the eight-ten and introduced +him to the crowd. Then he introduced him to everyone +in the office, including Stetson, the second vice +president. There was some design in this. He was +preparing the way for an opening here for Ben as soon +as the lad was through college. With the benefit of +the experience Carter could give him the boy ought +to climb high in the Atlas. +</p> +<p> +Ben had acquired poise in this last year. He met +these men with an assurance and charm of manner +tempered with respectful deference that surprised his +father. It was clear that the boy made a very pleasant +impression. +</p> +<p> +At lunch Ben repeated to his father some of the +experiences he had heard from college mates who had +gone over to drive ambulances. The boy was full of +it and his cheeks grew flushed as he talked. Carter +became disturbed. +</p> +<p> +“That’s all very well,” broke in Carter; “but those +fellows might have made themselves more useful if +they had waited until they were of age. Both President +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span> +Lowell and the War Department are advising men to +wait and finish their college courses, aren’t they?” +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” admitted Ben; “they advise that.” +</p> +<p> +“Well, it’s sound advice,” declared Carter. “A man +with a college education and Plattsburg on top of that +is worth twenty ambulance drivers. Officers are what +we need.” +</p> +<p> +“I suppose so,” agreed Ben abstractedly. +</p> +<p> +The reply left Carter more comfortable. The boy +was only just nineteen, and that gave him two more +years before he was twenty-one. By that time the +war would be over. Carter was sure of it. The nation +by then would be in full stride, and when that time +came that was to be the end. Of course, if by any +chance the war should be prolonged—why, then the +boy would have to go. But that contingency was +two years off—two long years off. In the meanwhile +the boy could feel that he was getting his training. He +was going to make a better officer for waiting. He +would gain in experience and judgment—two most +necessary qualifications for an officer. Carter proceeded +to enlarge on that subject. But the boy listened +indifferently. Carter’s position, however, was +sound, and the more he talked the more he convinced +himself of this, so that he succeeded in putting himself +enough at ease to talk of the war in a general way. +</p> +<p> +“Sort of makes a man glad he’s an American to be +living in these days, eh, Ben?” +</p> +<p> +“You bet!” nodded Ben. +</p> +<p> +“The rest of the world thought we’d gone soft, but +your old Uncle Sam has shown that he still has fighting +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span> +stuff in him. It took us some time to get stirred up, +but once started—woof!” +</p> +<p> +“We’ve got a big job on our hands,” said Ben. +</p> +<p> +“The bigger the better,” declared Carter. “It takes +a big job to wake us up.” +</p> +<p> +The boy was surprised and encouraged by his father’s +aggressive attitude, and yet when he ventured to reintroduce +the subject of ambulance service he saw his +father shy off again. He was puzzled by this and went +away after lunch to meet his chum Stanley. +</p> +<p> +A week later, as Carter was about to settle down on +the front porch for an after-dinner smoke, Ben came +along, took his arm and led him down the graveled +path toward the road—out of sight of the house, where +Mrs. Carter was washing the dishes. The boy kept +his father’s arm in an unusually demonstrative manner +until he stopped beneath an electric light. +</p> +<p> +Then he asked quite casually: “Dad, got your +fountain pen with you?” +</p> +<p> +“Eh?” +</p> +<p> +The lad held out a paper. +</p> +<p> +“What in thunder is this?” demanded Carter. +</p> +<p> +“My enlistment papers, dad. I went down to the +Marine Recruiting Office the other day and passed my +physical. Now—they’ve left a place along the dotted +line for you to sign because I’m under age.” +</p> +<p> +The thing that astonished Carter most after the +initial shock was a feeling of helplessness. It was as +though his relations with his son had suddenly changed +and the son had become the father. He was a foot +shorter than the boy anyway, and now he felt two feet +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span> +shorter. He saw a new light in the boy’s eyes, heard a +fresh note of dominance. And yet it was only a brief +time ago—a pitifully brief time ago—that he had +been holding this same boy in his arms as a baby. +Now he stood at the lad’s mercy, even though he still +saw below the stalwart figure of the boy-man the +downy-headed baby. +</p> +<p> +Carter gulped back a lump in his throat. +</p> +<p> +“Good Lord!” he choked. “I can’t. I can’t. +You’re all I’ve got.” +</p> +<p> +The young man placed a steady hand upon his +father’s shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“You must take this thing right, dad,” he said +firmly. +</p> +<p> +“In another year——” +</p> +<p> +“I’d never forgive myself if I waited,” cut in Ben. +“I’ve heard too much from the fellows who’ve been +over there and seen. I want you to understand that +it isn’t the adventure of the thing that gets me. It’s +the right of it. I’m strong enough for the game, and +that’s all that counts. Another year wouldn’t make +me any more fit.” +</p> +<p> +“You’d be ready for Plattsburg—in a couple of +years.” +</p> +<p> +“Maybe,” Ben nodded; “but somehow—well, I +just hanker to use my arms and legs rather than my +head. The way I feel, nothing short of a chance with +the bayonet will satisfy me. That’s why I went in for +the Marines.” +</p> +<p> +Carter glanced up. He saw those lips, which had +once been so tender and soft, now sternly taut. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span> +</p> +<p> +“Have you told your mother?” asked Carter. +</p> +<p> +“No, dad. I want it all settled first.” +</p> +<p> +“I—I don’t know what it will do to her,” Carter +struggled on feebly. +</p> +<p> +“She’ll take it right,” declared the boy with conviction. +“She’ll take it right because—because it’s +for women like her that we’re going over there.” +</p> +<p> +Carter did not reach for the paper, even then. He +merely found it in his hands. He drew out his fountain +pen and the name he scrawled upon the dotted line +might have been written by a man of eighty. +</p> +<p> +“That’s the good old dad,” Ben whispered hoarsely +as he replaced the paper in his pocket. “You’re a +brick.” +</p> +<p> +Carter tried to see it that way. There were moments +even when he thought he was going to feel proud. +A day or two later, when Newell, Culver and the +others on the eight-ten heard of it, they hurried up to +him and shook his hand with such phrases as “The +boy has the right stuff in him, Carter,” and “He makes +us glad we live in Edgemere.” All Carter could do +was to turn away. +</p> +<p> +The boy’s going left a great big hollow place in +Carter—a hollow that only grew bigger when he began +to receive the lad’s enthusiastic letters from the +training camp. He missed him in a way that disturbed +every detail of his daily life. When he woke up in the +morning it was with a sense of some deep tragedy +hanging over him—as though the boy were dead. +This sent him downstairs depressed and irascible. +His coffee with its abominable sirup tasted more bitter +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span> +than ever. The mere sight of the war doughnuts +irritated him. It was as though they made mock of +him. Half the time the omelet was burned, for Kitty +was becoming more forgetful than ever, and more +often than not did not remember the omelet at all +until she smelled it smoking. She did her best to cheer +Carter up, until she found the wisest thing to do was +to say nothing. As a matter of fact everything she +said sounded to him as hypocritical as all the confounded +war substitutes with which he found himself +more and more hemmed in. Newell particularly was +full of new recipes for foods and drinks that he claimed +were as good as the original articles, and was forever +pulling clippings from his pockets on the morning +train. +</p> +<p> +“You ought to get your wife to try this, Carter,” +he broke out one day. “It’s a new recipe for cake +without sugar, wheat or butter. Ellen made some +last night and you couldn’t tell it from the real stuff.” +</p> +<p> +“What do you call the real stuff?” demanded Carter. +</p> +<p> +“Why, the cake we used to get before the war.” +</p> +<p> +“And you mean to say you can’t tell the difference?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, of course this isn’t quite so tasty, but it’s +a darned good substitute.” +</p> +<p> +“You’re welcome,” growled Carter. +</p> +<p> +Newell appeared astonished. Later he repeated the +conversation to Manson, and concluded: “Do you +know, if the beggar didn’t have a boy in the Marines +I’d say he was pro-German.” +</p> +<p> +“Nonsense!” answered Manson. +</p> +<p> +“Well, he wasn’t any too keen about the Second +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span> +Liberty Loan when I saw him. He only took a thousand.” +</p> +<p> +“So? I thought he’d be good for five, anyway.” +</p> +<p> +The Government was already beginning to talk +about the Third Liberty Loan. Somewhat fretfully +Carter read the preliminary announcements. Where +was this thing going to stop, anyway? He was not +any more than keeping even with the game now. And +even so, he was not getting so much out of life as he +had been getting before. +</p> +<p> +On top of that they sent the boy across. After an +interval of silence Carter received a cable one day +announcing his safe arrival at a port in France. It +took the starch all out of him. It was like one of those +nightmares he used to suffer when he dreamed of the +boy in some great danger and was forced to stand by, +dumb and paralyzed, powerless to help. It was like +that exactly, only this was reality. Day by day and +mile by mile this intangible merciless power called +war was dragging the boy nearer and nearer his destruction. +It was barbaric. It was wrong. This boy +was his. +</p> +<p> +Now he was at a port in France. Until the last few +years that would not have been anything to worry +about. He had wished the boy to travel. France had +always stood to Carter as a land of sunshine and holidays—a +sort of pre-honeymoon land to the more +fortunate. To-day a port in France seemed like a +port in hell. +</p> +<p> +On the eight-ten they kept asking about the boy, +and when Carter told Barclay that Ben was over +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span> +there, Barclay answered: “Lucky dog. That ought +to make you proud.” +</p> +<p> +Carter made no reply. That was in March, just +before the big Hun offensive. When that broke Carter +did not dare read the papers for a while. Those were +bad days. America had then been in the war nearly a +year, and yet it was possible for those gray hordes to +dash at and into the allied lines. They did it again +and again, until the world stood aghast and Carter +himself stood aghast. It made no difference whether +he read the papers or not, for hourly bulletins were +passed round the office and scarcely anything else was +talked of. +</p> +<p> +America had been in the war nearly a year. Uncle +Sam had appropriated billions upon billions of dollars; +had built shipyards the size of which staggered belief; +had talked of destroyers and airplanes in terms of thousands; +had established vast military camps and already +drafted millions of men; had turned almost every industry +in the country over to war work; had taken +over the railroads and whatever else was needed. +</p> +<p> +Uncle Sam had been working with his jaws set and +his sleeves rolled up and flags flying from almost every +housetop between the Atlantic and the Pacific; with +men marching down the streets and bands playing and +half the politicians of the country turned into Fourth +of July orators. +</p> +<p> +Yet this thing was happening over there. Lines that +had been thought impregnable were falling daily. City +after city was being overrun. If the Huns paused it +was only for breath, and to dash on once more. Nearer +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span> +and nearer they came to Paris, until the city heard the +sound of their guns; nearer and nearer, until they came +to Château-Thierry. +</p> +<p> +Carter reached a point where almost his faith in God +was shaken. He did not know exactly just what his +faith in God was, but it stood for something outside +himself representative of justice—just as his patriotism +stood for something outside himself representative of +honor. Not to be in the slightest sacrilegious, God +was a figure crowned with thorns just as Uncle Sam +was a figure crowned with a starred top hat. Both +were invincible. Yet both stood aside, helpless, before +the Huns’ advance. +</p> +<p> +They waited helplessly until the gray wolves reached +Château-Thierry. Then the news was cabled across +that the Marines were holding this line—not only +technically but actually. Again and again the wolves +came on and staggered back. +</p> +<p> +The Marines were there—the American Marines—and +they were holding. +</p> +<p> +The first report brought the sweat to Carter’s brow. +Somewhere in that line without much doubt his son +Ben was standing. The little boy he had carried in his +arms was under that merciless fire of shrapnel and explosive +shells and gas. Carter had read a good deal +about the gas shells—the yellow and the blue and the +green cross kind. It was devilish stuff. It burned into +the lungs and the eyes and the skin. He remembered +when it had first been used—had been sent sneaking +across the allied lines like some ancient superstition +made real. From that moment he had been for war. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span> +He talked war with everyone he met, usually ending +with the exclamation: “Uncle Sam won’t stand for that +sort of dirty work!” +</p> +<p> +As a matter of fact Uncle Sam had stood for it a +good many months after that, and for acts even more +barbaric. But now your Uncle Sam was right on the +spot and Ben was on the spot. The two were one! +</p> +<p> +This was what Carter got hold of, suddenly, unexpectedly, +unconsciously, as a man sees a vision. Uncle +Sam was there not in the form of a middle-aged farmer +in a starred top hat, but as one of the Marines, a tough, +wiry young American fighter. And among these +Marines was Ben, holding this ghastly line as in his +play days he had helped to hold the football line. Uncle +Sam was there as Carter’s boy—blood of his blood and +flesh of his flesh and soul of his soul. And so in a sense +Carter himself was there. This was his fight too. He +and Uncle Sam were one! He and the nation were one. +He and the brilliant flags flying unharmed here in the +streets of New York were one. As far as Carter individually +was concerned he was essentially all there +was of the nation—just as, individually and as far as +his own soul was concerned, he was all there was of God. +But because of this, because the thought made him so +big, he took in the others too—his boy, Kitty, his +neighbors, the state and the United States, and finally +God himself. And this God not only stood for justice +and honor but was justice and honor, and Carter was +He and He was Carter. +</p> +<p> +Now God and Carter and the boy and the Marines +and the nation were all standing side by side behind a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span> +little town that until now had been no more conscious +of itself than Carter had been. It had been merely +Château-Thierry—a tiny village where simple men and +women had gone about their humble business of living +with little thought of the world at large. Now it was +finding itself a turning point in the history of the world, +with the sinewy young men from a country that had +not been discovered when Château-Thierry already was +hoary with age, rushing there to help keep it true. And +with Carter some four thousand miles away staring +from his office window and, quite unconscious of the +business of the Atlas Company, praying not that the +boy might be kept safe for his own sake, but that he +might be spared to fight his best—Carter’s best, the +nation’s best, God’s best. +</p> +<p> +The Marines held, and then they did a little better; +they began to advance. They say that Foch himself +was none too sure of what these lads would find it possible +to do. These men were getting their baptism of +Hun fire, which is comparable to no fire this side of +hell and which possibly may have introduced some new +ideas into hell itself. Certainly neither Dante nor +Milton revealed any conception of mustard gas. +</p> +<p> +Creeping forward on all fours the Marines advanced. +It was grim business these boys were about, while the +flags flew dreamily in the streets of New York and a +thousand other cities from the Atlantic to the Pacific +and from the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico—flew +dreamily and prettily for safe men to look up at +and for safe women and children to smile at contentedly. +It was serious business they were about to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span> +the right and left of that old town, while the machines +sped up and down Fifth Avenue bright in the summer +sun. And yet when at length the cables flashed across +the ocean the news that the old town had been won +and all that meant, there was little in the message to +hint of that grim business. And there was no mention +at all of individuals—of the boy Ben who lay in a bit +of woods like one asleep, his hair all tousled and his +face dirty as he used to come in from play. But that +night Carter went home with his head held high and +his eyes alight. +</p> +<p> +When Carter opened the front door he was greeted +with the smell of smoke from the kitchen. He hurried +out there and found Mrs. Carter standing almost in +tears before the charred remains of what had evidently +been intended for a pie of some sort. She looked up +anxiously as Carter entered. Her blue eyes began to +fill with tears. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Ben,” she quavered, “I’m so sorry. I—I’ve +been saving flour and sugar for a week to have enough +to make you a real apple pie. And then—and then I +forgot it. And—and——” +</p> +<p> +She made a despairing gesture toward the jet-black +evidence of her unpardonable thoughtlessness. And +then before Carter’s accusing glance she shrank back +and hid her face in the folds of her blue gingham +apron. +</p> +<p> +Carter stared from her to the pie and then back to +her. Fresh from the victory of Château-Thierry, this +was such a pitiful travesty! She was crying—she, the +mother of his son who had fought with the Marines +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span> +this day, was crying in fear of his anger because she +had spoiled in the baking an apple pie. +</p> +<p> +Good Lord, to what depths had he sunk! To what +pitiful depths of banality had he dragged her! +</p> +<p> +He strode to her side and seized her in his arms +fiercely as a baffled lover. +</p> +<p> +“Kitty,” he cried hoarsely, “look up at me!” +</p> +<p> +In amazement she obeyed. The clutch of his arms +took her back twenty-five years. He saw the springtime +blue of her eyes. +</p> +<p> +“Kitty,” he pleaded, “can you forgive me?” +</p> +<p> +“Forgive—you?” she stammered, not understanding. +</p> +<p> +“For making you think it matters a picayune what +I have to eat. Little woman—little woman, we took +Château-Thierry to-day!” +</p> +<p> +She drew back a little as though expecting evil news +to follow. But the news had not yet come. +</p> +<p> +“We,” he repeated—“you and I and Ben and the +Marines and Uncle Sam and God—all together. We +not only held the beasts but drove them back. It’s +in the papers to-night.” +</p> +<p> +“And Ben——” she faltered. +</p> +<p> +“He must have been there,” he answered. +</p> +<p> +“He—he——” +</p> +<p> +But she did not finish her timorous question. She +caught the contagion of the fire in her husband’s eyes +and sealed her lips. And he, stooping, kissed those lips +as he used to kiss them before the boy came. +</p> +<p> +The next morning Carter drank his coffee black, and +when Kitty brought on the war doughnuts he shoved +them aside. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223'></a>223</span> +</p> +<p> +“Don’t make any more,” he said. “Cut ’em out altogether. +That’s the trick.” +</p> +<p> +And when on the eight-ten Newell came round with +a recipe for making frosting without sugar, Carter refused +to listen. +</p> +<p> +“Look here, Newell,” he protested, “those confounded +things don’t interest me.” +</p> +<p> +“They don’t?” returned Newell ominously. +</p> +<p> +“Not a little bit,” Carter continued calmly. +</p> +<p> +“You mean to tell me you aren’t interested in conservation?” +</p> +<p> +“Did I say that?” +</p> +<p> +“Well, it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?” +</p> +<p> +“Not on your tintype!” replied Carter. “Look +here, Newell, you’ve been talking pretty plain to me +lately and perhaps I’ve deserved it, but it leaves me +free to give you a few ideas of my own. What we’ve +got to do is to face this war—not duck it. We aren’t +going to win with substitutes but with sacrifices. The +trouble with you and your crowd—the trouble with +me—is that we’ve been trying to eat our cake and save +it too. What’s the use of those fool recipes of yours? +The time has come to give up cake and pie and doughnuts—then +why in thunder not give them up and be +done with it?” +</p> +<p> +“But the Government doesn’t ask that,” cut in +Newell. +</p> +<p> +“Who’s the Government?” demanded Carter. +</p> +<p> +“Why—why——” +</p> +<p> +“You are. I am,” Carter cut in, answering his own +question. “That’s all there is to it. And if you want +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span> +to understand how important you are, just multiply +yourself by a hundred million. That’s what Hoover +does. Do it for yourself.” +</p> +<p> +Newell smiled a little maliciously. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps you’re right, old man. By the way, I’m +on this Third Liberty Loan committee, and if you’ll +tell me how much I can look ahead for from you it would +help.” +</p> +<p> +“Ten thousand dollars,” answered Carter. “In the +meantime, if you hear of anyone who wants to buy a +house, let me know.” +</p> +<p> +“You aren’t going to leave us?” +</p> +<p> +“Not if I can hire a cheap place round town,” answered +Carter. +</p> +<p> +“Say—but you are plunging,” exclaimed Newell uncomfortably. +</p> +<p> +“We can’t let that Château-Thierry victory go for +nothing,” answered Carter quietly. +</p> +<p> +At last—at last Carter himself had declared war. +That was why when he received a cable to the effect +that Private Ben Carter was reported seriously wounded +the man could sign his name firmly to the receipt. +</p> +<p> +The time had come for the Huns to take seriously +the entry of the United States into the war. +</p> +<p style='text-align:right; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;'>—<span class='sc'>Frederick Orin Bartlett</span>.</p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Short Stories of the New America, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES OF THE NEW AMERICA *** + +***** This file should be named 37432-h.htm or 37432-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/4/3/37432/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from images made available by the HathiTrust +Digital Library.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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