--AND THE MATCH THAT LIT THE FUSE--
At a minute or two of ten the next morning Thompson stopped his car
before the Canadian Bank of Commerce. The bolt-studded doors were still
closed, and so he kept his seat behind the steering column, glancing
idly along Hastings at the traffic that flowed about the gray stone pile
of the post-office, while he waited the bank's opening for business.
A tall young man, a bit paler-faced perhaps than a normal young fellow
should be, but otherwise a fine-looking specimen of manhood, sauntered
slowly around the corner of the bank, and came to a stop on the curb
just abreast the fore end of Thompson's motor. He took out a cigarette
and lighted it with slow, deliberate motions. And as he stood there,
gazing with a detached impersonal air at the front of the Summit
roadster, there approached him a recruiting sergeant.
"How about joining up this morning?" he inquired briskly.
"Oh, I don't know," the young man responded casually. "I hadn't thought
about it."
"Every man should be thinking about it," the sergeant declared. "The
army needs men. Now a well-set-up young fellow like you would get on
capitally at soldiering. It's a great life. When we get the Germans
whipped every man will be proud to say he had a hand in it. If a man
struck you you wouldn't stand back and let some other fellow do your
fighting for you, now would you? More than that, between you and me, it
won't be long before an able-bodied man can't walk these streets in
civvies, without the girls hooting him. It's a man's duty to get into
this war. Better walk along with me to headquarters and sign on."
The young man gazed across the street with the same immobility of
expression.
"What's the inducement?" he asked presently.
The sergeant, taking his cue from this, launched forth upon a glowing
description of army life, the pay, the glory, the manifold advantages
that would certainly accrue. He painted a rosy picture, a gallant
picture. One gathered from his talk that a private in khaki was greater
than a captain of industry in civilian clothes. He dwelt upon the
brotherhood, the democracy of arms. He spilled forth a lot of the
buncombe that is swallowed by those who do not know from bitter
experience that war, at best, is a ghastly job in its modern phases, a
thing that the common man may be constrained to undertake if need
arises, but which brings him little pleasure and less glory--beyond the
consciousness that he has played his part as a man should.
The young man heard the recruiting sergeant to an end. And when that
worthy had finished he found fixed steadily upon him a pair of coldly
speculative gray-green eyes.
"How long have you been in the army?" he asked.
"About eighteen months," the sergeant stated.
"Have you been over there?"
"No," the sergeant admitted. "I expect to go soon, but for the present
I'm detailed to recruiting."
The young man had a flower in the lapel of his coat. He removed it, the
flower, and thrust the lapel in the sergeant's face. The flower had
concealed a bronze button.
"I've been over there," the young man said calmly. "There's my button,
and my discharge is in my pocket--with the names of places on it that
you'll likely never see. I was in the Princess Pats--you know what
happened to the Pats. You have hinted I was a slacker, that every man
not in uniform is a slacker. Let me tell you something. I know your
gabby kind. The country's full of such as you. So's England. The war's
gone two years and you're still here, going around telling other men to
go to the front. Go there yourself, and get a taste of it. When you've
put in fourteen months in hell like I did, you won't go around peddling
the brand of hot air you've shot into me, just now."
"I didn't know you were a returned man," the sergeant said placatingly.
A pointed barb of resentment had crept into the other's tone as he
spoke.
"Well, I am," the other snapped. "And I'd advise you to get a new line
of talk. Don't talk to me, anyway. Beat it. I've done my bit."
The sergeant moved on without another word, and the other man likewise
went his way, with just the merest suggestion of a limp. And
simultaneously the great doors of the bank swung open. Thompson looked
first after one man then after the other, and passed into the bank with
a thoughtful look on his face.
He finished his business there. Other things occupied his attention
until noon. He lunched. After that he drove to Coal Harbor where the
yachts lie and motor boats find mooring, and having a little time to
spare before Tommy's arrival, walked about the slips looking over the
pleasure craft berthed thereat. Boats appealed to Thompson. He had taken
some pleasant cruises with friends along the coast. Some day he intended
to have a cruising launch. Tommy had already attained that distinction.
He owned a trim forty-footer, the _Alert_. Thompson's wanderings
presently brought him to this packet.
A man sat under the awning over the after deck. Thompson recognized in
him the same individual upon whom the recruiting sergeant's eloquence
had been wasted that morning. He was in clean overalls, a seaman's
peaked cap on his head. Thompson had felt an impulse to speak to the man
that morning. If any legitimate excuse had offered he would have done
so. To find the man apparently at home on the boat in which he himself
was taking brief passage was a coincidence of which Thompson proceeded
to take immediate advantage. He climbed into the cockpit. The man looked
at him questioningly.
"I'm going across the Inlet with Mr. Ashe," Thompson explained. "Are you
on the _Alert_?"
"Engineer, skipper, and bo'sun too," the man responded whimsically.
"Cook, captain, and the whole damn crew."
They fell into talk. The man was intelligent, but there was a queer
abstraction sometimes in his manner. Once the motor of a near-by craft
fired with a staccato roar, and he jumped violently. He looked at
Thompson unsmiling.
"I'm pretty jumpy yet," he said--but he did not explain why. He did not
say he had been overseas. He did not mention the war. He talked of the
coast, and timber, and fishing, and the adjacent islands, with all of
which he seemed to be fairly familiar.
"I heard that recruiting sergeant tackle you this morning," Thompson
said at last. "You were standing almost beside my machine. What was it
like over there?"
"What was it like?" the man repeated. He shook his head. "That's a big
order. I couldn't tell you in six months. It wasn't nice."
He seemed to reflect a second or two.
"I suppose some one has to do it. It has to be done. But it's a tough
game. You don't know where you're going nor what you're up against most
of the time. The racket gets a man, as well as seeing fellows you know
getting bumped off now and then. Some of the boys get hardened to it. I
never did. I try to forget it now, mostly. But I dream things sometimes,
and any sudden noise makes me jump. A fellow had better finish over
there than come home crippled. I'm lucky to hold down a job like this,
lucky that I happen to know gas engines and boats. I look all right, but
I'm not much good. All chewed up with shrapnel. And my nerve's gone. I
wouldn't have got my discharge if they could have used me any more. Aw,
hell, if you haven't been in it you can't imagine what it's like. I
couldn't tell you."
"Tell me one thing," Thompson asked quickly, spurred by an impulse for
light upon certain matters which had troubled him. He wanted the word of
an eye-witness. "Did you ever see, personally, any of those atrocities
that have been laid to the Germans in Belgium?"
"Well, I don't know," the man replied. "The papers have printed a lot of
stuff. Mind you, over there you hear about a lot of things you never
see. The only thing _I_ saw was children with their hands hacked off at
the wrist."
"Good God," Thompson uttered. "You actually saw that with your own
eyes."
"Sure," the man responded. "Nine of 'em in one village.
"Why, in the name of God, would men do such a thing?" Thompson demanded.
"Was any reason ever given?"
"No. I suppose they were drunk or something. Fritz was pretty bad in
spots, all right. Maybe they just wanted to put the fear of God in their
hearts. A pal of mine in Flanders told me of a woman--in a place they
took by a night raid--she had her breast slashed open. She said a Boche
officer did it with his sword."
The man spoke of these things in a detached, impersonal manner, as one
who states commonplace facts. He had not particularly desired to speak
of them. For him those gruesome incidents of war and invasion held no
special horror. They might have rested heavily enough on his mind once.
But he had come apparently to accept them as the grim collateral of war,
without reacting emotionally to their terrible significance. And when
Thompson ceased to question him he ceased to talk.
But in Thompson these calmly recounted horrors worked profound distress.
His imagination became immediately shot with sinister pictures. All
these things which he had read and doubted, which had left him unmoved,
now took on a terrible reality. He could see these things about which
the returned soldier spoke, and seeing them believed. Believing, there
rose within him a protest that choked him with its force as he sat in
the cockpit beside this veteran of Flanders.
The man had fallen silent, staring into the green depths overside.
Thompson sat silent beside him. But there was in Thompson none of the
other's passivity. Unlike the returned soldier, who had seen blood and
death until he was surfeited with it, until he wanted nothing but peace
and quietness, and a chance to rest his shrapnel-torn body and
shell-shocked nerves, Thompson quivered with a swift, hot desire to kill
and destroy, to inflict vengeance. He burned for reprisal. For a
passionate moment he felt as if he could rend with his bare hands a man
or men who could wantonly mutilate women and children. He could find no
fit name for such deeds.
And, responding so surely to that unexpected stimulus, he had no
stomach for crossing the Inlet as Tommy's guest, to view the scene of
Tommy's industrial triumph-to-be. He wasn't interested in that now.
Sitting under the awning, brooding over these things, he remembered how
Sophie Carr had reacted to the story of the Belgian refugee that
afternoon a year and a half ago. He understood at last. He divined how
Sophie felt that day. And he had blandly discounted those things. He had
gone about his individual concerns insulated against any call to right
wrongs, to fight oppression, to abolish that terror which loomed over
Europe--and which might very well lay its sinister hand on America, if
the Germans were capable of these things, and if the German's military
power prevailed over France and England. When he envisaged Canada as
another Belgium his teeth came together with a little click.
He clambered out of the _Alert's_ cockpit to the float.
"Tell Mr. Ashe I changed my mind about going over with him," he said
abruptly, and walked off the float, up the sloping bank to the street,
got in his car and drove away.
As he drove he felt that he had failed to keep faith with something or
other. He felt bewildered. Those little children, shorn of their
hands--so that they could never lift a sword against Germany--cried
aloud to him. They held up their bloody stumps for him to see.