Human Psychology
Billy Webster, who had difficulty in living peacefully and happily with
the people in his own walk of life, possessed a curious genius for
making himself popular with the so-called "working classes."
At first the workmen at the new National Guard camp paid no especial
attention to the delicate looking boy who suddenly appeared among them.
But in a short time Billy proved unexpectedly useful.
For one thing he made no effort to talk. He merely stood about in places
where he thought he might be of service, doing what he was told and
asking no questions. Several times he displayed an intelligent
initiative. And when each man is trying to do the work of two or three,
every small saving of unnecessary effort through some one else counts.
At the present time there were fifteen hundred laborers employed on the
cantonment. They were building barracks and small wooden bungalows and
large store-houses for provisions and supplies from the ordnance and
quartermaster departments. Every hour or so freight had to be unloaded
from cars, so that they might be removed from the tracks and others take
their place.
The soldiers were more often employed in the construction of roads and
the clearing away of a century's growth of underbrush.
There was little in the camp that escaped Billy's quiet observation. The
very fact that he did not talk, when ordinarily he had a passion as well
as a gift for conversation was in itself a suspicious circumstance.
For once in his life Billy was finding it more worth while to listen and
receive information rather than to impart his own ideas.
At first the great drawback was that the laborers did not have time, or
else they did not feel the inclination to talk at all seriously. They
would simply exchange jokes with one another, or sing snatches of
popular songs.
The laborers belonged to a company under bond to the government that
there would be no traitors employed at the war camps. Therefore if the
men held any views connected with the war, they gave no expression to
them. Moreover, the officers and soldiers were constantly in and out
among the men at all hours. Nevertheless, Billy became more and more
convinced that if a man were willing to sacrifice his own life in case
he were discovered, it was impossible even with the strictest
regulations to avoid the peril of a spy.
One day at lunch time the boy was sitting alone in the shadow made by a
pile of lumber, which afforded a little relief from the heat of the noon
sun, when two of his fellow laborers came and sat down only a few feet
away. They saw him, of course, but seemed not to resent his presence;
so, after smiling with the innocent, boyish expression peculiar to him,
Billy continued eating. He brought his lunch with him every day in a
basket as the other laborers did.
One of the two men, whom he thought a Swede, was rather an especial
friend, although the only fashion in which they so far had expressed
their friendliness was by smiling whenever they met.
He was a dull, good-natured fellow, blond and mild of manner. "Seems a
pity to have to bring all these boys away from their homes and their
mothers and sweethearts to plant them down in this desert in the heat of
summer," he remarked to his companion, after he had bitten off a large
hunk of sour bread and was slowly chewing on it like a cud. Finally,
taking out his soiled handkerchief, he wiped the perspiration from his
forehead.
"I have not been in the West very long, and it is sure enough God's
country?" the blond workman went on. "But what a lot of waste land
waiting for men to water and then plough and sow it! I thought all this
desert land was soon to be redeemed and now all the young men have to go
away from their own country into another land to fight. Sometimes it's a
hard thing for a dull, common man to understand the good of war."
Billy stopped eating and slid over a few feet nearer. His blue eyes were
beginning to shine.
"Wouldn't it be great if each man who has pledged his life to serve his
country would do some deed which would _save_ life instead of _taking_
it?" he demanded. Then Billy paused and grew hot and cold by turns. He
was not very sure of what he was trying to argue except in a vague
fashion, and there was something about his last remark which held a
suggestion of treason. He did not intend being disloyal. It was only
that his preconceived ideas of right and wrong had been greatly troubled
by the present war, and Billy was not willing to accept conditions as he
found them, possessing the spirit which must solve its own problems.
He reddened as he found his new acquaintances staring at him
suspiciously.
"Then you think peace brings the great mass of the people better fortune
than war?" asked the other man, who had been quiet until now. He was a
little, dark man, probably of Italian origin.
Billy hesitated. "I don't know," he answered, "I only believe peace
should make men wiser and kinder to each other. But recently everything
has gotten so dreadfully mixed in my mind, I can't be sure of anything.
Perhaps I am mistaken."
"War has to be, young man," Billy's mild-mannered friend announced,
nodding his head.
"Yes, that is what everybody says," the boy agreed.
Then the somewhat pointless conversation was obliged to end, as the hour
for lunch had passed.
Among the experiences which Billy Webster was particularly enjoying at
this time were his long walks back and forth from the place where he was
spending his nights to the scene of his daily labors.
For, literally, he only spent his nights at the Sunrise camp. He arrived
at home after the others had finished dinner, and rose and went away
each morning just after daylight. But instead of the long, fatiguing
walks, added to the unusual work of the war camp, injuring Billy's
health--never had he appeared so strong and well.
Not that any one, aside from his mother, was paying particular attention
to Billy's vagaries. Even Vera Lagerloff, for the first time in their
long friendship, temporarily was neglecting Billy's welfare in her
enthusiasm over the approaching production of "As You Like It."
However, Billy rejoiced in his new freedom.
He took pleasure in slipping out of his tent in the early morning,
leaving Dan still asleep. Then he would prepare his own breakfast of
coffee, fruit and eggs which were always left where he could readily
find them. Afterwards, with his basket of lunch that his mother made
ready the night before, Billy would move quietly off.
Even the dawns in this southwestern world were unlike the dawns Billy
remembered in his own New Hampshire hills. Not that he would have
claimed the New Hampshire hills as his possession because of a mere
accident of birth. Billy cared infinitely more for the softness, the
warmth and strangeness of this new country and climate than he had ever
cared for the austerity of New England. It was awakening in him new
strength and new purposes which so far he scarcely understood.
The way the dawn broke here in the western coast Billy particularly
loved; it was so serene. There was not the drear, melancholy darkness
and then the swift coming of light. But first a pearl-gray mist covered
the sky, afterwards lavender and rose shone behind it and finally a pure
gold, with the ocean as a mirror of the sky.
A part of the trip he could make by street car, nevertheless this left
many miles to be traveled at either end of the line.
However, as Billy wished to think things out for himself, these walks
afforded a wonderful opportunity. The difficulty of his life had always
been due to his refusal to accept any judgment except his own. He
honestly could not understand why his family even thought they had the
right to interfere with him. Yet now he was up against the great fact of
human discipline, the law which so often forces us to submit to a higher
power.
The boys at the National Guard camp were not much older than himself, at
least some of them were not. Nevertheless they were engaged upon tasks
which he knew must be hard and distasteful and were prepared to face far
worse things later on. Some of them had thought the question over for a
long time, nearly three years in fact, until they were prepared to fight
the enemy, body and soul, to a finish. Others of the soldiers were not
given to thinking, but were obeying a good fighting instinct. All of
them, however, were acknowledging an authority higher than their own and
obeying a higher will.
Often Billy wondered how he should feel if the war lasted long enough to
make the same demand upon him? Would he give up his belief in peace and
the unrighteousness of war to serve as a common soldier in the ranks?
And even if he did do this, was it in him to make a good soldier, to
sacrifice himself for a common cause? Sometimes Billy prayed to be
delivered from the test.
Yet whatever his own mental problems, there was one big fact of which
Billy became daily more assured and that was his tremendous personal
admiration for the new National Guard soldiers. Certainly theirs was the
road of heroism and self-sacrifice, while the pacifists, even if right
in principle, were skulking behind the protection the soldiers gave to
them.
There were moments when Billy became a little scornful of the pacifists,
himself included, who preferred the easiest way.
Ordinarily the boy took his long tramps to and from camp alone, but on
the day after his brief conversation with the two workmen, the men
joined him at the close of the day, walking for a short distance one on
either side. Billy felt absurdly proud, as if the men at last regarded
him as one of them. They even spoke of labor unions in his presence and
Billy was glad to announce that he approved of unions.
Afterwards, perhaps four or five days later, Billy did not return to the
Sunrise camp, even at the comparatively late hour which had become his
habit.
Mrs. Webster suffered a good deal of uneasiness. Billy explained that he
had been compelled to go into the nearest town on important business, so
she was not to worry. One could scarcely say beforehand what demands war
work might make upon one's time and strength.
Mrs. Webster steeled herself to bear the strain, even when Billy's new
passion for helping to win the war kept him away from the Sunrise camp
until nearly midnight for several nights in succession.
Just at this time she was extremely busy assisting with the preparation
of the costumes for the Sunrise Camp Fire production of "As You Like
It." In spite of the fact that Mrs. Burton had sent east for several
trunks of costumes, there were many alterations to be made, and every
member of the entire cast, maid and man, asked of Mrs. Webster either
advice or aid, or both.
No matter how great her weariness, Mrs. Webster always remained awake
until her son's return, in order that she might know he was well and
have him eat a carefully saved-over dinner.
Gently Billy endeavored to persuade his mother to give up this plan,
insisting that he always had food in town. But although Mrs. Webster
made no effort to interfere with his actions, on this one point she was
adamant. She must be sure that her son was safely at camp in order to be
able to sleep.
Realizing this to be true, for several nights Billy returned to camp at
the usual time. Then a night arrived when he reached home even later
than before.
It chanced that on this night, without Billy's being aware of the fact,
Mrs. Burton and her cast had been going through a dress rehearsal of
their play.
When Billy finally reached camp, the Sunrise Hill tents were dark and
still.
Yet to the left a camp fire was burning and a woman's figure was seated
near it.
A pang of remorse stirred Billy, in spite of his own weariness.
Coming forward with his arms outstretched, instead of his mother, he
discovered Vera Lagerloff.
"Goodness, Vera, I never saw you look so wonderful!" Billy exclaimed,
bowing with the air of a courtier and a grace which he knew well how to
assume.
For Vera was wearing a court costume, a skirt of a deep rose-colored
satin and a polonaise and basque of white with a design of roses.
Her dark hair was piled high on her head and her cheeks were slightly
rouged, since every preparation for the actual stage performance had
been made.
Billy had never seen Vera so handsome, nor dreamed it possible that she
could ever look as she did tonight. But then Billy had thought little of
Vera's appearance, or of that of any other girl. He had simply cared for
her with a curious boyish selfishness and affection. Unconsciously he
always planned his future with Vera beside him to hear of his trials and
conquests, but had never thought of how this could be managed.
Yet tonight Vera paid no attention to his unusual flattery.
Her expression suggested annoyance and reproach.
"Wait here, Billy, I'll find you something to eat. I made your mother go
to bed and she and Mrs. Burton agreed that I might wait for you."
But Billy would not let her go. "I'm not hungry, Vera. Besides you look
like a queen, not a kitchen maid. What's up? Fire away."
"That is what I wish to have you tell _me_," Vera returned, with the
deep and abiding gentleness, which usually overcame Billy's obstinacy
where other people and other methods failed.
He laughed. "I thought as much. Nothing doing, Vera. I am not going to
tell anybody anything. Yes, I know I promised not to get into mischief
again, after that last escapade of mine. But what did it amount to,
going to jail for a little while, it was merely an interesting
experience!"
Billy took Vera's hand in his own almost equally slender one, since
Vera's was the hand of a peasant ancestry and Billy's the opposite.
"See here, dear, I am not sorry to have you and mother and Tante begin
worrying about me, fearing I am going to do something foolish. You never
seem to think me capable of anything else. But this time, between you
and me, Vera, if I could tell you what is interesting me right now--and
I confess it is not only my work at the war camp, although it has a
close connection--well, I don't believe you would consider me foolish."
"Then, why won't you tell me what is interesting you, Billy? You know I
don't always think ideas are foolish, but oftentimes I don't think your
judgment wise. Besides, I am afraid something may happen to you!"
Billy shook his head, still holding her hand with boyish affection.
"These are war times, Vera. You and I used to disagree on the
subject--one of the first questions we have ever seriously disagreed
upon since we were little children. Anyhow, what I am interested in at
present has something to do with the war. I cannot tell you details, as
I must not confide in any one just now. Only promise me you'll see that
mother does not worry and that neither she nor Tante makes a scene to
try to force me into giving up my present work. I should simply go on
with it anyhow, Vera."
Vera sighed. The problem of Billy Webster had always been too much for
other people. Was he in the future to become a problem too big for her?