CHAPTER I

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MEN, WOMEN AND GUNS

"SAPPER"

MEN, WOMEN AND GUNS

BY

"SAPPER"

AUTHOR OF "MICHAEL CASSIDY, SERGEANT"

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1916,

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

TO

MY WIFE

CONTENTS

PAGE

PROLOGUE xi

PART ONE

CHAPTER

I. THE MOTOR-GUN 23

II. PRIVATE MEYRICK--COMPANY IDIOT 49

III. SPUD TREVOR OF THE RED HUSSARS 77

IV. THE FATAL SECOND 99

V. JIM BRENT'S V.C. 121

VI. RETRIBUTION 155

VII. THE DEATH GRIP 183

VIII. JAMES HENRY 211

PART TWO

THE LAND OF THE TOPSY TURVY

I. THE GREY HOUSE 237

II. THE WOMEN AND--THE MEN 243

III. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN 249

IV. "THE REGIMENT" 257

V. THE CONTRAST 265

VI. BLACK, WHITE, AND--GREY 271

VII. ARCHIE AND OTHERS 287

VIII. ON THE STAFF 291

IX. NO ANSWER 299

X. THE MADNESS 305

XI. THE GREY HOUSE AGAIN 311

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

Two days ago a dear old aunt of mine asked me to describe to her what

shrapnel was like.

"What does it feel like to be shelled?" she demanded. "Explain it to

me."

Under the influence of my deceased uncle's most excellent port I did so.

Soothed and in that expansive frame of mind induced by the old and bold,

I drew her a picture--vivid, startling, wonderful. And when I had

finished, the dear old lady looked at me.

"Dreadful!" she murmured. "Did I ever tell you of the terrible

experience I had on the front at Eastbourne, when my bath-chair

attendant became inebriated and upset me?"

Slowly and sorrowfully I finished the decanter--and went to bed.

But seriously, my masters, it is a hard thing that my aunt asked of me.

There are many things worse than shelling--the tea-party you find in

progress on your arrival on leave; the utterances of war experts; the

non-arrival of the whisky from England. But all of those can be imagined

by people who have not suffered; they have a standard, a measure of

comparison. Shelling--no.

The explosion of a howitzer shell near you is a definite, actual

fact--which is unlike any other fact in the world, except the explosion

of another howitzer shell still nearer. Many have attempted to describe

the noise it makes as the most explainable part about it. And then

you're no wiser.

Listen. Stand with me at the Menin Gate of Ypres and listen. Through a

cutting a train is roaring on its way. Rapidly it rises in a great

swelling crescendo as it dashes into the open, and then its journey

stops on some giant battlement--stops in a peal of deafening thunder

just overhead. The shell has burst, and the echoes in that town of death

die slowly away--reverberating like a sullen sea that lashes against a

rock-bound coast.

And yet what does it convey to anyone who patronises inebriated

bath-chair men? ...

Similarly--shrapnel! "The Germans were searching the road with

'whizz-bangs.'" A common remark, an ordinary utterance in a letter,

taken by fond parents as an unpleasing affair such as the cook giving

notice.

Come with me to a spot near Ypres; come, and we will take our evening

walk together.

"They're a bit lively farther up the road, sir." The corporal of

military police stands gloomily at a cross-roads, his back against a

small wayside shrine. A passing shell unroofed it many weeks ago; it

stands there surrounded by debris--the image of the Virgin, chipped and

broken. Just a little monument of desolation in a ruined country, but

pleasant to lean against when it's between you and German guns.

Let us go on, it's some way yet before we reach the dug-out by the third

dead horse. In front of us stretches a long, straight road, flanked on

each side by poplars. In the middle there is pave. At intervals, a few

small holes, where the stones have been shattered and hurled away by a

bursting shell and only the muddy grit remains hollowed out to a depth

of two feet or so, half-full of water. At the bottom an empty tin of

bully, ammunition clips, numbers of biscuits--sodden and muddy.

Altogether a good obstacle to take with the front wheel of a car at

night.

A little farther on, beside the road, in a ruined, desolate cottage two

men are resting for a while, smoking. The dirt and mud of the trenches

is thick on them, and one of them is contemplatively scraping his boot

with his knife and fork. Otherwise, not a soul, not a living soul in

sight; though away to the left front, through glasses, you can see two

people, a man and a woman, labouring in the fields. And the only point

of interest about them is that between you and them run the two

motionless, stagnant lines of men who for months have faced one

another. Those two labourers are on the other side of the German

trenches.

The setting sun is glinting on the little crumbling village two or three

hundred yards ahead, and as you walk towards it in the still evening air

your steps ring loud on the pave. On each side the flat, neglected

fields stretch away from the road; the drains beside it are choked with

weeds and refuse; and here and there one of the gaunt trees, split in

two half-way up by a shell, has crashed into its neighbour or fallen to

the ground. A peaceful summer's evening which seems to give the lie to

our shrine-leaner. And yet, to one used to the peace of England, it

seems almost too quiet, almost unnatural.

Suddenly, out of the blue there comes a sharp, whizzing noise, and

almost before you've heard it there is a crash, and from the village in

front there rises a cloud of dust. A shell has burst on impact on one of

the few remaining houses; some slates and tiles fall into the road, and

round the hole torn out of the sloping roof there hangs a whitish-yellow

cloud of smoke. In quick succession come half a dozen more, some

bursting on the ruined cottages as they strike, some bursting above them

in the air. More clouds of dust rise from the deserted street, small

avalanches of debris cascade into the road, and, above, three or four

thick white smoke-clouds drift slowly across the sky.

This is the moment at which it is well--unless time is urgent--to pause

and reflect awhile. If you _must_ go on, a detour is strongly to be

recommended. The Germans are shelling the empty village just in front

with shrapnel, and who are you to interpose yourself between him and his

chosen target? But if in no particular hurry, then it were wise to dally

gracefully against a tree, admiring the setting sun, until he desists;

when you may in safety resume your walk. _But_--do not forget that he

may not stick to the village, and that whizz-bangs give no time. That is

why I specified a tree, and not the middle of the road. It's nearer the

ditch.

Suddenly, without a second's warning, they shift their target.

Whizz-bang! Duck, you blighter! Into the ditch. Quick! Move! Hang your

bottle of white wine! Get down! Cower! Emulate the mole! This isn't the

village in front now--he's shelling the road you're standing on! There's

one burst on impact in the middle of the pave forty yards in front of

you, and another in the air just over your head. And there are more

coming--don't make any mistake. That short, sharp whizz every few

seconds--the bang! bang! bang! seems to be going on all around you. A

thing hums past up in the air, with a whistling noise, leaving a trail

of sparks behind it--one of the fuses. Later, the curio-hunter may find

it nestling by a turnip. He may have it.

With a vicious thud a jagged piece of shell buries itself in the ground

at your feet; and almost simultaneously the bullets from a well-burst

one cut through the trees above you and ping against the road, thudding

into the earth around. No more impact ones--they've got the range. Our

pessimistic friend at the cross-roads spoke the truth; they're quite

lively. Everything bursting beautifully above the road about forty feet

up. Bitter thought--if only the blighters knew that it was empty save

for your wretched and unworthy self cowering in a ditch, with a bottle

of white wine in your pocket and your head down a rat-hole, surely they

wouldn't waste their ammunition so reprehensibly!

Then, suddenly, they stop, and as the last white puff of smoke drifts

slowly away you cautiously lift your head and peer towards the village.

Have they finished? Will it be safe to resume your interrupted promenade

in a dignified manner? Or will you give them another minute or two?

Almost have you decided to do so when to your horror you perceive coming

towards you through the village itself two officers. What a position to

be discovered in! True, only the very young or the mentally deficient

scorn cover when shelling is in progress. But of course, just at the

moment when you'd welcome a shell to account for your propinquity with

the rat-hole, the blighters have stopped. No sound breaks the stillness,

save the steps ringing towards you--and it looks silly to be found in a

ditch for no apparent reason.

Then, as suddenly as before comes salvation. Just as with infinite

stealth you endeavour to step out nonchalantly from behind a tree, as if

you were part of the scenery--bang! crash! from in front. Cheer-oh! the

village again, the church this time. A shower of bricks and mortar comes

down like a landslip, and if you are quick you may just see two black

streaks go to ground. From the vantage-point of your tree you watch a

salvo of shells explode in, on, or about the temporary abode of those

two officers. You realise from what you know of the Hun that this salvo

probably concludes the evening hate; and the opportunity is too good to

miss. Edging rapidly along the road--keeping close to the ditch--you

approach the houses. Your position, you feel, is now strategically

sound, with regard to the wretched pair cowering behind rubble heaps.

You even desire revenge for your mental anguish when discovery in the

rodent's lair seemed certain. So light a cigarette--if you didn't drop

them all when you went to ground yourself; if you did--whistle some

snappy tune as you stride jauntily into the village.

Don't go too fast or you may miss them; but should you see a head peer

from behind a kitchen-range express no surprise. Just--"Toppin' evening,

ain't it? Getting furniture for the dug-out--what?" To linger is bad

form, but it is quite permissible to ask his companion--seated in a

torn-up drain--if the ratting is good. Then pass on in a leisurely

manner, _but_--when you're round the corner, run like a hare. With these

cursed Germans, you never know.

* * * * *

Night--and a working-party stretching away over a ploughed field are

digging a communication trench. The great green flares lob up half a

mile away, a watery moon shines on the bleak scene. Suddenly a noise

like the tired sigh of some great giant, a scorching sheet of flame that

leaps at you out of the darkness, searing your very brain, so close does

it seem; the ping of death past your head; the clatter of shovel and

pick next you as a muttered curse proclaims a man is hit; a voice from

down the line: "Gawd! Old Ginger's took it. 'Old up, mate. Say, blokes,

Ginger's done in!" Aye--it's worse at night.

Shrapnel! Woolly, fleecy puffs of smoke floating gently down wind,

getting more and more attenuated, gradually disappearing, while below

each puff an oval of ground has been plastered with bullets. And it's

when the ground inside the oval is full of men that the damage is done.

Not you perhaps--but someone. Next time--maybe you.

* * * * *

And that, methinks, is an epitome of other things besides shrapnel. It's

_all_ the war to the men who fight and the women who wait.

PART ONE

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

THE MOTOR-GUN

Nothing in this war has so struck those who have fought in it as its

impersonal nature. From the day the British Army moved north, and the

first battle of Ypres commenced--and with it trench warfare as we know

it now--it has been, save for a few interludes, a contest between

automatons, backed by every known scientific device. Personal rancour

against the opposing automatons separated by twenty or thirty yards of

smelling mud--who stew in the same discomfort as yourself--is apt to

give way to an acute animosity against life in general, and the accursed

fate in particular which so foolishly decided your sex at birth. But,

though rare, there have been cases of isolated encounters, where

men--with the blood running hot in their veins--have got down to

hand-grips, and grappling backwards and forwards in some cellar or

dugout, have fought to the death, man to man, as of old. Such a case has

recently come to my knowledge, a case at once bizarre and unique: a case

where the much-exercised arm of coincidence showed its muscles to a

remarkable degree. Only quite lately have I found out all the facts, and

now at Dick O'Rourke's special request I am putting them on paper. True,

they are intended to reach the eyes of one particular person, but ...

the personal column in the _Times_ interests others besides the lady in

the magenta skirt, who will eat a banana at 3.30 daily by the Marble

Arch!

* * * * *

And now, at the very outset of my labours, I find myself--to my great

alarm--committed to the placing on paper of a love scene. O'Rourke

insists upon it: he says the whole thing will fall flat if I don't put

it in; he promises that he will supply the local colour. In advance I

apologise: my own love affairs are sufficiently trying without

endeavouring to describe his--and with that, here goes.

I will lift my curtain on the principals of this little drama, and open

the scene at Ciro's in London. On the evening of April 21st, 1915, in

the corner of that delectable resort, farthest away from the coon band,

sat Dickie O'Rourke. That afternoon he had stepped from the boat at

Folkestone on seven days' leave, and now in the boiled shirt of

respectability he once again smelled the smell of London.

With him was a girl. I have never seen her, but from his description I

cannot think that I have lived until this oversight is rectified.

Moreover, my lady, as this is written especially for your benefit, I

hereby warn you that I propose to remedy my omission as soon as

possible.

And yet with a band that is second to none; with food wonderful and

divine; with the choicest fruit of the grape, and--to top all--with the

girl, Dickie did not seem happy. As he says, it was not to be wondered

at. He had landed at Folkestone meaning to propose; he had carried out

his intention over the fish--and after that the dinner had lost its

savour. She had refused him--definitely and finally; and Dick found

himself wishing for France again--France and forgetfulness. Only he knew

he'd never forget.

"The dinner is to monsieur's taste?" The head-waiter paused attentively

by the table.

"Very good," growled Dick, looking savagely at an ice on his plate. "Oh,

Moyra," he muttered, as the man passed on, "it's meself is finished

entoirely. And I was feeling that happy on the boat; as I saw the white

cliffs coming nearer and nearer, I said to meself, 'Dick, me boy, in

just four hours you'll be with the dearest, sweetest girl that God ever

sent from the heavens to brighten the lives of dull dogs like

yourself.'"

"You're not dull, Dick. You're not to say those things--you're a dear."

The girl's eyes seemed a bit misty as she bent over her plate.

"And now!" He looked at her pleadingly. "'Tis the light has gone out of

my life. Ah! me dear, is there no hope for Dickie O'Rourke? Me estate is

mostly bog, and the ould place has fallen down, saving only the

stable--but there's the breath of the seas that comes over the heather

in the morning, and there's the violet of your dear eyes in the hills.

It's not worrying you that I'd be--but is there no hope at all, at all?"

The girl turned towards him, smiling a trifle sadly. There was woman's

pity in the lovely eyes: her lips were trembling a little. "Dear old

Dick," she whispered, and her hand rested lightly on his for a moment.

"Dear old Dick, I'm sorry. If I'd only known sooner----" She broke off

abruptly and fell to gazing at the floor.

"Then there is someone else!" The man spoke almost fiercely.

Slowly she nodded her head, but she did not speak.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know that you've got any right to ask me that, Dick," she

answered, a little proudly.

"What's the talk of right between you and me? Do you suppose I'll let

any cursed social conventions stand between me and the woman I love?"

She could see his hand trembling, though outwardly he seemed quite calm.

And then his voice dropped to a tender, pleading note--and again the

soft, rich brogue of the Irishman crept in--that wonderful tone that

brings with it the music of the fairies from the hazy blue hills of

Connemara.

"Acushla mine," he whispered, "would I be hurting a hair of your swate

head, or bringing a tear to them violet pools ye calls your eyes? 'Tis

meself that is in the wrong entoirely--but, mavourneen, I just worship

you. And the thought of the other fellow is driving me crazy. Will ye

not be telling me his name?"

"Dick, I can't," she whispered, piteously. "You wouldn't understand."

"And why would I not understand?" he answered, grimly. "Is it something

shady he has done to you?--for if it is, by the Holy Mother, I'll murder

him."

"No, no, it's nothing shady. But I can't tell you, Dick; and oh, Dick!

I'm just wretched, and I don't know what to do." The tears were very

near. A whimsical look came into his face as he watched her. "Moyra, me

dear; 'tis about ten shillings apiece we're paying for them ices; and if

you splash them with your darling tears, the chef will give notice and

that coon with the banjo will strike work."

"You dear, Dick," she whispered, after a moment, while a smile trembled

round her mouth. "I nearly made a fool of myself."

"Divil a bit," he answered. "But let us be after discussing them two

fair things yonder while we gets on with the ices. 'Tis the most

suitable course for contemplating the dears; and, anyway, we'll take no

more risks until we're through with them."

And so with a smile on his lips and a jest on his tongue did a gallant

gentleman cover the ache in his heart and the pain in his eyes, and felt

more than rewarded by the look of thanks he got. It was not for him to

ask for more than she would freely give; and if there was another

man--well, he was a lucky dog. But if he'd played the fool--yes, by

Heaven! if he'd played the fool, that was a different pair of shoes

altogether. His forehead grew black at the thought, and mechanically his

fists clenched.

"Dick, I'd like to tell you just how things are."

He pulled himself together and looked at the girl.

"It is meself that is at your service, my lady," he answered, quietly.

"I'm engaged. But it's a secret."

His jaw dropped, "Engaged!" he faltered. "But--who to? And why is it a

secret?"

"I can't tell you who to. I promised to keep it secret; and then he

suddenly went away and the war broke out and I've never seen him since."

"But you've heard from him?"

She bit her lip and looked away. "Not a line," she faltered.

"But--I don't understand." His tone was infinitely tender. "Why hasn't

he written to you? Violet girl, why would he not have written?"

"You see, he's a----" She seemed to be nerving herself to speak. "You

see, he's a German!"

It was out at last.

"Mother of God!" Dick leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her,

his cigarette unheeded, burning the tablecloth. "Do you love him?"

"Yes." The whispered answer was hardly audible. "Oh, Dick, I wonder if

you can understand. It all came so suddenly, and then there was this

war, and I know it's awful to love a German, but I do, and I can't tell

anyone but you; they'd think it horrible of me. Oh, Dick! tell me you

understand."

"I understand, little girl," he answered, very slowly. "I understand."

It was all very involved and infinitely pathetic. But, as I have said

before, Dick O'Rourke was a gallant gentleman.

"It's not his fault he's a German," she went on after a while. "He

didn't start the war--and, you see, I promised him."

That was the rub--she'd promised him. Truly a woman is a wonderful

thing! Very gentle and patient was O'Rourke with her that evening, and

when at last he turned into his club, he sat for a long while gazing

into the fire. Just once a muttered curse escaped his lips.

"Did you speak?" said the man in the next chair.

"I did _not_," said O'Rourke, and getting up abruptly he went to bed.

* * * * *

At 3 p.m. on April 22nd Dick O'Rourke received a wire. It was short and

to the point. "Leave cancelled. Return at once." He tore round to

Victoria, found he'd missed the boat-train, and went down to Folkestone

on chance. For the time Moyra was almost forgotten. Officers are not

recalled from short leave without good and sufficient reason; and as yet

there was nothing in the evening papers that showed any activity. At

Folkestone he met other officers--also recalled; and when the boat came

in rumours began to spread. The whole line had fallen back--the Germans

were through and marching on Calais--a ghastly defeat had been

sustained.

The morning papers were a little more reassuring; and in them for the

first time came the mention of the word "gas." Everything was vague, but

that something had happened was obvious, and also that that something

was pretty serious.

One p.m. on the 23rd found him at Boulogne, ramping like a bull. An

unemotional railway transport officer told him that there was a very

nice train starting at midnight, but that the leave train was cancelled.

"But, man!" howled O'Rourke, "I've been recalled. 'Tis urgent!" He

brandished the wire in his face.

The R.T.O. remained unmoved, and intimated that he was busy, and that

O'Rourke's private history left him quite cold. Moreover, he thought it

possible that the British Army might survive without him for another

day.

In the general confusion that ensued on his replying that the said

R.T.O. was no doubt a perfect devil as a traveller for unshrinkable

underclothes, but that his knowledge of the British Army might be

written on a postage-stamp, O'Rourke escaped, and ensconcing himself

near the barrier, guarded by French sentries, at the top of the hill

leading to St. Omer, he waited for a motor-car.

Having stopped two generals and been consigned elsewhere for his pains,

he ultimately boarded a flying corps lorry, and 4 p.m. found him at St.

Omer. And there--but we will whisper--was a relative--one of the exalted

ones of the earth, who possessed many motor-cars, great and small.

Dick chose the second Rolls-Royce, and having pursued his unit to the

farm where he'd left it two days before, he chivied it round the

country, and at length traced it to Poperinghe.

And there he found things moving. As yet no one was quite sure what had

happened; but he found a solemn conclave of Army Service Corps officers

attached to his division, and from them he gathered twenty or thirty of

the conflicting rumours that were flying round. One thing, anyway, was

clear: the Huns were not triumphantly marching on Calais--yet. It was

just as a charming old boy of over fifty, who had perjured his soul over

his age and had been out since the beginning--a standing reproach to a

large percentage of the so-called youth of England--it was just as he

suggested a little dinner in that hospitable town, prior to going up

with the supply lorries, that with a droning roar a twelve-inch shell

came crashing into the square....

That night at 11 p.m. Dick stepped out of another car into a ploughed

field just behind the little village of Woesten, and, having trodden on

his major's face and unearthed his servant, lay down by the dying fire

to get what sleep he could. Now and again a horse whinnied near by; a

bit rattled, a man cursed; for the unit was ready to move at a moment's

notice and the horses were saddled up. The fire died out--from close by

a battery was firing, and the sky was dancing with the flashes of

bursting shells like summer lightning flickering in the distance. And

with his head on a sharp stone and another in his back Dick O'Rourke

fell asleep and dreamed of--but dreams are silly things to describe. It

was just as he'd thrown the hors-d'oeuvres at the head-waiter of Ciro's,

who had suddenly become the hated German rival, and was wiping the

potato salad off Moyra's face, which it had hit by mistake, with the

table-cloth, that with a groan he turned on his other side--only to

exchange the stones for a sardine tin and a broken pickle bottle. Which

is really no more foolish than the rest of life nowadays....

* * * * *

And now for a moment I must go back and, leaving our hero, describe

shortly the events that led up to the sending of the wire that recalled

him.

Early in the morning of April 22nd the Germans launched at that part of

the French line which lay in front of the little villages of Elverdinge

and Brielen, a yellowish-green cloud of gas, which rolled slowly over

the intervening ground between the trenches, carried on its way by a

faint, steady breeze. I do not intend to describe the first use of that

infamous invention--it has been done too often before. But, for the

proper understanding of what follows, it is essential for me to go into

a few details. Utterly unprepared for what was to come, the French

divisions gazed for a short while spellbound at the strange phenomenon

they saw coming slowly towards them. Like some liquid the heavy-coloured

vapour poured relentlessly into the trenches, filled them, and passed

on. For a few seconds nothing happened; the sweet-smelling stuff merely

tickled their nostrils; they failed to realise the danger. Then, with

inconceivable rapidity, the gas worked, and blind panic spread.

Hundreds, after a dreadful fight for air, became unconscious and died

where they lay--a death of hideous torture, with the frothing bubbles

gurgling in their throats and the foul liquid welling up in their lungs.

With blackened faces and twisted limbs one by one they drowned--only

that which drowned them came from inside and not from out. Others,

staggering, falling, lurching on, and of their ignorance keeping pace

with the gas, went back. A hail of rifle-fire and shrapnel mowed them

down, and the line was broken. There was nothing on the British

left--their flank was up in the air. The north-east corner of the

salient round Ypres had been pierced. From in front of St. Julian, away

up north towards Boesienge, there was no one in front of the Germans.

It is not my intention to do more than mention the rushing up of the

cavalry corps and the Indians to fill the gap; the deathless story of

the Canadians who, surrounded and hemmed in, fought till they died

against overwhelming odds; the fate of the Northumbrian division--fresh

from home--who were rushed up in support, and the field behind Fortuin

where they were caught by shrapnel, and what was left. These things are

outside the scope of my story. Let us go back to the gap.

Hard on the heels of the French came the Germans advancing. For a mile

or so they pushed on, and why they stopped when they did is--as far as I

am concerned--one of life's little mysteries. Perhaps the utter success

of their gas surprised even them; perhaps they anticipated some trap;

perhaps the incredible heroism of the Canadians in hanging up the German

left caused their centre to push on too far and lose touch;

perhaps--but, why speculate? I don't know, though possibly those in High

Places may. The fact remains they did stop; their advantage was lost and

the situation was saved.

* * * * *

Such was the state of affairs when O'Rourke opened his eyes on the

morning of Saturday, April 24th. The horses were dimly visible through

the heavy mist, his blankets were wringing wet, and hazily he wondered

why he had ever been born. Then the cook dropped the bacon in the fire,

and he groaned with anguish; visions of yesterday's grilled kidneys and

hot coffee rose before him and mocked. By six o'clock he had fed, and

sitting on an overturned biscuit-box beside the road he watched three

batteries of French 75's pass by and disappear in the distance. At

intervals he longed to meet the man who invented war. It must be

remembered that, though I have given the situation as it really was, for

the better understanding of the story, the facts at the time were not

known at all clearly. The fog of war still wrapped in oblivion--as far

as regimental officers were concerned, at any rate--the events which

were taking place within a few miles of them.

When, therefore, Dick O'Rourke perceived an unshaven and unwashed

warrior, garbed as a gunner officer, coming down the road from Woesten,

and, moreover, recognised him as one of his own term at the "Shop,"

known to his intimates as the Land Crab, he hailed him with joy.

"All hail, oh, crustacean!" he cried, as the other came abreast of him.

"Whither dost walk so blithely?"

"Halloa, Dick!" The gunner paused. "You haven't seen my major anywhere,

have you?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but as I don't know your major from Adam, my

evidence may not be reliable. What news from the seat of war?"

"None that I know of--except this cursed gun, that is rapidly driving me

to drink."

"What cursed gun? I am fresh from Ciro's and the haunts of love and

ease. Expound to me your enigma, my Land Crab."

"Haven't you heard? When the Germans----"

He stopped suddenly. "Listen!" Perfectly clear from the woods

to the north of them--the woods that lie to the west of the

Woesten-Oostvleteren road, for those who may care for maps--there came

the distinctive boom! crack! of a smallish gun. Three more shots, and

then silence. The gunner turned to Dick.

"There you are--that's the gun."

"But how nice! Only, why curse it?"

"Principally because it's German; and those four shots that you have

just heard have by this time burst in Poperinghe."

"What!" O'Rourke looked at him in amazement. "Is it my leg you would be

pulling?"

"Certainly not. When the Germans came on in the first blind rush after

the French two small guns on motor mountings got through behind our

lines. One was completely wrecked with its detachment The motor

mounting of the other you can see lying in a pond about a mile up the

road. The gun is there." He pointed to the wood.

"And the next!" said O'Rourke. "D'you mean to tell me that there is a

German gun in that wood firing at Poperinghe? Why, hang it, man! it's

three miles behind our lines."

"Taking the direction those shells are coming from, the distance from

Poperinghe to that gun must be more than ten miles--if the gun is behind

the German trenches. Your gunnery is pretty rotten, I know, but if you

know of any two-inch gun that shoots ten miles, I'll be obliged if

you'll give me some lessons." The gunner lit a cigarette. "Man, we know

it's not one of ours, we know where they all are; we know it's a Hun."

"Then, what in the name of fortune are ye standing here for talking like

an ould woman with the indigestion? Away with you, and lead us to him,

and don't go chivying after your bally major." Dick shouted for his

revolver. "If there's a gun in that wood, bedad! we'll gun it."

"My dear old flick," said the other, "don't get excited. The woods have

been searched with a line of men--twice; and devil the sign of the gun.

You don't suppose they've got a concrete mounting and the Prussian flag

flying on a pole, do you? The detachment are probably dressed as Belgian

peasants, and the gun is dismounted and hidden when it's not firing."

But O'Rourke would have none of it. "Get off to your major, then, and

have your mothers' meeting. Then come back to me, and I'll give you the

gun. And borrow a penknife and cut your beard--you'll be after

frightening the natives."

That evening a couple of shots rang out from the same wood, two of the

typical shots of a small gun. And then there was silence. A group of men

standing by an estaminet on the road affirmed to having heard three

faint shots afterwards like the crack of a sporting-gun or revolver; but

in the general turmoil of an evening hate which was going on at the same

time no one thought much about it. Half an hour later Dick O'Rourke

returned, and there was a strange look in his eyes. His coat was torn,

his collar and shirt were ripped open, and his right eye was gradually

turning black. Of his doings he would vouchsafe no word. Only, as we sat

down round the fire to dinner, the gunner subaltern of the morning

passed again up the road.

"Got the gun yet, Dick?" he chaffed.

"I have that," answered O'Rourke, "also the detachment."

The Land Crab paused. "Where are they?"

"The gun is in a pond where you won't find it, and the detachment are

dead--except one who escaped."

"Yes, I don't think." The gunner laughed and passed on.

"You needn't," answered Dick, "but that gun will never fire again."

It never did. As I say, he would answer no questions, and even amongst

the few people who had heard of the thing at all, it soon passed into

the limbo of forgotten things. Other and weightier matters were afoot;

the second battle of Ypres did not leave much time for vague conjecture.

And so when, a few days ago, the question was once again recalled to my

mind by no less a person than O'Rourke himself, I had to dig in the

archives of memory for the remembrance of an incident of which I had

well-nigh lost sight.

* * * * *

"You remember that gun, Bill," he remarked, lying back in the arm-chair

of the farmhouse where we were billeted, and sipping some hot rum--"that

German gun that got through in April and bombarded Poperinghe? I want to

talk to you about that gun." He started filling his pipe.

"'Tis the hardest proposition I've ever been up against, and sure I

don't know what to do at all." He was staring at the fire. "You

remember the Land Crab and how he told us the woods had been searched?

Well, it didn't take a superhuman brainstorm to realise that if what he

said was right and the Huns were dressed as Belgian peasants, and the

gun was a little one, that a line of men going through the woods had

about as much chance of finding them as a terrier has of catching a

tadpole in the water. I says to myself, 'Dick, my boy, this is an

occasion for stealth, for delicate work, for finesse.' So off I went on

my lonesome and hid in the wood. I argued that they couldn't be keeping

a permanent watch, and that even if they'd seen me come in, they'd think

in time I had gone out again, when they noticed no further sign of me.

Also I guessed they didn't want to stir up a hornet's nest about their

ears by killing me--they wanted no vulgar glare of publicity upon their

doings. So, as I say, I hid in a hole and waited. I got bored stiff;

though, when all was said and done, it wasn't much worse than sitting in

that blessed ploughed field beside the road. About five o'clock I

started cursing myself for a fool in listening to the story at all, it

all seemed so ridiculous. Not a sound in the woods, not a breath of wind

in the trees. The guns weren't firing, just for the time everything was

peaceful. I'd got a caterpillar down my neck, and I was just coming back

to get a drink and chuck it up, when suddenly a Belgian labourer popped

out from behind a tree. There was nothing peculiar about him, and if it

hadn't been for the Land Crab's story I'd never have given him a second

thought. He was just picking up sticks, but as I watched him I noticed

that every now and then he straightened himself up, and seemed to peer

around as if he was searching the undergrowth. The next minute out came

another, and he started the stick-picking stunt too."

Dick paused to relight his pipe, then he laughed. "Of course, the humour

of the situation couldn't help striking me. Dick O'Rourke in a filthy

hole, covered with branches and bits of dirt, watching two mangy old

Belgians picking up wood. But, having stood it the whole day, I made up

my mind to wait, at any rate, till night. If only I could catch the gun

in action--even if the odds were too great for me alone--I'd be able to

spot the hiding-place, and come back later with a party and round them

up.

"Then suddenly the evening hate started--artillery from all over the

place--and with it the Belgian labourers ceased from plucking sticks.

Running down a little path, so close to me that I could almost touch

him, came one of them. He stopped about ten yards away where the dense

undergrowth finished, and, after looking cautiously round, waved his

hand. The other one nipped behind a tree and called out something in a

guttural tone of voice. And then, I give you my word, out of the bowels

of the earth there popped up a little gun not twenty yards from where

I'd been lying the whole day. By this time, of course, I was in the same

sort of condition as a terrier is when he's seen the cat he has set his

heart on shin up a tree, having missed her tail by half an inch.

"They clapped her on a little mounting quick as light, laid her, loaded,

and, by the holy saints! under my very nose, loosed off a present for

Poperinghe. The man on guard waved his hand again, and bedad! away went

another. The next instant he was back, again an exclamation in German,

and in about two shakes the whole thing had disappeared, and there were

the two labourers picking sticks. I give you my word it was like a clown

popping up in a pantomime through a trap-door; I had to pinch myself to

make certain I was awake.

"The next instant into the clearing came two English soldiers, the

reason evidently of the sudden dismantling. Had they been armed we'd

have had at them then and there; but, of course, so far behind the

trenches, they had no rifles. They just peered round, saw the Belgians,

and went off again. I heard their steps dying away in the distance, and

decided to wait a bit longer. The two men seemed to be discussing what

to do, and ultimately moved behind the tree again, where I could hear

them talking. At last they came to a decision, and picking up their

bundles of sticks came slowly down the path past me. They were not going

to fire again that evening."

Dick smiled reminiscently. "Bill, pass the rum. I'm thirsty."

"What did you do, Dick?" I asked, eagerly.

"What d'you think? I was out like a knife and let drive with my

hand-gun. I killed the first one as dead as mutton, and missed the

second, who shot like a stag into the undergrowth. Gad! It was great. I

put two more where I thought he was, but as I still heard him crashing

on I must have missed him. Then I nipped round the tree to find the gun.

The only thing there was a great hole full of leaves. I ploughed across

it, thinking it must be the other side, when, without a word of warning,

I fell through the top--bang through the top, my boy, of the neatest

hiding-place you've ever thought of. The whole of the centre of those

leaves was a fake. There were about two inches of them supported on

light hurdle-work. I was in the robber's cave with a vengeance."

"Was the gun there?" I cried, excitedly.

"It was. Also the Hun. The gun of small variety; the Hun of large--very

large. I don't know which of us was the more surprised--him or me; we

just stood gazing at one another.

"'Halloa, Englishman,' he said; 'come to leave a card?'

"'Quite right, Boche,' I answered. 'A p.p.c. one.'

"I was rather pleased with that touch at the time, old son. I was just

going to elaborate it, and point out that he--as the dear

departing--should really do it, when he was at me.

"Bill, my boy, you should have seen that fight. Like a fool, I never saw

his revolver lying on the table, and I'd shoved my own back in my

holster. He got it in his right hand, and I got his right wrist in my

left. We'd each got the other by the throat, and one of us was for the

count. We each knew that. At one time I thought he'd got me--we were

crashing backwards and forwards, and I caught my head against a wooden

pole which nearly stunned me. And, mark you, all the time I was

expecting his pal to come back and inquire after his health. Then

suddenly I felt him weaken, and I squeezed his throat the harder. It

came quite quickly at the end. His pistol-hand collapsed, and I suppose

muscular contraction pulled the trigger, for the bullet went through his

head, though I think he was dead already." Dick O'Rourke paused, and

looked thoughtfully into the fire.

"But why in the name of Heaven," I cried, irritably, "have you kept this

dark all the while? Why didn't you tell us at the time?"

For a while he did not answer, and then he produced his pocket-book.

From it he took a photograph, which he handed to me.

"Out of that German's pocket I took that photograph."

"Well," I said, "what about it? A very pretty girl for a German." Then I

looked at it closely. "Why, it was taken in England. Is it an English

girl?"

"Yes," he answered, dryly, "it is. It's Moyra Kavanagh, whom I proposed

to forty-eight hours previously at Ciro's. She refused me, and told me

then she was in love with a German. I celebrate the news by coming over

here and killing him, in an individual fight where it was man to man."

"But," I cried, "good heavens! man--it was you or he."

"I know that," he answered, wearily. "What then? He evidently loved her;

if not--why the photo. Look at what's written on the back--'From

Moyra--with all my love.' All her love. Lord! it's a rum box up." He

sighed wearily and slowly replaced it in his case. "So I buried him, and

I chucked his gun in a pond, and said nothing about it. If I had it

would probably have got into the papers or some such rot, and she'd have

wanted to know all about it. Think of it! What the deuce would I have

told her? To sympathise and discuss her love affairs with her in

London, and then toddle over here and slaughter him. Dash it, man, it's

Gilbertian! And, mark you, nothing would induce me to marry her--even if

she'd have me--without her knowing."

"But---" I began, and then fell silent. The more I thought of it the

less I liked it. Put it how you like, for a girl to take as her husband

a man who has actually killed the man she loved and was engaged

to--German or no German--is a bit of a pill to swallow.

* * * * *

After mature consideration we decided to present the pill to her garbed

in this form. On me--as a scribbler of sorts--descended the onus of

putting it on paper. When I'd done it, and Dick had read it, he said I

was a fool, and wanted to tear it up. Which is like a man....

Look you, my lady, it was a fair fight--it was war--it was an Englishman

against a German; and the best man won. And surely to Heaven you can't

blame poor old Dick? He didn't know; how could he have known, how... but

what's the use? If your heart doesn't bring it right--neither my pen nor

my logic is likely to. Which is like a woman.

CHAPTER II

PRIVATE MEYRICK--COMPANY IDIOT

No one who has ever given the matter a moment's thought would deny, I

suppose, that a regiment without discipline is like a ship without a

rudder. True as that fact has always been, it is doubly so now, when men

are exposed to mental and physical shocks such as have never before been

thought of.

The condition of a man's brain after he has sat in a trench and suffered

an intensive bombardment for two or three hours can only be described by

one word, and that is--numbed. The actual physical concussion, apart

altogether from the mental terror, caused by the bursting of a

succession of large shells in a man's vicinity, temporarily robs him of

the use of his thinking faculties. He becomes half-stunned, dazed; his

limbs twitch convulsively and involuntarily; he mutters foolishly--he

becomes incoherent. Starting with fright he passes through that stage,

passes beyond it into a condition bordering on coma; and when a man is

in that condition he is not responsible for his actions. His brain has

ceased to work....

Now it is, I believe, a principle of psychology that the brain or mind

of a man can be divided into two parts--the objective and the

subjective: the objective being that part of his thought-box which is

actuated by outside influences, by his senses, by his powers of

deduction; the subjective being that part which is not directly

controllable by what he sees and hears, the part which the religious

might call his soul, the Buddhist "the Spark of God," others instinct.

And this portion of a man's nature remains acutely active, even while

the other part has struck work. In fact, the more numbed and comatose

the thinking brain, the more clearly and insistently does subjective

instinct hold sway over a man's body. Which all goes to show that

discipline, if it is to be of any use to a man at such a time, must be a

very different type of thing to what the ordinary, uninitiated, and

so-called free civilian believes it to be. It must be an ideal, a thing

where the motive counts, almost a religion. It must be an appeal to the

soul of man, not merely an order to his body. That the order to his

body, the self-control of his daily actions, the general change in his

mode of life will infallibly follow on the heels of the appeal to his

soul--if that appeal be successful--is obvious. But the appeal must come

first: it must be the driving power; it must be the cause and not the

effect. Otherwise, when the brain is gone--numbed by causes outside its

control; when the reasoning intellect of man is out of action--stunned

for the time; when only his soul remains to pull the quivering, helpless

body through,--then, unless that soul has the ideal of discipline in it,

it _will_ fail. And failure _may_ mean death and disaster; it _will_

mean shame and disgrace, when sanity returns....

To the man seated at his desk in the company office these ideas were not

new. He had been one of the original Expeditionary Force; but a sniper

had sniped altogether too successfully out by Zillebecke in the early

stages of the first battle of Ypres, and when that occurs a rest cure

becomes necessary. At that time he was the senior subaltern of one of

the finest regiments of "a contemptible little army"; now he was a major

commanding a company in the tenth battalion of that same regiment. And

in front of him on the desk, a yellow form pinned to a white slip of

flimsy paper, announced that No. 8469, Private Meyrick, J., was for

office. The charge was "Late falling in on the 8 a.m. parade," and the

evidence against him was being given by C.-S.-M. Hayton, also an old

soldier from that original battalion at Ypres. It was Major Seymour

himself who had seen the late appearance of the above-mentioned Private

Meyrick, and who had ordered the yellow form to be prepared. And now

with it in front of him, he stared musingly at the office fire....

There are a certain number of individuals who from earliest infancy have

been imbued with the idea that the chief pastime of officers in the

army, when they are not making love to another man's wife, is the

preparation of harsh and tyrannical rules for the express purpose of

annoying their men, and the gloating infliction of drastic punishment on

those that break them. The absurdity of this idea has nothing to do with

it, it being a well-known fact that the more absurd an idea is, the more

utterly fanatical do its adherents become. To them the thought

that a man being late on parade should make him any the worse

fighter--especially as he had, in all probability, some good and

sufficient excuse--cannot be grasped. To them the idea that men may not

be a law unto themselves--though possibly agreed to reluctantly in the

abstract--cannot possibly be assimilated in the concrete.

"He has committed some trifling offence," they say; "now you will give

him some ridiculous punishment. That is the curse of militarism--a

chosen few rule by Fear." And if you tell them that any attempt to

inculcate discipline by fear alone must of necessity fail, and that far

from that being the method in the Army the reverse holds good, they

will not believe you. Yet--it is so....

"Shall I bring in the prisoner, sir?" The Sergeant-Major was standing by

the door.

"Yes, I'll see him now." The officer threw his cigarette into the fire

and put on his hat.

"Take off your 'at. Come along there, my lad--move. You'd go to sleep at

your mother's funeral--you would." Seymour smiled at the conversation

outside the door; he had soldiered many years with that Sergeant-Major.

"Now, step up briskly. Quick march. 'Alt. Left turn." He closed the door

and ranged himself alongside the prisoner facing the table.

"No. 8469, Private Meyrick--you are charged with being late on the 8

a.m. parade this morning. Sergeant-Major, what do you know about it?"

"Sir, on the 8 a.m. parade this morning, Private Meyrick came running on

'alf a minute after the bugle sounded. 'Is puttees were not put on

tidily. I'd like to say, sir, that it's not the first time this man has

been late falling in. 'E seems to me to be always a dreaming,

somehow--not properly awake like. I warned 'im for office."

The officer's eyes rested on the hatless soldier facing him. "Well,

Meyrick," he said quietly, "what have you got to say?"

"Nothing, sir. I'm sorry as 'ow I was late. I was reading, and I never

noticed the time."

"What were you reading?" The question seemed superfluous--almost

foolish; but something in the eyes of the man facing him, something in

his short, stumpy, uncouth figure interested him.

"I was a'reading Kipling, sir." The Sergeant-Major snorted as nearly as

such an august disciplinarian could snort in the presence of his

officer.

"'E ought, sir, to 'ave been 'elping the cook's mate--until 'e was due

on parade."

"Why do you read Kipling or anyone else when you ought to be doing other

things?" queried the officer. His interest in the case surprised

himself; the excuse was futile, and two or three days to barracks is an

excellent corrective.

"I dunno, sir. 'E sort of gets 'old of me, like. Makes me want to do

things--and then I can't. I've always been slow and awkward like, and I

gets a bit flustered at times. But I do try 'ard." Again a doubtful

noise from the Sergeant-Major; to him trying 'ard and reading Kipling

when you ought to be swabbing up dishes were hardly compatible.

For a moment or two the officer hesitated, while the Sergeant-Major

looked frankly puzzled. "What the blazes 'as come over 'im," he was

thinking; "surely he ain't going to be guyed by that there wash. Why

don't 'e give 'im two days and be done with it--and me with all them

returns."

"I'm going to talk to you, Meyrick." Major Seymour's voice cut in on

these reflections. For the fraction of a moment "Two days C.B." had been

on the tip of his tongue, and then he'd changed his mind. "I want to try

and make you understand why you were brought up to office to-day. In

every community--in every body of men--there must be a code of rules

which govern what they do. Unless those rules are carried out by all

those men, the whole system falls to the ground. Supposing everyone came

on to parade half a minute late because they'd been reading Kipling?"

"I know, sir. I see as 'ow I was wrong. But--I dreams sometimes as 'ow

I'm like them he talks about, when 'e says as 'ow they lifted 'em

through the charge as won the day. And then the dream's over, and I know

as 'ow I'm not."

The Sergeant-Major's impatience was barely concealed; those returns were

oppressing him horribly.

"You can get on with your work, Sergeant-Major. I know you're busy."

Seymour glanced at the N.C.O. "I want to say a little more to Meyrick."

The scandalised look on his face amused him; to leave a prisoner alone

with an officer--impossible, unheard of.

"I am in no hurry, sir, thank you."

"All right then," Seymour spoke briefly. "Now, Meyrick, I want you to

realise that the principle at the bottom of all discipline is the motive

that makes that discipline. I want you to realise that all these rules

are made for the good of the regiment, and that in everything you do and

say you have an effect on the regiment. You count in the show, and I

count in it, and so does the Sergeant-Major. We're all out for the same

thing, my lad, and that is the regiment. We do things not because we're

afraid of being punished if we don't, but because we know that they are

for the good of the regiment--the finest regiment in the world. You've

got to make good, not because you'll be dropped on if you don't, but

because you'll pull the regiment down if you fail. And because you

count, you, personally, must not be late on parade. It _does_ matter

what you do yourself. I want you to realise that, and why. The rules you

are ordered to comply with are the best rules. Sometimes we alter

one--because we find a better; but they're the best we can get, and

before you can find yourself in the position of the men you dream

about--the men who lift others, the men who lead others--you've got to

lift and lead yourself. Nothing is too small to worry about, nothing too

insignificant. And because I think, that at the back of your head

somewhere you've got the right idea; because I think it's natural to you

to be a bit slow and awkward and that your failure isn't due to laziness

or slackness, I'm not going to punish you this time for breaking the

rules. If you do it again, it will be a different matter. There comes a

time when one can't judge motives; when one can only judge results. Case

dismissed."

Thoughtfully the officer lit a cigarette as the door closed, and though

for the present there was nothing more for him to do in office, he

lingered on, pursuing his train of thoughts. Fully conscious of the

aggrieved wrath of his Sergeant-Major at having his time wasted, a

slight smile spread over his face. He was not given to making

perorations of this sort, and now that it was over he wondered rather

why he'd done it. And then he recalled the look in the private's eyes as

he had spoken of his dreams.

"He'll make good that man." Unconsciously he spoke aloud. "He'll make

good."

The discipline of habit is what we soldiers had before the war, and that

takes time. Now it must be the discipline of intelligence, of ideal. And

for that fear is the worst conceivable teacher. We have no time to form

habits now; the routine of the army is of too short duration before the

test comes. And the test is too crushing....

The bed-rock now as then is the same, only the methods of getting down

to that bed-rock have to be more hurried. Of old habitude and constant

association instilled a religion--the religion of obedience, the

religion of esprit de corps. But it took time. Now we need the same

religion, but we haven't the same time.

* * * * *

In the office next door the Sergeant-Major was speaking soft words to

the Pay Corporal.

"Blimey, I dunno what's come over the bloke. You know that there

Meyrick..."

"Who, the Slug?" interpolated the other.

"Yes. Well 'e come shambling on to parade this morning with 'is puttees

flapping round his ankles--late as usual; and 'e told me to run 'im up

to office." A thumb indicated the Major next door. "When I gets 'im

there, instead of giving 'im three days C.B. and being done with it, 'e

starts a lot of jaw about motives and discipline. 'E hadn't got no ruddy

excuse; said 'e was a'reading Kipling, or some such rot--when 'e ought

to have been 'elping the cook's mate."

"What did he give him?" asked the Pay Corporal, interested.

"Nothing. His blessing and dismissed the case. As if I had nothing

better to do than listen to 'im talking 'ot air to a perisher like that

there Meyrick. 'Ere, pass over them musketry returns."

Which conversation, had Seymour overheard it, he would have understood

and fully sympathised with. For C.-S.-M. Hayton, though a prince of

sergeant-majors, was no student of physiology. To him a spade was a

spade only as long as it shovelled earth.

* * * * *

Now, before I go on to the day when the subject of all this trouble and

talk was called on to make good, and how he did it, a few words on the

man himself might not be amiss. War, the great forcing house of

character, admits no lies. Sooner or later it finds out a man, and he

stands in the pitiless glare of truth for what he is. And it is not by

any means the cheery hail-fellow-well-met type, or the thruster, or the

sportsman, who always pool the most votes when the judging starts....

John Meyrick, before he began to train for the great adventure, had been

something in a warehouse down near Tilbury. And "something" is about the

best description of what he was that you could give. Moreover there

wasn't a dog's chance of his ever being "anything." He used to help the

young man--I should say young gentleman--who checked weigh bills at one

of the dock entrances. More than that I cannot say, and incidentally the

subject is not of surpassing importance. His chief interests in life

were contemplating the young gentleman, listening open-mouthed to his

views on life, and, dreaming. Especially the latter. Sometimes he would

go after the day's work, and, sitting down on a bollard, his eyes would

wander over the lines of some dirty tramp, with her dark-skinned crew.

Visions of wonderful seas and tropic islands, of leafy palms with the

blue-green surf thundering in towards them, of coral reefs and

glorious-coloured flowers, would run riot in his brain. Not that he

particularly wanted to go and see these figments of his imagination for

himself; it was enough for him to dream of them--to conjure them up for

a space in his mind by the help of an actual concrete ship--and then to

go back to his work of assisting his loquacious companion. He did not

find the work uncongenial; he had no hankerings after other modes of

life--in fact the thought of any change never even entered into his

calculations. What the future might hold he neither knew nor cared; the

expressions of his companion on the rottenness of life in general and

their firm in particular awoke no answering chord in his breast He had

enough to live on in his little room at the top of a tenement house--he

had enough over for an occasional picture show--and he had his dreams.

He was content.

Then came the war. For a long while it passed him by; it was no concern

of his, and it didn't enter his head that it was ever likely to be until

one night, as he was going in to see "Jumping Jess, or the Champion Girl

Cowpuncher" at the local movies, a recruiting sergeant touched him on

the arm.

He was not a promising specimen for a would-be soldier, but that

recruiting sergeant was not new to the game, and he'd seen worse.

"Why aren't you in khaki, young fellow me lad?" he remarked genially.

The idea, as I say, was quite new to our friend. Even though that very

morning his colleague in the weigh-bill pastime had chucked it and

joined, even though he'd heard a foreman discussing who they were to put

in his place as "that young Meyrick was habsolutely 'opeless," it still

hadn't dawned on him that he might go too. But the recruiting sergeant

was a man of some knowledge; in his daily round he encountered many and

varied types. In two minutes he had fired the boy's imagination with a

glowing and partially true description of the glories of war and the

army, and supplied him with another set of dreams to fill his brain.

Wasting no time, he struck while the iron was hot, and in a few minutes

John Meyrick, sometime checker of weigh-bills, died, and No. 8469,

Private John Meyrick, came into being....

But though you change a man's vocation with the stroke of a pen, you do

not change his character. A dreamer he was in the beginning, and a

dreamer he remained to the end. And dreaming, as I have already pointed

out, was not a thing which commended itself to Company-Sergeant-Major

Hayton, who in due course became one of the chief arbiters of our

friend's destinies. True it was no longer coral islands--but such

details availed not with cook's mates and other busy movers in the

regimental hive. Where he'd got them from, Heaven knows, those tattered

volumes of Kipling; but their matchless spirit had caught his brain and

fired his soul, with the result--well, the first of them has been given.

There were more results to follow. Not three days after he was again

upon the mat for the same offence, only to say much the same as before.

"I do try, sir--I do try; but some'ow----"

And though in the bottom of his heart the officer believed him, though

in a very strange way he felt interested in him, there are limits and

there are rules. There comes a time, as he had said, when one can't

judge by motives, when one can only judge by results.

"You mustn't only try; you must succeed. Three days to barracks."

* * * * *

That night in mess the officer sat next to the Colonel. "It's the

thrusters, the martinets, the men of action who win the V.C.'s and

D.C.M.'s, my dear fellow," said his C.O., as he pushed along the wine.

"But it's the dreamers, the idealists who deserve them. They suffer so

much more."

And as Major Seymour poured himself out a glass of port, a face came

into his mind--the face of a stumpy, uncouth man with deep-set eyes. "I

wonder," he murmured--"I wonder."

* * * * *

The opportunities for stirring deeds of heroism in France do not occur

with great frequency, whatever outsiders may think to the contrary. For

months on end a battalion may live a life of peace and utter boredom,

getting a few casualties now and then, occasionally bagging an unwary

Hun, vegetating continuously in the same unprepossessing hole in the

ground--saving only when they go to another, or retire to a town

somewhere in rear to have a bath. And the battalion to which No. 8469,

Private Meyrick, belonged was no exception to the general rule.

For five weeks they had lived untroubled by anything except flies--all

of them, that is, save various N.C.O.'s in A company. To them flies were

quite a secondary consideration when compared to their other worry. And

that, it is perhaps superfluous to add, was Private Meyrick himself.

Every day the same scene would be enacted; every day some sergeant or

corporal would dance with rage as he contemplated the Company Idiot--the

title by which he was now known to all and sundry.

"Wake up! Wake up! Lumme, didn't I warn you--didn't I warn yer 'arf an

'our ago over by that there tree, when you was a-staring into the

branches looking for nuts or something--didn't I warn yer that the

company was parading at 10.15 for 'ot baths?"

"I didn't 'ear you, Corporal--I didn't really."

"Didn't 'ear me! Wot yer mean, didn't 'ear me? My voice ain't like the

twitter of a grass'opper, is it? It's my belief you're balmy, my boy,

B-A-R-M-Y. Savez. Get a move on yer, for Gawd's sake! You ought to 'ave

a nurse. And when you gets to the bath-'ouse, for 'Eaven's sake pull

yerself together! Don't forget to take off yer clothes before yer gets

in; and when they lets the water out, don't go stopping in the bath

because you forgot to get out. I wouldn't like another regiment to see

you lying about when they come. They might say things."

And so with slight variations the daily strafe went on. Going up to the

trenches it was always Meyrick who got lost; Meyrick who fell into shell

holes and lost his rifle or the jam for his section; Meyrick who forgot

to lie down when a flare went up, but stood vacantly gazing at it until

partially stunned by his next-door neighbour. Periodically messages

would come through from the next regiment asking if they'd lost the

regimental pet, and that he was being returned. It was always

Meyrick....

"I can't do nothing with 'im, sir." It was the Company-Sergeant-Major

speaking to Seymour. "'E seems soft like in the 'ead. Whenever 'e does

do anything and doesn't forget, 'e does it wrong. 'E's always dreaming

and 'alf balmy."

"He's not a flier, I know, Sergeant-Major, but we've got to put up with

all sorts nowadays," returned the officer diplomatically. "Send him to

me, and let me have a talk to him."

"Very good, sir; but 'e'll let us down badly one of these days."

And so once again Meyrick stood in front of his company officer, and was

encouraged to speak of his difficulties. To an amazing degree he had

remembered the discourse he had listened to many months previously; to

do something for the regiment was what he desired more than anything--to

do something big, really big. He floundered and stopped; he could find

no words....

"But don't you understand that it's just as important to do the little

things? If you can't do them, you'll never do the big ones."

"Yes, sir--I sees that; I do try, sir, and then I gets thinking, and

some'ow--oh! I dunno--but everything goes out of my head like. I wants

the regiment to be proud of me--and then they calls me the Company

Idiot." There was something in the man's face that touched Seymour.

"But how can the regiment be proud of you, my lad," he asked gently, "if

you're always late on parade, and forgetting to do what you're told? If

I wasn't certain in my own mind that it wasn't slackness and

disobedience on your part, I should ask the Colonel to send you back to

England as useless."

An appealing look came into the man's eyes. "Oh! don't do that, sir. I

will try 'ard--straight I will."

"Yes, but as I told you once before, there comes a time when one must

judge by results. Now, Meyrick, you must understand this finally. Unless

you do improve, I shall do what I said. I shall tell the Colonel that

you're not fitted to be a soldier, and I shall get him to send you away.

I can't go on much longer; you're more trouble than you're worth. We're

going up to the trenches again to-night, and I shall watch you. That

will do; you may go."

And so it came about that the Company Idiot entered on what was destined

to prove the big scene in his uneventful life under the eyes of a

critical audience. To the Sergeant-Major, who was a gross materialist,

failure was a foregone conclusion; to the company officer, who went a

little nearer to the heart of things, the issue was doubtful. Possibly

his threat would succeed; possibly he'd struck the right note. And the

peculiar thing is that both proved right according to their own

lights....

* * * * *

This particular visit to the trenches was destined to be of a very

different nature to former ones. On previous occasions peace had

reigned; nothing untoward had occurred to mar the quiet restful

existence which trench life so often affords to its devotees. But this

time....

It started about six o'clock in the morning on the second day of their

arrival--a really pleasant little intensive bombardment. A succession of

shells came streaming in, shattering every yard of the front line with

tearing explosions. Then the Huns turned on the gas and attacked behind

it. A few reached the trenches--the majority did not; and the ground

outside was covered with grey-green figures, some of which were writhing

and twitching and some of which were still. The attack had failed....

But that sort of thing leaves its mark on the defenders, and this was

their first baptism of real fire. Seymour had passed rapidly down the

trench when he realised that for the moment it was over; and though

men's faces were covered with the hideous gas masks, he saw by the

twitching of their hands and by the ugly high-pitched laughter he heard

that it would be well to get into touch with those behind. Moreover, in

every piece of trench there lay motionless figures in khaki....

It was as he entered his dugout that the bombardment started again.

Quickly he went to the telephone, and started to get on to brigade

headquarters. It took him twenty seconds to realise that the line had

been cut, and then he cursed dreadfully. The roar of the bursting shells

was deafening; his cursing was inaudible; but in a fit of almost

childish rage--he kicked the machine. Men's nerves are jangled at

times....

It was merely coincidence doubtless, but a motionless figure in a gas

helmet crouching outside the dugout saw that kick, and slowly in his

bemused brain there started a train of thought. Why should his company

officer do such a thing; why should they all be cowering in the trench

waiting for death to come to them; why...? For a space his brain refused

to act; then it started again.

Why was that man lying full length at the bottom of the trench, with the

great hole torn out of his back, and the red stream spreading slowly

round him; why didn't it stop instead of filling up the little holes at

the bottom of the trench and then overflowing into the next one? He was

the corporal who'd called him balmy; but why should he be dead? He was

dead--at least the motionless watcher thought he must be. He lay so

still, and his body seemed twisted and unnatural. But why should one of

the regiment be dead; it was all so unexpected, so sudden? And why did

his Major kick the telephone?...

For a space he lay still, thinking; trying to figure things out. He

suddenly remembered tripping over a wire coming up to the trench, and

being cursed by his sergeant for lurching against him. "You would," he

had been told--"you would. If it ain't a wire, you'd fall over yer own

perishing feet."

"What's the wire for, sergint?" he had asked.

"What d'you think, softie. Drying the washing on? It's the telephone

wire to Headquarters."

It came all back to him, and it had been over by the stunted pollard

that he'd tripped up. Then he looked back at the silent, motionless

figure--the red stream had almost reached him--and the Idea came. It

came suddenly--like a blow. The wire must be broken, otherwise the

officer wouldn't have kicked the telephone; he'd have spoken through it.

"I wants the regiment to be proud of me--and then they calls me the

Company Idiot." He couldn't do the little things--he was always

forgetting, but...! What was that about "lifting 'em through the charge

that won the day"? There was no charge, but there was the regiment. And

the regiment was wanting him at last. Something wet touched his

fingers, and when he looked at them, they were red. "B-A-R-M-Y. You

ought to 'ave a nurse...."

Then once again coherent thought failed him--utter physical weakness

gripped him--he lay comatose, shuddering, and crying softly over he knew

not what. The sweat was pouring down his face from the heat of the gas

helmet, but still he held the valve between his teeth, breathing in

through the nose and out through the mouth as he had been told. It was

automatic, involuntary; he couldn't think, he only remembered certain

things by instinct.

Suddenly a high explosive shell burst near him--quite close: and a mass

of earth crashed down on his legs and back, half burying him. He

whimpered feebly, and after a while dragged himself free. But the action

brought him close to that silent figure, with the ripped up back....

"You ought to 'ave a nurse..." Why? Gawd above--why? Wasn't he as good a

man as that there dead corporal? Wasn't he one of the regiment too? And

now the Corporal couldn't do anything, but he--well, he hadn't got no

hole torn out of his back. It wasn't his blood that lay stagnant,

filling the little holes at the bottom of the trench....

Kipling came back to him--feebly, from another world. The dreamer was

dreaming once again.

"If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,

Remember it's ruin to run from a fight."

Run! Who was talking of running? He was going to save the regiment--once

he could think clearly again. Everything was hazy just for the moment.

"And wait for supports like a soldier."

But there weren't no supports, and the telephone wire was broken--the

wire he'd tripped over as he came up. Until it was mended there wouldn't

be any supports--until it was mended--until----

With a choking cry he lurched to his feet: and staggering, running,

falling down, the dreamer crossed the open. A tearing pain through his

left arm made him gasp, but he got there--got there and collapsed. He

couldn't see very well, so he tore off his gas helmet, and, peering

round, at last saw the wire. And the wire was indeed cut. Why the

throbbing brain should have imagined it would be cut _there_, I know

not; perhaps he associated it particularly with the pollard--and after

all he was the Company Idiot. But it was cut there, I am glad to say;

let us not begrudge him his little triumph. He found one end, and some

few feet off he saw the other. With infinite difficulty he dragged

himself towards it. Why did he find it so terribly hard to move? He

couldn't see clearly; everything somehow was getting hazy and red. The

roar of the shells seemed muffled strangely--far-away, indistinct. He

pulled at the wire, and it came towards him; pulled again, and the two

ends met. Then he slipped back against the pollard, the two ends grasped

in his right hand....

The regiment was safe at last. The officer would not have to kick the

telephone again. The Idiot had made good. And into his heart there came

a wonderful peace.

There was a roaring in his ears; lights danced before his eyes; strange

shapes moved in front of him. Then, of a sudden, out of the gathering

darkness a great white light seared his senses, a deafening crash

overwhelmed him, a sharp stabbing blow struck his head. The roaring

ceased, and a limp figure slipped down and lay still, with two ends of

wire grasped tight in his hand.

"They are going to relieve us to-night, Sergeant-Major." The two men

with tired eyes faced one another in the Major's dugout The bombardment

was over, and the dying rays of a blood-red sun glinted through the

door. "I think they took it well."

"They did, sir--very well."

"What are the casualties? Any idea?"

"Somewhere about seventy or eighty, sir--but I don't know the exact

numbers."

"As soon as it's dark I'm going back to headquarters. Captain Standish

will take command."

"That there Meyrick is reported missing, sir."

"Missing! He'll turn up somewhere--if he hasn't been hit."

"Probably walked into the German trenches by mistake," grunted the

C.-S.-M. dispassionately, and retired. Outside the dugout men had moved

the corporal; but the red pools still remained--stagnant at the bottom

of the trench....

"Well, you're through all right now, Major," said a voice in the

doorway, and an officer with the white and blue brassard of the signals

came in and sat down. "There are so many wires going back that have been

laid at odd times, that it's difficult to trace them in a hurry." He

gave a ring on the telephone, and in a moment the thin, metallic voice

of the man at the other end broke the silence.

"All right. Just wanted to make sure we were through. Ring off."

"I remember kicking that damn thing this morning when I found we were

cut off," remarked Seymour, with a weary smile. "Funny how childish one

is at times."

"Aye--but natural. This war's damnable." The two men fell silent. "I'll

have a bit of an easy here," went on the signal officer after a while,

"and then go down with you."

A few hours later the two men clambered out of the back of the trench.

"It's easier walking, and I know every stick," remarked the Major. "Make

for that stunted pollard first."

Dimly the tree stood outlined against the sky--a conspicuous mark and

signpost. It was the signal officer who tripped over it first--that

huddled quiet body, and gave a quick ejaculation. "Somebody caught it

here, poor devil. Look out--duck."

A flare shot up into the night, and by its light the two motionless

officers close to the pollard looked at what they had found.

"How the devil did he get here!" muttered Seymour. "It's one of my men."

"Was he anywhere near you when you kicked the telephone?" asked the

other, and his voice was a little hoarse.

"He may have been--I don't know. Why?"

"Look at his right hand." From the tightly clenched fingers two broken

ends of wire stuck out.

"Poor lad." The Major bit his lip. "Poor lad--I wonder. They called him

the Company Idiot. Do you think...?"

"I think he came out to find the break in the wire," said the other

quietly. "And in doing so he found the answer to the big riddle."

"I knew he'd make good--I knew it all along. He used to dream of big

things--something big for the regiment."

"And he's done a big thing, by Jove," said the signal officer gruffly,

"for it's the motive that counts. And he couldn't know that he'd got the

wrong wire."

* * * * *

"When 'e doesn't forget, 'e does things wrong."

As I said, both the Sergeant-Major and his officer proved right

according to their own lights.

CHAPTER III

SPUD TREVOR OF THE RED HUSSARS

It would be but a small exaggeration to say that in every God-forsaken

hole and corner of the world, where soldiers lived and moved and had

their being, before Nemesis overtook Europe, the name of Spud Trevor of

the Red Hussars was known. From Simla to Singapore, from Khartoum to the

Curragh his name was symbolical of all that a regimental officer should

be. Senior subalterns guiding the erring feet of the young and frivolous

from the tempting paths of night clubs and fair ladies, to the

infinitely better ones of hunting and sport, were apt to quote him.

Adjutants had been known to hold him up as an example to those of their

flock who needed chastening for any of the hundred and one things that

adjutants do not like--if they have their regiment at heart. And he

deserved it all.

I, who knew him, as well perhaps as anyone; I, who was privileged to

call him friend, and yet in the hour of his greatest need failed him; I,

to whose lot it has fallen to remove the slur from his name, state this

in no half-hearted way. He deserved it, and a thousand times as much

again. He was the type of man beside whom the ordinary English

gentleman--the so-called white man--looked dirty-grey in comparison. And

yet there came a day when men who had openly fawned on him left the room

when he came in, when whispers of an unsuspected yellow streak in him

began to circulate, when senior subalterns no longer held him up as a

model. Now he is dead: and it has been left to me to vindicate him.

Perchance by so doing I may wipe out a little of the stain of guilt that

lies so heavy on my heart; perchance I may atone, in some small degree,

for my doubts and suspicions; and, perchance too, the whitest man that

ever lived may of his understanding and knowledge, perfected now in the

Great Silence to which he has gone, accept my tardy reparation, and

forgive. It is only yesterday that the document, which explained

everything, came into my hands. It was sent to me sealed, and with it a

short covering letter from a firm of solicitors stating that their

client was dead--killed in France--and that according to his

instructions they were forwarding the enclosed, with the request that I

should make such use of it as I saw fit.

To all those others, who, like myself, doubted, I address these words.

Many have gone under: to them I venture to think everything is now

clear. Maybe they have already met Spud, in the great vast gulfs where

the mists of illusion are rolled away. For those who still live, he has

no abuse--that incomparable sportsman and sahib; no recriminations for

us who ruined his life. He goes farther, and finds excuses for us; God

knows we need them. Here is what he has written. The document is

reproduced exactly as I received it--saving only that I have altered all

names. The man, whom I have called Ginger Bathurst, and everyone else

concerned, will, I think, recognise themselves. And, pour les

autres--let them guess.

* * * * *

In two days, old friend, my battalion sails for France; and, now with

the intention full formed and fixed in my mind, that I shall not return,

I have determined to put down on paper the true facts of what happened

three years ago: or rather, the true motives that impelled me to do what

I did. I put it that way, because you already know the facts. You know

that I was accused of saving my life at the expense of a woman's when

the _Astoria_ foundered in mid-Atlantic; you know that I was accused of

having thrust her aside and taken her place in the boat. That accusation

is true. I did save my life at a woman's expense. But the motives that

impelled my action you do not know, nor the identity of the woman

concerned. I hope and trust that when you have read what I shall write

you will exonerate me from the charge of a cowardice, vile and

abominable beyond words, and at the most only find me guilty of a

mistaken sense of duty. These words will only reach you in the event of

my death; do with them what you will. I should like to think that the

old name was once again washed clean of the dirty blot it has on it now;

so do your best for me, old pal, do your best.

You remember Ginger Bathurst--of course you do. Is he still a budding

Staff Officer at the War Office, I wonder, or is he over the water? I'm

out of touch with the fellows in these days--(_the pathos of it: Spud

out of touch, Spud of all men, whose soul was in the Army_)--one doesn't

live in the back of beyond for three years and find Army lists and

gazettes growing on the trees. You remember also, I suppose, that I was

best man at his wedding when he married the Comtesse de Grecin. I told

you at the time that I was not particularly enamoured of his choice, but

it was _his_ funeral; and with the old boy asking me to steer him

through, I had no possible reason for refusing. Not that I had anything

against the woman: she was charming, fascinating, and had a pretty

useful share of this world's boodle. Moreover, she seemed

extraordinarily in love with Ginger, and was just the sort of woman to

push an ambitious fellow like him right up to the top of the tree. He,

of course, was simply idiotic: he was stark, raving mad about her; vowed

she was the most peerless woman that ever a wretched being like himself

had been privileged to look at; loaded her with presents which he

couldn't afford, and generally took it a good deal worse than usual. I

think, in a way, it was the calm acceptance of those presents that first

prejudiced me against her. Naturally I saw a lot of her before they were

married, being such a pal of Ginger's, and I did my best for his sake to

overcome my dislike. But he wasn't a wealthy man--at the most he had

about six hundred a year private means--and the presents of jewellery

alone that he gave her must have made a pretty large hole in his

capital.

However that is all by the way. They were married, and shortly

afterwards I took my leave big game shooting and lost sight of them for

a while. When I came back Ginger was at the War Office, and they were

living in London. They had a delightful little flat in Hans Crescent,

and she was pushing him as only a clever woman can push. Everybody who

could be of the slightest use to him sooner or later got roped in to

dinner and was duly fascinated.

To an habitual onlooker like myself, the whole thing was clear, and I

must quite admit that much of my first instinctive dislike--and dislike

is really too strong a word--evaporated. She went out of her way to be

charming to me, not that I could be of any use to the old boy, but

merely because I was his great friend; and of course she knew that I

realised--what he never dreamed of--that she was paving the way to pull

some really big strings for him later.

I remember saying good-bye to her one afternoon after a luncheon, at

which I had watched with great interest the complete capitulation of two

generals and a well-known diplomatist.

"You're a clever man, Mr. Spud," she murmured, with that charming air of

taking one into her confidence, with which a woman of the world routs

the most confirmed misogynist. "If only Ginger----" She broke off and

sighed: just the suggestion of a sigh; but sufficient to imply--lots.

"My lady," I answered, "keep him fit; make him take exercise: above all

things don't let him get fat. Even you would be powerless with a fat

husband. But provided you keep him thin, and never let him decide

anything for himself, he will live to be a lasting monument and example

of what a woman can do. And warriors and statesmen shall bow down and

worship, what time they drink tea in your boudoir and eat buns from your

hand. Bismillah!"

But time is short, and these details are trifling. Only once again, old

pal, I am living in the days when I moved in the pleasant paths of

life, and the temptation to linger is strong. Bear with me a moment. I

am a sybarite for the moment in spirit: in reality--God! how it hurts.

"Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,

Damned from here to eternity:

God have mercy on such as we.

Bah! Yah! Bah!"

I never thought I should live to prove Kipling's lines. But that's what

I am--a gentleman ranker; going out to the war of wars--a private. I,

and that's the bitterest part of it, I, who had, as you know full well,

always, for years, lived for this war, the war against those cursed

Germans. I knew it was coming--you'll bear me witness of that fact--and

the cruel irony of fate that has made that very knowledge my downfall is

not the lightest part of the little bundle fate has thrown on my

shoulders. Yes, old man, we're getting near the motives now; but all in

good time. Let me lay it out dramatically; don't rob me of my exit--I'm

feeling a bit theatrical this evening. It may interest you to know that

I saw Lady Delton to-day: she's a V.A.D., and did not recognise me,

thank Heaven!

(_Need I say again that Delton is not the name he wrote. Sufficient that

she and Spud knew one another_ _very well, in other days. But in some

men it would have emphasised the bitterness of spirit._)

Let's get on with it. A couple of years passed, and the summer of 1912

found me in New York. I was temporarily engaged on a special job which

it is unnecessary to specify. It was not a very important one, but, as

you know, a gift of tongues and a liking for poking my nose into the

affairs of nations had enabled me to get a certain amount of more or

less diplomatic work. The job was over, and I was merely marking time in

New York waiting for the _Astoria_ to sail. Two days before she was due

to leave, and just as I was turning into the doors of my hotel, I ran

full tilt into von Basel--a very decent fellow in the Prussian

Guard--who was seconded and doing military attache work in America. I'd

met him off and on hunting in England--one of the few Germans I know who

really went well to hounds.

"Hullo! Trevor," he said, as we met. "What are you doing here?"

"Marking time," I answered. "Waiting for my boat."

We strolled to the bar, and over a cocktail he suggested that if I had

nothing better to do I might as well come to some official ball that was

on that evening. "I can get you a card," he remarked. "You ought to

come; your friend, Mrs. Bathurst--Comtesse de Grecin that was--is going

to be present."

"I'd no idea she was this side of the water," I said, surprised.

"Oh, yes! Come over to see her people or something. Well! will you

come?"

I agreed, having nothing else on, and as he left the hotel, he laughed.

"Funny the vagaries of fate. I don't suppose I come into this hotel once

in three months. I only came down this evening to tell a man not to come

and call as arranged, as my kid has got measles--and promptly ran into

you."

Truly the irony of circumstances! If one went back far enough, one might

find that the determining factor of my disgrace was the quarrel of a

nurse and her lover which made her take the child another walk than

usual and pick up infection. Dash it all! you might even find that it

was a spot on her nose that made her do so, as she didn't want to meet

him when not looking at her best! But that way madness lies.

Whatever the original cause--I went: and in due course met the Comtesse.

She gave me a couple of dances, and I found that she, too, had booked

her passage on the _Astoria_. I met very few people I knew, and having

found it the usual boring stunt, I decided to get a glass of champagne

and a sandwich and then retire to bed. I took them along to a small

alcove where I could smoke a cigarette in peace, and sat down. It was as

I sat down that I heard from behind a curtain which completely screened

me from view, the words "English Army" spoken in German. And the voice

was the voice of the Comtesse.

Nothing very strange in the words you say, seeing that she spoke German,

as well as several other languages, fluently. Perhaps not--but you know

what my ideas used to be--how I was obsessed with the spy theory: at any

rate, I listened. I listened for a quarter of an hour, and then I got my

coat and went home--went home to try and see a way through just about

the toughest proposition I'd ever been up against. For the

Comtesse--Ginger Bathurst's idolised wife--was hand in glove with the

German Secret Service. She was a spy, not of the wireless installation

up the chimney type, not of the document-stealing type, but of a very

much more dangerous type than either, the type it is almost impossible

to incriminate.

I can't remember the conversation I overheard exactly, I cannot give it

to you word for word, but I will give you the substance of it. Her

companion was von Basel's chief--a typical Prussian officer of the most

overbearing description.

"How goes it with you, Comtesse?" he asked her, and I heard the scrape

of a match as he lit a cigarette.

"Well, Baron, very well."

"They do not suspect?"

"Not an atom. The question has never been raised even as to my national

sympathies, except once, and then the suggestion--not forced or

emphasised in any way--that, as the child of a family who had lost

everything in the '70 war, my sympathies were not hard to discover, was

quite sufficient. That was at the time of the Agadir crisis."

"And you do not desire revanche?"

"My dear man, I desire money. My husband with his pay and private income

has hardly enough to dress me on."

"But, dear lady, why, if I may ask, did you marry him? With so many

others for her choice, surely the Comtesse de Grecin could have

commanded the world?"

"Charming as a phrase, but I assure you that the idea of the world at

one's feet is as extinct as the dodo. No, Baron, you may take it from me

he was the best I could do. A rising junior soldier, employed on a staff

job at the War Office, _persona grata_ with all the people who really

count in London by reason of his family, and moreover infatuated with

his charming wife." Her companion gave a guttural chuckle; I could feel

him leering. "I give the best dinners in London; the majority of his

senior officers think I am on the verge of running away with them, and

when they become too obstreperous, I allow them to kiss my--fingers.

"Listen to me, Baron," she spoke rapidly, in a low voice so that I could

hardly catch what she said. "I have already given information about some

confidential big howitzer trials which I saw; it was largely on my

reports that action was stopped at Agadir; and there are many other

things--things intangible, in a certain sense--points of view, the state

of feeling in Ireland, the conditions of labour, which I am able to hear

the inner side of, in a way quite impossible if I had not the entree

into that particular class of English society which I now possess. Not

the so-called smart set, you understand; but the real ruling set--the

leading soldiers, the leading diplomats. Of course they are

discreet----"

"But you are a woman and a peerless one, chere Comtesse. I think we may

leave that cursed country in your hands with perfect safety. And, sooner

perhaps than even we realise, we may see der Tag."

Such then was briefly the conversation I overheard. As I said, it is not

given word for word--but that is immaterial. What was I to do? That was

the point which drummed through my head as I walked back to my hotel;

that was the point which was still drumming through my head as the dawn

came stealing in through my window. Put yourself in my place, old man;

what would you have done?

I, alone, of everyone who knew her in London, had stumbled by accident

on the truth. Bathurst idolised her, and she exaggerated no whit when

she boasted that she had the entree to the most exclusive circle in

England. I know; I was one of it myself. And though one realises that it

is only in plays and novels that Cabinet Ministers wander about

whispering State secrets into the ears of beautiful adventuresses, yet

one also knows in real life how devilish dangerous a really pretty and

fascinating woman can be--especially when she's bent on finding things

out and is clever enough to put two and two together.

Take one thing alone, and it was an aspect of the case that particularly

struck me. Supposing diplomatic relations became strained between us and

Germany--and I firmly believed, as you know, that sooner or later they

would; supposing mobilisation was ordered--a secret one; suppose any of

the hundred and one things which would be bound to form a prelude to a

European war--and which at all costs must be kept secret--had occurred;

think of the incalculable danger a clever woman in her position might

have been, however discreet her husband was. And, my dear old boy, you

know Ginger!

Supposing the Expeditionary Force were on the point of embarkation. A

wife might guess their port of departure and arrival by an artless

question or two as to where her husband on the Staff had motored to that

day. But why go on? You see what I mean. Only to me, at that time--and

now I might almost say that I am glad events have justified me--it

appealed even more than it would have, say, to you. For I was so

convinced of the danger that threatened us.

But what was I to do? It was only my word against hers. Tell Ginger? The

idea made even me laugh. Tell the generals and the diplomatists? They

didn't want to kiss _my_ hand. Tell some big bug in the Secret Service?

Yes--that anyway; but she was such a devilish clever woman, that I had

but little faith in such a simple remedy, especially as most of them

patronised her dinners themselves.

Still, that was the only thing to be done--that, and to keep a look-out

myself, for I was tolerably certain she did not suspect me. Why should

she?

And so in due course I found myself sitting next her at dinner as the

_Astoria_ started her journey across the water.

* * * * *

I am coming to the climax of the drama, old man; I shall not bore you

much longer. But before I actually give you the details of what occurred

on that ill-fated vessel's last trip, I want to make sure that you

realise the state of mind I was in, and the action that I had decided

on. Firstly, I was convinced that my dinner partner--the wife of one of

my best friends--was an unscrupulous spy. That the evidence would not

have hung a fly in a court of law was not the point; the evidence was my

own hearing, which was good enough for me.

Secondly, I was convinced that she occupied a position in society which

rendered it easy for her to get hold of the most invaluable information

in the event of a war between us and Germany.

Thirdly, I was convinced that there would be a war between us and

Germany.

So much for my state of mind; now, for my course of action.

I had decided to keep a watch on her, and, if I could get hold of the

slightest incriminating evidence, expose her secretly, but mercilessly,

to the Secret Service. If I could not--and if I realised there was

danger brewing--to inform the Secret Service of what I had heard, and,

sacrificing Ginger's friendship if necessary, and my own reputation for

chivalry, swear away her honour, or anything, provided only her capacity

for obtaining information temporarily ceased. Once that was done, then

face the music, and be accused, if needs be, of false swearing,

unrequited love, jealousy, what you will. But to destroy her capacity

for harm to my country was my bounden duty, whatever the social or

personal results to me.

And there was one other thing--and on this one thing the whole course of

the matter was destined to hang: _I alone could do it, for I alone knew

the truth._ Let that sink in, old son; grasp it, realise it, and read my

future actions by the light of that one simple fact.

I can see you sit back in your chair, and look into the fire with the

light of comprehension dawning in your eyes; it does put the matter in a

different complexion, doesn't it, my friend? You begin to appreciate the

motives that impelled me to sacrifice a woman's life; so far so good.

You are even magnanimous: what is one woman compared to the danger of a

nation?

Dear old boy, I drink a silent toast to you. Have you no suspicions?

What if the woman I sacrificed was the Comtesse herself? Does it

surprise you; wasn't it the God-sent solution to everything?

Just as a freak of fate had acquainted me with her secret; so did a

freak of fate throw me in her path at the end....

We hit an iceberg, as you may remember, in the middle of the night, and

the ship foundered in under twenty minutes.

You can imagine the scene of chaos after we struck, or rather you

can't. Men were running wildly about shouting, women were screaming, and

the roar of the siren bellowing forth into the night drove people to a

perfect frenzy. Then all the lights went out, and darkness settled down

like a pall on the ship. I struggled up on deck, which was already

tilting up at a perilous angle, and there--in the mass of scurrying

figures--I came face to face with the Comtesse. In the panic of the

moment I had forgotten all about her. She was quite calm, and smiled at

me, for of course our relations were still as before.

Suddenly there came the shout from close at hand, "Room for one more

only." What happened then, happened in a couple of seconds; it will take

me longer to describe.

There flashed into my mind what would occur if I were drowned and the

Comtesse was saved. There would be no one to combat her activities in

England; she would have a free hand. My plans were null and void if I

died; I must get back to England--or England would be in peril. I must

pass on my information to someone--for I alone knew.

"Hurry up! one more." Another shout from near by, and looking round I

saw that we were alone. It was she or I.

She moved towards the boat, and as she did so I saw the only possible

solution--I saw what I then thought to be my duty; what I still

consider--and, God knows, that scene is never long out of my mind--what

I still consider to have been my duty. I took her by the arm and twisted

her facing me.

"As Ginger's wife, yes," I muttered; "as the cursed spy I know you to

be, no--a thousand times no."

"My God!" she whispered. "My God!"

Without further thought I pushed by her and stepped into the boat, which

was actually being lowered into the water. Two minutes later the

_Astoria_ sank, and she went down with her....

That is what occurred that night in mid-Atlantic. I make no excuses, I

offer no palliation; I merely state facts.

Only had I not heard what I did hear in that alcove she would have been

just--Ginger's wife. Would the Expeditionary Force have crossed so

successfully, I wonder?

As I say, I did what I still consider to have been my duty. If both

could have been saved, well and good; but if it was only one, it _had_

to be me, or neither. That's the rub; should it have been neither?

Many times since then, old friend, has the white twitching face of that

woman haunted me in my dreams and in my waking hours. Many times since

then have I thought that--spy or no spy--I had no right to save my life

at her expense; I should have gone down with her. Quixotical, perhaps,

seeing she was what she was; but she was a woman. One thing and one

thing only I can say. When you read these lines, I shall be dead; they

will come to you as a voice from the dead. And, as a man who faces his

Maker, I tell you, with a calm certainty that I am not deceiving myself,

that that night there was no trace of cowardice in my mind. It was not a

desire to save my own life that actuated me; it was the fear of danger

to England. An error of judgment possibly; an act of cowardice--no. That

much I state, and that much I demand that you believe.

* * * * *

And now we come to the last chapter--the chapter that you know. I'd been

back about two months when I first realised that there were stories

going round about me. There were whispers in the club; men avoided me;

women cut me. Then came the dreadful night when a man--half drunk--in

the club accused me of cowardice point-blank, and sneeringly contrasted

my previous reputation with my conduct on the _Astoria_. And I realised

that someone must have seen. I knocked that swine in the club down; but

the whispers grew. I knew it. Someone had seen, and it would be sheer

hypocrisy on my part to pretend that such a thing didn't matter. It

mattered everything: it ended me. The world--our world--judges deeds,

not motives; and even had I published at the time this document I am

sending to you, our world would have found me guilty. They would have

said what you would have said had you spoken the thoughts I saw in your

eyes that night I came to you. They would have said that a sudden wave

of cowardice had overwhelmed me, and that brought face to face with

death I had saved my own life at the expense of a woman's. Many would

have gone still further, and said that my black cowardice was rendered

blacker still by my hypocrisy in inventing such a story; that first to

kill the woman, and then to blacken her reputation as an excuse, showed

me as a thing unfit to live. I know the world.

Moreover, as far as I knew then--I am sure of it now--whoever it was who

saw my action, did not see who the woman was, and therefore the

publication of this document at that time would have involved Ginger,

for it would have been futile to publish it without names. Feeling as I

did that perhaps I should have sunk with her; feeling as I did that, for

good or evil, I had blasted Ginger's life, I simply couldn't do it. You

didn't believe in me, old chap; at the bottom of their hearts all my old

pals thought I'd shown the yellow streak; and I couldn't stick it. So I

went to the Colonel, and told him I was handing in my papers. He was in

his quarters, I remember, and started filling his pipe as I was

speaking.

"Why, Spud?" he asked, when I told him my intention.

And then I told him something of what I have written to you. I said it

to him in confidence, and when I'd finished he sat very silent.

"Good God!" he muttered at length. "Ginger's wife!"

"You believe me, Colonel?" I asked.

"Spud," he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, "that's a damn

rotten thing to ask me--after fifteen years. But it's the regiment." And

he fell to staring at the fire.

Aye, that was it. It was the regiment that mattered. For better or for

worse I had done what I had done, and it was my show. The Red Hussars

must not be made to suffer; and their reputation would have suffered

through me. Otherwise I'd have faced it out. As it was, I had to go; I

knew it. I'd come to the same decision myself.

Only now, sitting here in camp with the setting sun glinting through the

windows of the hut, just a Canadian private under an assumed name,

things are a little different. The regiment is safe; I must think now of

the old name. The Colonel was killed at Cambrai; therefore you alone

will be in possession of the facts. Ginger, if he reads these words,

will perhaps forgive me for the pain I have inflicted on him. Let him

remember that though I did a dreadful thing to him, a thing which up to

now he has been ignorant of, yet I suffered much for his sake after.

During my life it was one thing; when I am dead his claims must give way

to a greater one--my name.

Wherefore I, Patrick Courtenay Trevor, having the unalterable intention

of meeting my Maker during the present war, and therefore feeling in a

measure that I am, even as I write, standing at the threshold of His

Presence, do swear before Almighty God that what I have written is the

truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me, God.

* * * * *

The fall-in is going, old man. Good-bye.

CHAPTER IV

THE FATAL SECOND

It was in July of 1914--on the Saturday of Henley Week. People who were

there may remember that, for once in a way, our fickle climate was

pleased to smile upon us.

Underneath the wall of Phyllis Court a punt was tied up. The prizes had

been given away, and the tightly packed boats surged slowly up and down

the river, freed at last from the extreme boredom of watching crews they

did not know falling exhausted out of their boats. In the punt of which

I speak were three men and a girl. One of the men was myself, who have

no part in this episode, save the humble one of narrator. The other

three were the principals; I would have you make their acquaintance. I

would hurriedly say that it is not the old, old story of a woman and two

men, for one of the men was her brother.

To begin with--the girl. Pat Delawnay--she was always called Pat, as she

didn't look like a Patricia--was her name, and she was--well, here I

give in. I don't know the colour of her eyes, nor can I say with any

certainty the colour of her hair; all I know is that she looked as if

the sun had come from heaven and kissed her, and had then gone back

again satisfied with his work. She was a girl whom to know was to

love--the dearest, most understanding soul in God's whole earth. I'd

loved her myself since I was out of petticoats.

Then there was Jack Delawnay, her brother. Two years younger he was, and

between the two of them there was an affection and love which is

frequently conspicuous by its absence between brother and sister. He was

a cheery youngster, a good-looking boy, and fellows in the regiment

liked him. He rode straight, and he had the money to keep good cattle.

In addition, the men loved him, and that means a lot when you size up an

officer.

And then there was the other. Older by ten years than the boy--the same

age as myself--Jerry Dixon was my greatest friend. We had fought

together at school, played the ass together at Sandhurst, and entered

the regiment on the same day. He had "A" company and I had "C," and the

boy was one of his subalterns. Perhaps I am biassed, but to me Jerry

Dixon had one of the finest characters I have ever seen in any man. He

was no Galahad, no prig; he was just a man, a white man. He had that

cheerily ugly face which is one of the greatest gifts a man can have,

and he also had Pat as his fiancee, which was another.

My name is immaterial, but everyone calls me Winkle, owing to---- Well,

some day I may tell you.

The regiment, our regiment, was the, let us call it the Downshires.

We had come over from Aldershot and were week-ending at the Delawnays'

place--they always took one on the river for Henley. At the moment Jerry

was holding forth, quite unmoved by exhortations to "Get out and get

under" bawled in his ears by blackened gentlemen of doubtful voice and

undoubted inebriation.

As I write, the peculiar--the almost sinister--nature of his

conversation, in the light of future events, seems nothing short of

diabolical. And yet at the time we were just three white-flannelled men

and a girl with a great floppy hat lazing over tea in a punt. How the

gods must have laughed!

"My dear old Winkle"--he was lighting a cigarette as he spoke--"you

don't realise the deeper side of soldiering at all. The subtle nuances

(French, Pat, in case my accent is faulty) are completely lost upon

you."

I remember smiling to myself as I heard Jerry getting warmed up to his

subject, and then my attention wandered, and I dozed off. I had heard it

all before so often from the dear old boy. We always used to chaff him

about it in the mess. I can see him now, after dinner, standing with his

back to the ante-room fire, a whisky-and-soda in his hand and a dirty

old pipe between his teeth.

"It's all very well for you fellows to laugh," he would say, "but I'm

right for all that. It is absolutely essential to think out beforehand

what one would do in certain exceptional eventualities, so that when

that eventuality does arise you won't waste any time, but will

automatically do the right thing."

And then the adjutant recalled in a still small voice how he first

realised the orderly-room sergeant's baby was going to be sick in his

arms at the regiment's Christmas-tree festivities, and, instead of

throwing it on the floor, he had clung to it for that fatal second of

indecision. As he admitted, it was certainly not one of the things he

had thought out beforehand.

He's gone, too, has old Bellairs the adjutant. I wonder how many fellows

I'll know when I get back to them next week? But I'm wandering.

"Winkle, wake up!" It was Pat speaking. "Jerry is being horribly

serious, and I'm not at all certain it will be safe to marry him; he'll

be experimenting on me."

"What's he been saying?" I murmured sleepily.

"He's been thinking what he'd do," laughed Jack, "if the stout female

personage in yonder small canoe overbalanced and fell in. There'll be no

fatal second then, Jerry, my boy. It'll be a minute even if I have to

hold you. You'd never be able to look your friends in the face again if

you didn't let her drown."

"Ass!" grunted Jerry. "No, Winkle, I was just thinking, amongst other

things, of what might very easily happen to any of us three here, and

what did happen to old Grantley in South Africa." Grantley was one of

our majors. "He told me all about it one day in one of his expansive

moods. It was during a bit of a scrap just before Paardeburg, and he had

some crowd of irregular Johnnies. He was told off to take a position,

and apparently it was a fairly warm proposition. However, it was

perfectly feasible if only the men stuck it. Well, they didn't, but they

would have except for his momentary indecision. He told me that there

came a moment in the advance when one man wavered. He knew it and felt

it all through him. He saw the man--he almost saw the deadly contagion

spreading from that one man to the others--and he hesitated and was

lost. When he sprang forward and tried to hold 'em, he failed. The fear

was on them, and they broke. He told me he regarded himself as every bit

as much to blame as the man who first gave out."

"But what could he have done, Jerry?" asked Pat.

"Shot him, dear--shot him on the spot without a second's thought--killed

the origin of the fear before it had time to spread. I venture to say

that there are not many fellows in the Service who would do it--without

thinking: and you can't think--you dare not, even if there was time. It

goes against the grain, especially if you know the man well, and it's

only by continually rehearsing the scene in your mind that you'd be able

to do it."

We were all listening to him now, for this was a new development I'd

never heard before.

"Just imagine the far-reaching results one coward--no, not coward,

possibly--but one man who has reached the breaking-point, may have.

Think of it, Winkle. A long line stretched out, attacking. One man in

the centre wavers, stops. Spreading outwards, the thing rushes like

lightning, because, after all, fear is only an emotion, like joy and

sorrow, and one knows how quickly they will communicate themselves to

other people. Also, in such a moment as an attack, men are particularly

susceptible to emotions. All that is primitive is uppermost, and their

reasoning powers are more or less in abeyance."

"But the awful thing, Jerry," said Pat quietly, "is that you would never

know whether it had been necessary or not. It might not have spread; he

might have answered to your voice--oh! a thousand things might have

happened."

"It's not worth the risk, dear. One man's life is not worth the risk.

It's a risk you just dare not take. It may mean everything--it may mean

failure--it may mean disgrace." He paused and looked steadily across the

shifting scene of gaiety and colour, while a long bamboo pole with a

little bag on the end, wielded by some passing vocalist, was thrust

towards him unheeded. Then with a short laugh he pulled himself

together, and lit a cigarette. "But enough of dull care. Let us away,

and gaze upon beautiful women and brave men. What's that little tune

they're playing?"

"That's that waltz--what the deuce is the name, Pat?" asked Jack,

untying the punt.

"'Destiny,'" answered Pat briefly, and we passed out into the stream.

* * * * *

A month afterwards we three were again at Henley, not in flannels in a

punt on the river, but in khaki, with a motor waiting at the door of the

Delawnays' house to take us back to Aldershot. I do not propose to dwell

over the scene, but in the setting down of the story it cannot be left

out. Europe was at war; the long-expected by those scoffed-at alarmists

had actually come. England and Germany were at each other's throats.

Inside the house Jack was with his mother. Personally, I was standing in

the garden with the grey-haired father; and Jerry was--well, where else

could he have been?

As is the way with men, we discussed the roses, and the rascality of the

Germans, and everything except what was in our hearts. And in one of the

pauses in our spasmodic conversation we heard her voice, just over the

hedge:

"God guard and keep you, my man, and bring you back to me safe!" And the

voice was steady, though one could feel those dear eyes dim with tears.

And then Jerry's, dear old Jerry's voice--a little bit gruff it was, and

a little bit shaky: "My love! My darling!"

But the old man was going towards the house, blowing his nose; and

I--don't hold with love and that sort of thing at all. True, I blundered

into a flower-bed, which I didn't see clearly, as I went towards the

car, for there are things which one may not hear and remain unmoved.

Perhaps, if things had been different, and Jerry--dear old

Jerry--hadn't---- But there, I'm wandering again.

At last we were in the car and ready to start.

"Take care of him, Jerry; he and Pat are all we've got." It was Mrs.

Delawnay speaking, standing there with the setting sun on her sweet

face and her husband's arm about her.

"I'll be all right, mater," answered Jack gruffly. "Buck up! Back for

Christmas!"

"I'll look after him, Mrs. Delawnay," answered Jerry, but his eyes were

fixed on Pat, and for him the world held only her.

As the car swung out of the gate, we looked back the last time and

saluted, and it was only I who saw through a break in the hedge two

women locked in each other's arms, while a grey-haired gentleman sat

very still on a garden-seat, with his eyes fixed on the river rolling

smoothly by.

* * * * *

It was on the Aisne I took it. Through that ghastly fourteen days we had

slogged dully south away from Mons, ever getting nearer Paris. Through

the choking dust, with the men staggering as they walked--some asleep,

some babbling, some cursing--but always marching, marching, marching;

digging at night, only to leave the trenches in two hours and march on

again; with ever and anon a battery of horse tearing past at a gallop,

with the drivers lolling drunkenly in their saddles, and the guns

jolting and swaying behind the straining, sweating horses, to come into

action on some ridge still further south, and try to check von Kluck's

hordes, if only for a little space. Every bridge in the hands of

anxious-faced sapper officers, prepared for demolition one and all, but

not to be blown up till all our troops were across. Ticklish work, for

should there be a fault, there is not much time to repair it.

But at last it was over, and we turned North. A few days later, in the

afternoon, my company crossed a pontoon bridge on the Aisne, and two

hours afterwards we dug ourselves in a mile and a half beyond it. The

next morning, as I was sitting in one of the trenches, there was a

sudden, blinding roar--and oblivion.

* * * * *

I will pass rapidly over the next six weeks--over my journey from the

clearing hospital to the base at Havre, of my voyage back to England in

a hospital ship, and my ultimate arrival at Drayton Hall, the Delawnays'

place in Somerset, where I had gone to convalesce.

During the time various fragments of iron were being picked from me and

the first shock of the concussion was wearing off, we had handed over

our trenches on the Aisne to the French, and moved north to Flanders.

Occasional scrawls came through from Jack and Jerry, but the people in

England who had any knowledge at all of the fighting and of what was

going on, grew to dread with an awful dread the sight of the

telegraph-boy, and it required an effort of will to look at those

prosaic casualty lists in the morning papers.

Then suddenly without warning, as such news always does, it came. The

War Office, in the shape of a whistling telegraph-boy, regretted to

inform Mr. Delawnay that his son, Lieutenant Jack Delawnay of the Royal

Downshire Regiment, had been killed in action.

Had it been possible during the terrible days after the news came, I

would have gone away, but I was still too weak to move; and I like to

think that, perhaps, my presence there was some comfort to them, as a

sort of connection through the regiment with their dead boy. After the

first numbing shock, the old man bore it grandly.

"He was all I had," he said to me one day as I lay in bed, "but I give

him gladly for his country's sake." He stood looking at the broad

fields. "All his," he muttered; "all would have been the dear lad's--and

now six inches of soil and a wooden cross, perhaps not that."

And Pat, poor little Pat, used to come up every day and sit with me,

sometimes in silence, with her great eyes fixed on the fire, sometimes

reading the paper, because my eyes weren't quite right yet.

For about a fortnight after the news we did not think it strange; but

then, as day by day went by, the same fear formulated in both our minds.

I would have died sooner than whisper it; but one afternoon I found her

eyes fixed on mine. We had been silent for some time, and suddenly in

the firelight I saw the awful fear in her mind as clearly as if she had

spoken it.

"You're thinking it too, Winkle," she whispered, leaning forward. "Why

hasn't he written? Why hasn't Jerry written one line? Oh, my God! don't

say that _he_ has been----"

"Hush, dear!" I said quietly. "His people would have let you know if

they had had a wire."

"But, Winkle, the Colonel has written that Jack died while gallantly

leading a counter attack to recover lost trenches. Surely, Jerry would

have found time for a line, unless something had happened to him; Jack

was actually in his company."

All of which I knew, but could not answer.

"Besides," she went on after a moment, "you know how dad is longing for

details. He wants to know everything about Jack, and so do we all. But

oh, Winkle! I want to know if my man is all right. Brother and

lover--not both, oh, God--not both!" The choking little sobs wrung my

heart.

The next day we got a wire from him. He was wounded slightly in the arm,

and was at home. He was coming to us. Just that--no more. But, oh! the

difference to the girl. Everything explained, everything clear, and the

next day Jerry would be with her. Only as I lay awake that night

thinking, and the events of the last three weeks passed through my mind,

the same thought returned with maddening persistency. Slightly wounded

in the arm, evidently recently as there was no mention in the casualty

list, and for three weeks no line, no word. And then I cursed myself as

an ass and a querulous invalid.

At three o'clock he arrived, and they all came up to my room. The first

thing that struck me like a blow was that it was his left arm which was

hit--and the next was his face. Whether Pat had noticed that his writing

arm was unhurt, I know not; but she had seen the look in his eyes, and

was afraid.

Then he told the story, and his voice was as the voice of the dead. Told

the anxious, eager father and mother the story of their boy's heroism.

How, having lost some trenches, the regiment made a counter attack to

regain them. How first of them all was Jack, the men following him, as

they always did, until a shot took him clean through the heart, and he

dropped, leaving the regiment to surge over him for the last forty

yards, and carry out gloriously what they had been going to do.

And then the old man, pulling out the letter from the Colonel, and

trying to read it through his blinding tears: "He did well, my boy," he

whispered, "he did well, and died well. But, Jerry, the Colonel says in

his letter," and he wiped his eyes and tried to read, "he says in his

letter that Jack must have been right into their trenches almost, as he

was killed at point-blank range with a revolver. One of those swine of

German officers, I suppose." He shook his fist in the air. "Still he was

but doing his duty. I must not complain. But you say he was forty yards

away?"

"It's difficult to say, sir, in the dark," answered Jerry, still in the

voice of an automatic machine. "It may have been less than forty."

And then he told them all over again; and while they, the two old dears,

whispered and cried together, never noticing anything amiss, being only

concerned with the telling, and caring no whit for the method thereof,

Pat sat silently in the window, gazing at him with tearless eyes, with

the wonder and amazement of her soul writ clear on her face for all to

see. And I--I lay motionless in bed, and there was something I could not

understand, for he would not look at me, nor yet at her, but kept his

eyes fixed on the fire, while he talked like a child repeating a lesson.

At last it was over; their last questions were asked, and slowly,

arm-in-arm, they left the room, to dwell alone upon the story of their

idolised boy. And in the room the silence was only broken by the

crackling of the logs.

How long we sat there I know not, with the firelight flickering on the

stern set face of the man in the chair. He seemed unconscious of our

existence, and we two dared not speak to him, we who loved him best, for

there was something we could not understand. Suddenly he got up, and

held out his arms to Pat. And when she crept into them, he kissed her,

straining her close, as if he could never stop. Then, without a word, he

led her to the door, and, putting her gently through, shut it behind

her. Still without a word he came back to the chair, and turned it so

that the firelight no longer played on his face. And then he spoke.

"I have a story to tell you, Winkle, which I venture to think will

entertain you for a time." His voice was the most terrible thing I have

ever listened to.... "Nearly four weeks ago the battalion was in the

trenches a bit south of Ypres. It was bad in the retreat, as you know;

it was bad on the Aisne; but they were neither of them in the same

county as the doing we had up north. One night--they'd shelled us off

and on for three days and three nights--we were driven out of our

trenches. The regiment on our right gave, and we had to go too. The next

morning we were ordered to counter attack, and get back the ground we

had lost. It was the attack in which we lost so heavily."

He stopped speaking for a while, and I did not interrupt.

"When I got that order overnight Jack was with me, in a hole that passed

as a dugout. At the moment everything was quiet; the Germans were

patching up their new position; only a maxim spluttered away a bit to

one flank. To add to the general desolation a steady downpour of rain

drenched us, into which, without cessation the German flares went

shooting up. I think they were expecting a counter attack at once...."

Again he paused, and I waited.

"You know the condition one gets into sometimes when one is heavy for

sleep. We had it during the retreat if you remember--a sort of coma, the

outcome of utter bodily exhaustion. One used to go on walking, and all

the while one was asleep--or practically so. Sounds came to us dimly as

from a great distance; they made no impression on us--they were just a

jumbled phantasmagoria of outside matters, which failed to reach one's

brain, except as a dim dream. I was in that condition on the night I am

speaking of; I was utterly cooked--beat to the world; I was finished for

the time. I've told you this, because I want you to understand the

physical condition I was in."

He leaned forward and stared at the fire, resting his head on his hands.

"How long I'd dozed heavily in that wet-sodden hole I don't know, but

after a while above the crackle of the maxim, separate and distinct from

the soft splash of the rain, and the hiss of the flares, and the hundred

and one other noises that came dimly to me out of the night, I heard

Jack's voice--at least I think it was Jack's voice."

Of a sudden he sat up in the chair, and rising quickly he came and leant

over the foot of the bed.

"Devil take it," he cried bitterly, "I know it was Jack's voice--_now_.

I knew it the next day when it was too late. What he said exactly I

shall never know--at the time it made no impression on me; but at this

moment, almost like a spirit voice in my brain, I can hear him. I can

hear him asking me to watch him. I can hear him pleading--I can hear his

dreadful fear of being found afraid. As a whisper from a great distance

I can hear one short sentence--'Jerry, my God, Jerry--I'm frightened!'

"Winkle, he turned to me in his weakness--that boy who had never failed

before, that boy who had reached the breaking-point--and I heeded him

not. I was too dead beat; my brain couldn't grasp it."

"But, Jerry," I cried, "it turned out all right the next day; he..."

The words died away on my lips as I met the look in his eyes.

"You'd better let me finish," he interrupted wearily. "Let me get the

whole hideous tragedy off my mind for the first and the last time. Early

next morning we attacked. In the dim dirty light of dawn I saw the boy's

face as he moved off to his platoon; and even then I didn't remember

those halting sentences that had come to me out of the night. So instead

of ordering him to the rear on some pretext or other as I should have

done, I let him go to his platoon.

"As we went across the ground that morning through a fire like nothing I

had ever imagined, a man wavered in front of me. I felt it clean through

me. I knew fear had come. I shouted and cheered--but the wavering was

spreading; I knew that too. So I shot him through the heart from behind

at point-blank range as I had trained myself to do--in that eternity

ago--before the war. The counter attack was successful."

"Great Heavens, Jerry!" I muttered, "who did you shoot?" though I knew

the answer already.

"The man I shot was Jack Delawnay. Whether at the time I was actively

conscious of it, I cannot say. Certainly my training enabled me to act

before any glimmering of the aftermath came into my mind. _This_ is the

aftermath."

I shuddered at the utter hopelessness of his tone, though the full

result of his action had not dawned on me yet; my mind was dazed.

"But surely Jack was no coward," I said at length.

"He was not; but on that particular morning he gave out. He had reached

the limit of his endurance."

"The Colonel's letter," I reminded him; "it praised the lad."

"Lies," he answered wearily, "all lies, engineered by me. Not because I

am ashamed of what I did, but for the lad's sake, and hers, and the old

people. I loved the boy, as you know, but he failed, and _there was no

other way_. And where the fiend himself is gloating over it is that he

knows it was the only time Jack did fail. If only I hadn't been so beat

the night before; if only his words had reached my brain before it was

too late. If only ... I think," he added, after a pause, "I think I

shall go mad. Sometimes I wish I could."

"And what of Pat?" I asked, at length breaking the silence.

The hands grasping the bed tightened, and grew white.

"I said 'Good-bye' to her before your eyes, ten minutes ago. I shall

never see her again."

"But, Great Heavens, Jerry!" I cried, "you can't give her up like that.

She idolises the ground you walk on, she worships you, and she need

never know. You were only doing your duty after all."

"Stop!" he cried, and his voice was a command. "As you love me, old

friend, don't tempt me. For three weeks those arguments have been

flooding everything else from my mind. Do you remember at Henley, when

she said, 'He might have answered to your voice?' Winkle, it's true,

Jack might have. And I killed him. Just think if I married her, and she

did find out. Her brother's murderer--in her eyes. The man who has

wrecked her home, and broken her father and mother. It's inconceivable,

it's hideous. Ah! don't you see how utterly final it all is? She may

have been right; and if she was, then I, who loved her better than the

world, have murdered her brother, and broken the old people's hearts for

the sake of a theory. The fact that my theory has been put into

practice, at the expense of everything I have to live for, is full of

humour, isn't it?" And his laugh was wild.

"Steady, Jerry," I said sternly. "What do you mean to do?"

"You'll see, old man, in time," he answered. "First and foremost, get

back to the regiment, arm or no arm. I would not have come home, but I

had to see her once more."

"You talk as if it was the end." I looked at him squarely.

"It is," he answered. "It's easy out there."

"Your mind is made up?"

"Absolutely." He gave a short laugh. "Good-bye, old friend. Ease it to

her as well as you can. Say I'm unstrung by the trenches, anything you

like; but don't let her guess the truth."

For a long minute he held my hand. Then he turned away. He walked to the

mantelpiece, and there was a photograph of her there. For a long time he

looked at it, and it seemed to me he whispered something. A sudden

dimness blinded my eyes, and when I looked again he had gone--through

the window into the night.

* * * * *

I did not see Pat until I left Drayton Hall after that ghastly night,

save only once or twice with her mother in the room.

But an hour before I left she came to me, and her face was that of a

woman who has passed through the fires.

"Tell me, Winkle, shall I ever see him again? You know what I mean."

"You will never see him again, Pat," and the look in her eyes made me

choke.

"Will you tell me what it was he told you before he went through the

window? You see, I was in the hall waiting for him," and she smiled

wearily.

"I can't, Pat dear; I promised him," I muttered. "But it was nothing

disgraceful."

"Disgraceful!" she cried proudly. "Jerry, and anything disgraceful. Oh,

my God! Winkle dear," and she broke down utterly, "do you remember the

waltz they were playing that day--'Destiny'?"

And then I went. Whether that wonderful woman's intuition has told her

something of what happened, I know not. But yesterday morning I got a

letter from the Colonel saying that Jerry had chucked his life away,

saving a wounded man. And this morning she will have seen it in the

papers.

God help you, Pat, my dear.

CHAPTER V

JIM BRENT'S V.C.

If you pass through the Menin-Gate at Ypres, and walk up the slight rise

that lies on the other side of the moat, you will come to the parting of

the ways. You will at the same time come to a spot of unprepossessing

aspect, whose chief claim to notoriety lies in its shell-holes and

broken-down houses. If you keep straight on you will in time come to the

little village of Potige; if you turn to the right you will eventually

arrive at Hooge. In either case you will wish you hadn't.

Before the war these two roads--which join about two hundred yards east

of the rampart walls of Ypres--were adorned with a fair number of

houses. They were of that stucco type which one frequently sees in

England spreading out along the roads that lead to a largish town.

Generally there is one of unusually revolting aspect that stands proudly

by itself a hundred yards or so from the common herd and enclosed in a

stuccoesque wall. And there my knowledge of the type in England ends.

In Belgium, however, my acquaintance with this sort of abode is

extensive. In taking over a house in Flanders that stands unpleasantly

near the Hun, the advertisement that there are three sitting, two bed,

h. and c. laid on, with excellent onion patch, near railway and good

golf-links, leaves one cold. The end-all and be-all of a house is its

cellar. The more gloomy, and dark, and generally horrible the cellar,

the higher that house ranks socially, and the more likely are you to

find in it a general consuming his last hamper from Fortnum & Mason by

the light of a tallow dip. And this applies more especially to the Hooge

road.

Arrived at the fork, let us turn right-handed and proceed along the

deserted road. A motor-car is not to be advised, as at this stage of the

promenade one is in full sight of the German trenches. For about two or

three hundred yards no houses screen you, and then comes a row of the

stucco residences I have mentioned. Also at this point the road bends to

the left. Here, out of sight, occasional men sun themselves in the

heavily-scented air, what time they exchange a little playful badinage

in a way common to Thomas Atkins. At least, that is what happened some

time ago; now, of course, things may have changed in the garden city.

And at this point really our journey is ended, though for interest we

might continue for another quarter of a mile. The row of houses stops

abruptly, and away in front stretches a long straight road. A few

detached mansions of sorts, in their own grounds, flank it on each side.

At length they cease, and in front lies the open country. The

poplar-lined road disappears out of sight a mile ahead, where it tops a

gentle slope. And half on this side of the rise, and half on the other,

there are the remnants of the tit-bit of the whole bloody charnel-house

of the Ypres salient--the remnants of the village of Hooge. A closer

examination is not to be recommended. The place where you stand is known

in the vernacular as Hell Fire Corner, and the Hun--who knows the range

of that corner to the fraction of an inch--will quite possibly resent

your presence even there. And shrapnel gives a nasty wound.

Let us return and seek safety in a cellar. It is not what one would call

a good-looking cellar; no priceless prints adorn the walls, no Turkey

carpet receives your jaded feet. In one corner a portable gramophone

with several records much the worse for wear reposes on an upturned

biscuit-box, and lying on the floor, with due regard to space economy,

are three or four of those excellent box-mattresses which form the

all-in-all of the average small Belgian house. On top of them are laid

some valises and blankets, and from the one in the corner the sweet

music of the sleeper strikes softly on the ear. It is the senior

subaltern, who has been rambling all the preceding night in Sanctuary

Wood--the proud authors of our nomenclature in Flanders quite rightly

possess the humour necessary for the production of official communiques.

In two chairs, smoking, are a couple of officers. One is a major of the

Royal Engineers, and another, also a sapper, belongs to the gilded

staff. The cellar is the temporary headquarters of a field

company--office, mess, and bedroom rolled into one.

"I'm devilish short-handed for the moment, Bill." The Major thoughtfully

filled his pipe. "That last boy I got a week ago--a nice boy he was,

too--was killed in Zouave Wood the day before yesterday, poor devil.

Seymour was wounded three days ago, and there's only Brent, Johnson, and

him"--he indicated the sleeper. "Johnson is useless, and Brent----" He

paused, and looked full at the Staff-captain. "Do you know Brent well,

by any chance?"

"I should jolly well think I did. Jim Brent is one of my greatest pals,

Major."

"Then perhaps you can tell me something I very much want to know. I have

knocked about the place for a good many years, and I have rubbed

shoulders, officially and unofficially, with more men than I care to

remember. As a result, I think I may claim a fair knowledge of my

fellow-beings. And Brent--well, he rather beats me."

He paused as if at a loss for words, and looked in the direction of the

sleeping subaltern. Reassured by the alarming noise proceeding from the

corner, he seemed to make up his mind.

"Has Brent had some very nasty knock lately--money, or a woman, or

something?"

The Staff-captain took his pipe from his mouth, and for some seconds

stared at the floor. Then he asked quietly, "Why? What are you getting

at?"

"This is why, Bill. Brent is one of the most capable officers I have

ever had. He's a man whose judgment, tact, and driving power are

perfectly invaluable in a show of this sort--so invaluable, in fact"--he

looked straight at his listener--"that his death would be a very real

loss to the corps and the Service. He's one of those we can't replace,

and--he's going all out to make us have to."

"What do you mean?" The question expressed no surprise; the speaker

seemed merely to be demanding confirmation of what he already knew.

"Brent is deliberately trying to get killed. There is not a shadow of

doubt about it in my mind. Do you know why?"

The Staff-officer got up and strolled to a table on which were lying

some illustrated weekly papers. "Have you last week's _Tatler_?" He

turned over the leaves. "Yes--here it is." He handed the newspaper to

the Major. "That is why."

"_A charming portrait of Lady Kathleen Goring; who was last week married

to that well-known sportsman and soldier Sir Richard Goring. She was, it

will be remembered, very popular in London society as the beautiful Miss

Kathleen Tubbs--the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Silas P. Tubbs, of

Pittsburg, Pa._"

The Major put down the paper and looked at the Staff-captain; then

suddenly he rose and hurled it into the corner. "Oh, damn these women,"

he exploded.

"Amen," murmured the other, as, with a loud snort, the sleeper awoke.

"Is anything th' matter?" he murmured, drowsily, only to relapse at once

into unconsciousness.

"Jim was practically engaged to her; and then, three months ago, without

a word of explanation, she gave him the order of the boot, and got

engaged to Goring." The Staff-captain spoke savagely. "A damn rotten

woman, Major, and Jim's well out of it, if he only knew. Goring's a

baronet, which is, of course, the reason why this excrescence of the

house of Tubbs chucked Jim. As a matter of fact, Dick Goring's not a bad

fellow--he deserves a better fate. But it fairly broke Jim up. He's not

the sort of fellow who falls in love easily; this was his one and only

real affair, and he took it bad. He told me at the time that he never

intended to come back alive."

"Damn it all!" The Major's voice was irritable. "Why, his knowledge of

the lingo alone makes him invaluable."

"Frankly, I've been expecting to hear of his death every day. He's not

the type that says a thing of that sort without meaning it."

A step sounded on the floor above. "Look out, here he is. You'll stop

and have a bit of lunch, Bill?"

As he spoke the light in the doorway was blocked out, and a man came

uncertainly down the stairs.

"Confound these cellars. One can't see a thing, coming in out of the

daylight. Who's that? Halloa, Bill, old cock, 'ow's yourself?"

"Just tottering, Jim. Where've you been?"

"Wandered down to Vlamertinghe this morning early to see about some

sandbags, and while I was there I met that flying wallah Petersen in the

R.N.A.S. Do you remember him, Major? He was up here with an armoured car

in May. He told me rather an interesting thing."

"What's that, Jim?" The Major was attacking a brawn with gusto. "Sit

down, Bill. Whisky and Perrier in that box over there."

"He tells me the Huns have got six guns whose size he puts at about

9-inch; guns, mark you, not howitzers--mounted on railway trucks at

Tournai. From there they can be rushed by either branch of the line--the

junction is just west--to wherever they are required."

"My dear old boy," laughed Bill, as he sat down. "I don't know your

friend Petersen, and I have not the slightest hesitation in saying that

he is in all probability quite right. But the information seems to be

about as much use as the fact that it is cold in Labrador."

"I wonder," answered Brent, thoughtfully--"I wonder." He was rummaging

through a pile of papers in the stationery box.

The other two men looked at one another significantly. "What

hare-brained scheme have you got in your mind now, Brent?" asked the

Major.

Brent came slowly across the cellar and sat down with a sheet of paper

spread out on his knee. For a while he examined it in silence, comparing

it with an ordnance map, and then he spoke. "It's brick, and the drop is

sixty feet, according to this--with the depth of the water fifteen."

"And the answer is a lemon. What on earth are you talking about, Jim?"

"The railway bridge over the river before the line forks."

"Good Lord! My good fellow," cried the Major, irritably, "don't be

absurd. Are you proposing to blow it up?" His tone was ponderously

sarcastic.

"Not exactly," answered the unperturbed Brent, "but something of the

sort--if I can get permission."

The two men laid down their knives and stared at him solemnly.

"You are, I believe, a sapper officer," commenced the Major. "May I ask

first how much gun-cotton you think will be necessary to blow up a

railway bridge which gives a sixty-foot drop into water; second, how you

propose to get it there; third, how you propose to get yourself there;

and fourth, why do you talk such rot?"

Jim Brent laughed and helped himself to whisky. "The answer to the first

question is unknown at present, but inquiries of my secretary will be

welcomed--probably about a thousand pounds. The answer to the second

question is that I don't. The answer to the third is--somehow; and for

the fourth question I must ask for notice."

"What the devil are you driving at, Jim?" said the Staff-captain,

puzzled. "If you don't get the stuff there, how the deuce are you going

to blow up the bridge?"

"You may take it from me, Bill, that I may be mad, but I never

anticipated marching through German Belgium with a party of sappers and

a G.S. wagon full of gun-cotton. Oh, no--it's a one-man show."

"But," ejaculated the Major, "how the----"

"Have you ever thought, sir," interrupted Brent, "what would be the

result if, as a heavy train was passing over a bridge, you cut one rail

just in front of the engine?"

"But----" the Major again started to speak, and was again cut short.

"The outside rail," continued Brent, "so that the tendency would be for

the engine to go towards the parapet wall. And no iron girder to hold it

up--merely a little brick wall"--he again referred to the paper on his

knee--"three feet high and three bricks thick. No nasty parties of men

carrying slabs of gun-cotton; just yourself--with one slab of gun-cotton

in your pocket and one primer and one detonator--that and the

psychological moment. Luck, of course, but when we dispense with the

working party we lift it from the utterly impossible into the realm of

the remotely possible. The odds are against success, I know; but----" He

shrugged his shoulders.

"But how do you propose to get there, my dear chap?" asked the Major,

peevishly. "The Germans have a rooted objection to English officers

walking about behind their lines."

"Yes, but they don't mind a Belgian peasant, do they? Dash it, they've

played the game on us scores of times, Major--not perhaps the bridge

idea, but espionage by men disguised behind our lines. I only propose

doing the same, and perhaps going one better."

"You haven't one chance in a hundred of getting through alive." The

Major viciously stabbed a tongue.

"That is--er--beside the point," answered Brent, shortly.

"But how could you get through their lines to start with?" queried Bill.

"There are ways, dearie, there are ways. Petersen is a man of much

resource."

"Of course, the whole idea is absolutely ridiculous." The Major snorted.

"Once and for all, Brent, I won't hear of it. We're far too short of

fellows as it is."

And for a space the subject languished, though there was a look on Jim

Brent's face which showed it was only for a space.

* * * * *

Now when a man of the type of Brent takes it badly over a woman, there

is a strong probability of very considerable trouble at any time. When,

in addition to that, it occurs in the middle of the bloodiest war of

history, the probability becomes a certainty. That he should quite fail

to see just what manner of woman the present Lady Goring was, was

merely in the nature of the animal. He was--as far as women were

concerned--of the genus fool. To him "the rag, and the bone, and the

hank of hair" could never be anything but perfect. It is as well that

there are men like that.

All of which his major--who was a man of no little understanding--knew

quite well. And the knowledge increased his irritation, for he realised

the futility of trying to adjust things. That adjusting business is

ticklish work even between two close pals; but when the would-be

adjuster is very little more than a mere acquaintance, the chances of

success might be put in a small-sized pill-box. To feel morally certain

that your best officer is trying his hardest to get himself killed, and

to be unable to prevent it, is an annoying state of affairs. Small

wonder, then, that at intervals throughout the days that followed did

the Major reiterate with solemnity and emphasis his remark to the

Staff-captain anent women. It eased his feelings, if it did nothing

else.

The wild scheme Brent had half suggested did not trouble him greatly. He

regarded it merely as a temporary aberration of the brain. In the South

African war small parties of mounted sappers and cavalry had undoubtedly

ridden far into hostile country, and, getting behind the enemy, had

blown up bridges, and generally damaged their lines of communication.

But in the South African war a line of trenches did not stretch from

sea to sea.

And so, seated one evening at the door of his commodious residence

talking things over with his colonel, he did not lay any great stress on

the bridge idea. Brent had not referred to it again; and in the cold

light of reason it seemed too foolish to mention.

"Of course," remarked the C.R.E., "he's bound to take it soon. No man

can go on running the fool risks you say he does without stopping one.

It's a pity; but, if he won't see by himself that he's a fool, I don't

see what we can do to make it clear. If only that confounded girl--" He

grunted and got up to go. "Halloa! What the devil is this fellow doing?"

Shambling down the road towards them was a particularly decrepit and

filthy specimen of the Belgian labourer. In normal circumstances, and in

any other place, his appearance would have called for no especial

comment; the brand is not a rare one. But for many months the salient of

Ypres had been cleared of its civilian population; and this sudden

appearance was not likely to pass unnoticed.

"Venez, ici, monsieur, tout de suite." At the Major's words the old man

stopped, and paused in hesitation; then he shuffled towards the two men.

"Will you talk to him, Colonel?" The Major glanced at his senior

officer.

"Er--I think not; my--er--French, don't you know--er--not what it was."

The worthy officer retired in good order, only to be overwhelmed by a

perfect deluge of words from the Belgian.

"What's he say?" he queried, peevishly. "That damn Flemish sounds like a

dog fight."

"Parlez-vous Francais, monsieur?" The Major attempted to stem the tide

of the old man's verbosity, but he evidently had a grievance, and a

Belgian with a grievance is not a thing to be regarded with a light

heart.

"Thank heavens, here's the interpreter!" The Colonel heaved a sigh of

relief. "Ask this man what he's doing here, please."

For a space the distant rattle of a machine-gun was drowned, and then

the interpreter turned to the officers.

"'E say, sare, that 'e has ten thousand franc behind the German line,

buried in a 'ole, and 'e wants to know vat 'e shall do."

"Do," laughed the Major. "What does he imagine he's likely to do? Go and

dig it up? Tell him that he's got no business here at all."

Again the interpreter spoke.

"Shall I take 'im to Yper and 'and 'im to the gendarmes, sare?"

"Not a bad idea," said the Colonel, "and have him----"

What further order he was going to give is immaterial, for at that

moment he looked at the Belgian, and from that villainous old ruffian he

received the most obvious and unmistakable wink.

"Er--thank you, interpreter; I will send him later under a guard."

The interpreter saluted and retired, the Major looked surprised, the

Colonel regarded the Belgian with an amazed frown. Then suddenly the old

villain spoke.

"Thank you, Colonel. Those Ypres gendarmes would have been a nuisance."

"Great Scot!" gasped the Major. "What the----"

"What the devil is the meaning of this masquerade, sir?" The Colonel was

distinctly angry.

"I wanted to see if I'd pass muster as a Belgian, sir. The interpreter

was an invaluable proof."

"You run a deuced good chance of being shot, Brent, in that rig. Anyway,

I wish for an explanation as to why you're walking about in that get-up.

Haven't you enough work to do?"

"Shall we go inside, sir? I've got a favour to ask you."

* * * * *

We are not very much concerned with the conversation that took place

downstairs in that same cellar, when two senior officers of the corps

of Royal Engineers listened for nearly an hour to an apparently

disreputable old farmer. It might have been interesting to note how the

sceptical grunts of those two officers gradually gave place to silence,

and at length to a profound, breathless interest, as they pored over

maps and plans. And the maps were all of that country which lies behind

the German trenches.

But at the end the old farmer straightened himself smartly.

"That is the rough outline of my plan, sir. I think I can claim that I

have reduced the risk of not getting to my objective to a minimum. When

I get there I am sure that my knowledge of the patois renders the chance

of detection small. As for the actual demolition itself, an enormous

amount will depend on luck; but I can afford to wait. I shall have to be

guided by local conditions. And so I ask you to let me go. It's a long

odds chance, but if it comes off it's worth it."

"And if it does, what then? What about you?" The Colonel's eyes and Jim

Brent's met.

"I shall have paid for my keep, Colonel, at any rate."

Everything was very silent in the cellar; outside on the road a man was

singing.

"In other words, Jim, you're asking me to allow you to commit suicide."

He cleared his throat; his voice seemed a little husky.

"Good Lord! sir--it's not as bad as that. Call it a forlorn hope, if you

like, but ..." The eyes of the two men met, and Brent fell silent.

"Gad, my lad, you're a fool, but you're a brave fool! For Heaven's sake,

give me a drink."

"I may go, Colonel?"

"Yes, you may go--as far, that is, as I am concerned. There is the

General Staff to get round first."

But though the Colonel's voice was gruff, he seemed to have some

difficulty in finding his glass.

As far as is possible in human nature, Jim Brent, at the period when he

gained his V.C. in a manner which made him the hero of the hour--one

might almost say of the war--was, I believe, without fear. The blow he

had received at the hands of the girl who meant all the world to him had

rendered him utterly callous of his life. And it was no transitory

feeling: the mood of an hour or a week. It was deeper than the ordinary

misery of a man who has taken the knock from a woman, deeper and much

less ostentatious. He seemed to view life with a contemptuous toleration

that in any other man would have been the merest affectation. But it was

not evinced by his words; it was shown, as his Major had said, by his

deeds--deeds that could not be called bravado because he never

advertised them. He was simply gambling with death, with a cool hand and

a steady eye, and sublimely indifferent to whether he won or lost. Up to

the time when he played his last great game he had borne a charmed life.

According to the book of the words, he should have been killed a score

of times, and he told me himself only last week that he went into this

final gamble with a taunt on his lips and contempt in his heart. Knowing

him as I do, I believe it. I can almost hear him saying to his grim

opponent, "Dash it all! I've won every time; for Heaven's sake do

something to justify your reputation."

But--he didn't; Jim won again. And when he landed in England from a

Dutch tramp, having carried out the maddest and most hazardous exploit

of the war unscathed, he slipped up on a piece of orange-peel and broke

his right leg in two places, which made him laugh so immoderately when

the contrast struck him that it cured him--not his leg, but his mind.

However, all in due course.

* * * * *

The first part of the story I heard from Petersen, of the Naval Air

Service. I ran into him by accident in a grocer's shop in

Hazebrouck--buying stuff for the mess.

"What news of Jim?" he cried, the instant he saw me.

"Very sketchy," I answered. "He's the worst letter-writer in the world.

You know he trod on a bit of orange-peel and broke his leg when he got

back to England."

"He would." Petersen smiled. "That's just the sort of thing Jim would

do. Men like him usually die of mumps, or the effects of a bad oyster."

"Quite so," I murmured, catching him gently by the arm. "And now come to

the pub over the way and tell me all about it. The beer there is of a

less vile brand than usual."

"But I can't tell you anything, my dear chap, that you don't know

already!" he expostulated. "I am quite prepared to gargle with you,

but----"

"Deux bieres, ma'm'selle, s'il vous plait." I piloted Petersen firmly to

a little table. "Tell me all, my son!" I cried. "For the purposes of

this meeting I know nix, and you as part hero in the affair have got to

get it off your chest."

He laughed, and lit a cigarette. "Not much of the heroic in my part of

the stunt, I assure you. As you know, the show started from Dunkirk,

where in due course Jim arrived, armed with credentials extracted only

after great persuasion from sceptical officers of high rank. How he ever

got there at all has always been a wonder to me: his Colonel was the

least of his difficulties in that line. But Jim takes a bit of stopping.

"My part of the show was to transport that scatter-brained idiot over

the trenches and drop him behind the German lines. His idea was novel, I

must admit, though at the time I thought he was mad, and for that matter

I still think he's mad. Only a madman could have thought of it, only Jim

Brent could have done it and not been killed.

"From a height of three thousand feet, in the middle of the night, he

proposed to bid me and the plane a tender farewell and descend to terra

firma by means of a parachute."

"Great Scot," I murmured. "Some idea."

"As you say--some idea. The thing was to choose a suitable night. As Jim

said, 'the slow descent of a disreputable Belgian peasant like an angel

out of the skies will cause a flutter of excitement in the tender heart

of the Hun if it is perceived. Therefore, it must be a dark and overcast

night.'

"At last, after a week, we got an ideal one. Jim arrayed himself in his

togs, took his basket on his arm--you know he'd hidden the gun-cotton in

a cheese--and we went round to the machine. By Jove! that chap's a

marvel. Think of it, man." Petersen's face was full of enthusiastic

admiration. "He'd never even been up in an aeroplane before, and yet the

first time he does, it is with the full intention of trusting himself to

an infernal parachute, a thing the thought of which gives me cold feet;

moreover, of doing it in the dark from a height of three thousand odd

feet behind the German lines with his pockets full of detonators and

other abominations, and his cheese full of gun-cotton. Lord! he's a

marvel. And I give you my word that of the two of us--though I've flown

for over two years--I was the shaky one. He was absolutely cool; not the

coolness of a man who is keeping himself under control, but just the

normal coolness of a man who is doing his everyday job."

Petersen finished his beer at a gulp, and we encored the dose.

"Well, we got off about two. We were not aiming at any specific spot,

but I was going to go due east for three-quarters of an hour, which I

estimated should bring us somewhere over Courtrai. Then he was going to

drop off, and I was coming back. The time was chosen so that I should be

able to land again at Dunkirk about dawn.

"I can't tell you much more. We escaped detection going over the lines,

and about ten minutes to three, at a height of three thousand five

hundred, old Jim tapped me on the shoulder. He understood exactly what

to do--as far as we could tell him: for the parachute is still almost in

its infancy.

"As he had remarked to our wing commander before we started: 'A most

valuable experiment, sir; I will report on how it works in due course.'

"We shook hands. I could see him smiling through the darkness; and then,

with his basket under his arm, that filthy old Belgian farmer launched

himself into space.

"I saw him for a second falling like a stone, and then the parachute

seemed to open out all right. But of course I couldn't tell in the dark;

and just afterwards I struck an air-pocket, and had a bit of trouble

with the bus. After that I turned round and went home again. I'm looking

forward to seeing the old boy and hearing what occurred."

And that is the unvarnished account of the first part of Jim's last game

with fate. Incidentally, it's the sort of thing that hardly requires any

varnishing.

* * * * *

The rest of the yarn I heard later from Brent himself, when I went round

to see him in hospital, while I was back on leave.

"For Heaven's sake, lady, dear," he said to the sister as I arrived,

"don't let anyone else in. Say I've had a relapse and am biting the

bed-clothes. This unpleasant-looking man is a great pal of mine, and I

would commune with him awhile."

"It's appalling, old boy," he said to me as she went out of the room,

"how they cluster. Men of dreadful visage; women who gave me my first

bath; unprincipled journalists--all of them come and talk hot air until

I get rid of them by swooning. My young sister brought thirty-four

school friends round last Tuesday! Of course, my swoon is entirely

artificial; but the sister is an understanding soul, and shoos them

away." He lit a cigarette.

"I saw Petersen the other day in Hazebrouck," I told him as I sat down

by the bed. "He wants to come round and see you as soon as he can get

home."

"Good old Petersen. I'd never have brought it off without him."

"What happened, Jim?" I asked. "I've got up to the moment when you left

his bus, with your old parachute, and disappeared into space. And of

course I've seen the official announcement of the guns being seen in the

river, as reported by that R.F.C. man. But there is a gap of about three

weeks; and I notice you have not been over-communicative to the

half-penny press."

"My dear old man," he answered, seriously, "there was nothing to be

communicative about. Thinking it over now, I am astounded how simple the

whole thing was. It was as easy as falling off a log. I fell like a

stone for two or three seconds, because the blessed umbrella wouldn't

open. Then I slowed up and floated gently downwards. It was a most

fascinating sensation. I heard old Petersen crashing about just above

me; and in the distance a search-light was moving backwards and forwards

across the sky, evidently looking for him. I should say it took me about

five minutes to come down; and of course all the way down I was

wondering where the devil I was going to land. The country below me was

black as pitch: not a light to be seen--not a camp-fire--nothing. As the

two things I wanted most to avoid were church steeples and the temporary

abode of any large number of Huns, everything looked very favourable. To

be suspended by one's trousers from a weathercock in the cold, grey

light of dawn seemed a sorry ending to the show; and to land from the

skies on a general's stomach requires explanation."

He smiled reminiscently. "I'm not likely to forget that descent,

Petersen's engine getting fainter and fainter in the distance, the first

pale streaks of light beginning to show in the east, and away on a road

to the south the headlamps of a car moving swiftly along. Then the

humour of the show struck me. Me, in my most picturesque disguise,

odoriferous as a family of ferrets in my borrowed garments, descending

gently on to the Hun like the fairy god-mother in a pantomime. So I

laughed, and--wished I hadn't. My knees hit my jaw with a crack, and I

very nearly bit my tongue in two. Cheeses all over the place, and there

I was enveloped in the folds of the collapsing parachute. Funny, but for

a moment I couldn't think what had happened. I suppose I was a bit dizzy

from the shock, and it never occurred to me that I'd reached the ground,

which, not being able to see in the dark, I hadn't known was so close.

Otherwise I could have landed much lighter. Yes, it's a great machine

that parachute." He paused to reach for his pipe.

"Where did you land?" I asked.

"In the middle of a ploughed field. Couldn't have been a better place if

I'd chosen it. A wood or a river would have been deuced awkward. Yes,

there's no doubt about it, old man, my luck was in from the very start.

I removed myself from the folds, picked up my cheeses, found a

convenient ditch alongside to hide the umbrella in, and then sat tight

waiting for dawn.

"I happen to know that part of Belgium pretty well, and when it got

light I took my bearings. Petersen had borne a little south of what we

intended, which was all to the good--it gave me less walking; but it was

just as well I found a sign-post almost at once, as I had no map, of

course--far too dangerous; and I wasn't very clear on names of villages,

though I'd memorized the map before leaving. I found I had landed

somewhere south of Courtrai, and was about twelve kilometres due north

of Tournai.

"And it was just as I'd decided that little fact that I met a horrible

Hun, a large and forbidding-looking man. Now, the one thing on which I'd

been chancing my arm was the freedom allowed to the Belgians behind the

German lines, and luck again stepped in.

"Beyond grunting 'Guten Morgen' he betrayed no interest in me whatever.

It was the same all along. I shambled past Uhlans, and officers and

generals in motor-cars--Huns of all breeds and all varieties, and no one

even noticed me. And after all, why on earth should they?

"About midday I came to Tournai; and here again I was trusting to luck.

I'd stopped there three years ago at a small estaminet near the station

kept by the widow Demassiet. Now this old lady was, I knew, thoroughly

French in sympathies; and I hoped that, in case of necessity, she would

pass me off as her brother from Ghent, who was staying with her for a

while. Some retreat of this sort was, of course, essential. A homeless

vagabond would be bound to excite suspicion.

"Dear old woman--she was splendid. After the war I shall search her out,

and present her with an annuity, or a belle vache, or something dear to

the Belgian heart. She never even hesitated. From that night I was her

brother, though she knew it meant her death as well as mine if I was

discovered.

"'Ah, monsieur,' she said, when I pointed this out to her, 'it is in the

hands of le bon Dieu. At the most I have another five years, and these

Allemands--pah!' She spat with great accuracy.

"She was good, was the old veuve Demassiet."

Jim puffed steadily at his pipe in silence for a few moments.

"I soon found out that the Germans frequented the estaminet; and, what

was more to the point--luck again, mark you--that the gunners who ran

the battery I was out after almost lived there. When the battery was at

Tournai they had mighty little to do, and they did it, with some skill,

round the beer in her big room.

"I suppose you know what my plan was. The next time that battery left

Tournai I proposed to cut one of the metals on the bridge over the River

Scheldt, just in front of the engine, so close that the driver couldn't

stop, and so derail the locomotive. I calculated that if I cut the

outside rail--the one nearest the parapet wall--the flange on the inner

wheel would prevent the engine turning inwards. That would merely cause

delay, but very possibly no more. I hoped, on the contrary, to turn it

outwards towards the wall, through which it would crash, dragging after

it with any luck the whole train of guns.

"That being the general idea, so to speak, I wandered off one day to see

the bridge. As I expected, it was guarded, but by somewhat

indifferent-looking Huns--evidently only lines of communication troops.

For all that, I hadn't an idea how I was going to do it. Still, luck,

always luck; the more you buffet her the better she treats you.

"One week after I got there I heard the battery was going out: and they

were going out that night. As a matter of fact, that hadn't occurred to

me before--the fact of them moving by night, but it suited me down to

the ground. It appeared they were timed to leave at midnight, which

meant they'd cross the bridge about a quarter or half past. And so at

nine that evening I pushed gently off and wandered bridgewards.

"Then the fun began. I was challenged, and, having answered thickly, I

pretended to be drunk. The sentry, poor devil, wasn't a bad fellow, and

I had some cold sausage and beer. And very soon a gurgling noise

pronounced the fact that he found my beer good.

"It was then I hit him on the base of his skull with a bit of gas-pipe.

That sentry will never drink beer again." Brent frowned. "A nasty blow,

a dirty blow, but a necessary blow." He shrugged his shoulders and then

went on.

"I took off his top-coat and put it on. I put on his hat and took his

rifle and rolled him down the embankment into a bush. Then I resumed his

beat. Discipline was a bit lax on that bridge, I'm glad to say; unless

you pulled your relief out of bed no one else was likely to do it for

you. As you may guess, I did not do much pulling.

"I was using two slabs of gun-cotton to make sure--firing them

electrically. I had two dry-cells and two coils of fine wire for the

leads. The cells would fire a No. 13 Detonator through thirty yards of

those leads--and that thirty yards just enabled me to stand clear of the

bridge. It took me twenty minutes to fix it up, and then I had to wait.

"By gad, old boy, you've called me a cool bird; you should have seen me

during that wait. I was trembling like a child with excitement:

everything had gone so marvellously. And for the first time in the whole

show it dawned on me that not only was there a chance of getting away

afterwards, but that I actually wanted to. Before that moment I'd

assumed on the certainty of being killed."

For a moment he looked curiously in front of him, and a slight smile

lurked round the corners of his mouth. Then suddenly, and apropos of

nothing, he remarked, "Kathleen Goring tea'd with me yesterday. Of

course, it was largely due to that damned orange-skin, but I--er--did

not pass a sleepless night."

Which I took to be indicative of a state of mind induced by the rind of

that nutritious fruit, rather than any reference to his broken leg. For

when a man has passed unscathed through parachute descents and little

things like that, only to lose badly on points to a piece of peel, his

sense of humour gets a jog in a crucial place. And a sense of humour is

fatal to the hopeless, undying passion. It is almost as fatal, in fact,

as a hiccough at the wrong moment.

"It was just about half-past twelve that the train came along. I was

standing by the end of the bridge, with my overcoat and rifle showing in

the faint light of the moon. The engine-driver waved his arm and shouted

something in greeting and I waved back. Then I took the one free lead

and waited until the engine was past me. I could see the first of the

guns, just coming abreast, and at that moment I connected up with the

battery in my pocket. Two slabs of gun-cotton make a noise, as you know,

and just as the engine reached the charge, a sheet of flame seemed to

leap from underneath the front wheels. The driver hadn't time to do a

thing--the engine had left the rails before he knew what had happened.

And then things moved. In my wildest moments I had never expected such a

success. The engine crashed through the parapet wall and hung for a

moment in space. Then it fell downward into the water, and by the mercy

of Allah the couplings held. The first two guns followed it, through the

gap it had made, and then the others overturned with the pull before

they got there, smashing down the wall the whole way along. Every single

gun went wallop into the Scheldt--to say nothing of two passenger

carriages containing the gunners and their officers. The whole thing was

over in five seconds; and you can put your shirt on it that before the

last gun hit the water yours truly had cast away his regalia of office

and was legging it like a two-year-old back to the veuve Demassiet and

Tournai. It struck me that bridge might shortly become an unhealthy

spot."

Jim Brent laughed. "It did. I had to stop on with the old lady for two

or three days in case she might be suspected owing to my sudden

departure--and things hummed. They shot the feldwebel in charge of the

guard; they shot every sentry; they shot everybody they could think of;

but--they never even suspected me. I went out and had a look next day,

the day I think that R.F.C. man spotted and reported the damage. Two of

the guns were only fit for turning into hairpins, and the other four

looked very like the morning after.

"Then, after I'd waited a couple of days, I said good-bye to the old

dear and trekked off towards the Dutch frontier, gaining immense

popularity, old son, by describing the accident to all the soldiers I

met.

"That's all, I think. I had words with a sentry at the frontier, but I

put it across him with his own bundook. Then I wandered to our

Ambassador, and sailed for England in due course. And--er--that's that."

Such is the tale of Jim Brent's V.C. There only remains for me to give

the wording of his official report on the matter.

"I have the honour to report," it ran, "that at midnight on the 25th

ult., I successfully derailed the train conveying six guns of calibre

estimated at about 9-inch, each mounted on a railway truck. The engine,

followed by the guns, departed from sight in about five seconds, and

fell through a drop of some sixty feet into the River Scheldt from the

bridge just west of Tournai. The gunners and officers--who were in two

coaches in rear--were also killed. Only one seemed aware that there was

danger, and he, owing to his bulk, was unable to get out of the door of

his carriage. He was, I think, in command. I investigated the damage

next day when the military authorities were a little calmer, and beg to

state that I do not consider the guns have been improved by their

immersion. One, at least, has disappeared in the mud. A large number of

Germans who had no connection with this affair have, I am glad to

report, since been shot for it.

"I regret that I am unable to report in person, but I am at present in

hospital with a broken leg, sustained by my inadvertently stepping on a

piece of orange-peel, which escaped my notice owing to its remarkable

similarity to the surrounding terrain. This similarity was doubtless due

to the dirt on the orange-peel."

* * * * *

Which, I may say, should not be taken as a model for official reports by

the uninitiated.

CHAPTER VI

RETRIBUTION

On the Promenade facing the Casino at Monte Carlo two men were seated

smoking. The Riviera season was at its height, and passing to and fro in

front of them were the usual crowd of well-dressed idlers, who make up

the society of that delectable, if expensive, resort. Now and again a

casual acquaintance would saunter by, to be greeted with a smile from

one, and a curt nod from the other, who, with his eyes fixed on the

steps in front of him, seemed oblivious of all else.

"Cheer up, Jerry; she won't be long. Give the poor girl time to digest

her luncheon." The cheerful one of the twain lit a cigarette; and in the

process received the glad eye from a passing siren of striking aspect.

"Great Caesar, old son!" he continued, when she was swallowed up in the

crowd, "you're losing the chance of a lifetime. Here, gathered together

to bid us welcome, are countless beautiful women and brave men. We are

for the moment the star turn of the show--the brave British sailors whom

the ladies delight to honour. Never let it be said, old dear, that you

failed them in this their hour of need."

"Confound it, Ginger, I know all about that!" The other man sighed and,

coming suddenly out of his brown study, he too leant forward and fumbled

for his cigarette-case. "But it's no go, old man. I'm getting a deuced

sight too old and ugly nowadays to chop and change about. There comes a

time of life when if a man wants to kiss one particular woman, he might

as well kiss his boot for all the pleasure fooling around with another

will give him."

Ginger Lawson looked at him critically. "My lad, I fear me that Nemesis

has at length descended on you. No longer do the ortolans and caviare of

unregenerate bachelorhood tempt you; rather do you yearn for ground rice

and stewed prunes in the third floor back. These symptoms----"

"Ginger," interrupted the other, "dry up. You're a dear, good soul, but

when you try to be funny, I realise the type of man who writes mottoes

for crackers." He started up eagerly, only to sit down again

disappointed.

"Not she, not she, my love," continued the other imperturbably. "And, in

the meanwhile, doesn't it strike you that you are committing a bad

tactical error in sitting here, with a face like a man that's eaten a

bad oyster, on the very seat where she's bound to see you when she does

finish her luncheon and come down?"

"I suppose that means you want me to cocktail with you?"

"More impossible ideas have fructified," agreed Ginger, rising.

"No, I'm blowed if----!"

"Come on, old son." Lawson dragged him reluctantly to his feet. "All the

world loves a lover, including the loved one herself; but you look like

a deaf-mute at a funeral, who's swallowed his fee. Come and have a

cocktail at Ciro's, and then, merry and bright and caracoling like a

young lark, return and snatch her from under the nose of the accursed

Teuton."

"Do you think she's going to accept him, Ginger?" he muttered anxiously,

as they sauntered through the drifting crowd.

"My dear boy, ask me another. But she's coming to the ball dance on

board to-night, and if the delicate pink illumination of your special

kala jugger, shining softly on your virile face, and toning down the

somewhat vivid colour scheme of your sunburned nose, doesn't melt her

heart, I don't know what will----"

Which all requires a little explanation. Before the war broke out it was

the custom each year for that portion of the British Fleet stationed in

the Mediterranean, and whose headquarters were at Malta, to make a

cruise lasting three weeks or a month to some friendly sea-coast, where

the ports were good and the inhabitants merry. Trieste, perhaps, and up

the Adriatic; Alexandria and the countries to the East; or, best of all,

the Riviera. And at the time when my story opens the officers of the

British Mediterranean Fleet, which had come to rest in the wonderful

natural anchorage of Villefranche, were doing their best to live up to

the reputation which the British naval officer enjoys the world over.

Everywhere within motor distance of their vessels they were greeted with

joy and acclamation; there were dances and dinners, women and wine--and

what more for a space can any hard-worked sailor-man desire? During

their brief intervals of leisure they slept and recuperated on board,

only to dash off again with unabated zeal to pastures new, or renewed,

as the case might be.

Foremost amongst the revellers on this, as on other occasions, was Jerry

Travers, torpedo-lieutenant on the flagship. Endowed by Nature with an

infinite capacity for consuming cocktails, and with a disposition which

not even the catering of the Maltese mess man could embitter, his sudden

fall from grace was all the more noticeable. From being a tireless

leader of revels, he became a mooner in secret places, a melancholy

sigher in the wardroom. Which fact did not escape the eyes of the

flagship wardroom officers. And Lawson, the navigating lieutenant, had

deputed himself as clerk of the course.

Staying at the Hotel de Paris was an American, who was afflicted with

the dreadful name of Honks; with him were his wife and his daughter

Maisie. Maisie Honks has not a prepossessing sound; but she was the girl

who was responsible for Jerry Travers's downfall. He had met her at a

ball in Nice just after the Fleet arrived, and, from that moment he had

become a trifle deranged. Brother officers entering his cabin unawares

found him gazing into the infinite with a slight squint. His Marine

servant spread the rumour on the lower deck that "'e'd taken to poetry,

and 'orrible noises in his sleep." Like a goodly number of men who have

walked merrily through life, sipping at many flowers, but leaving each

with added zest for the next, when he took it he took it hard. And

Maisie had just about reduced him to idiocy. I am no describer of girls,

but I was privileged to know and revere the lady from afar, and I can

truthfully state that I have rarely, if ever, seen a more absolute dear.

She wasn't fluffy, and she wasn't statuesque; she did not have violet

eyes which one may liken to mountain pools, or hair of that colour

described as spun-gold. She was just--Maisie, one of the most adorable

girls that ever happened. And Jerry, as I say, had taken it very badly.

Unfortunately, there was a fly in the ointment--almost of bluebottle

size--in the shape of another occupant of the Hotel de Paris, who had

also taken it very badly, and at a much earlier date. The Baron von

Dressler--an officer in the German Navy, and a member of one of the

oldest Prussian families--had been staying at Monte Carlo for nearly a

month, on sick leave after a severe dose of fever. And he, likewise,

worshipped with ardour and zeal at the Honks shrine. Moreover, being

apparently a very decent fellow, and living as he did in the same hotel,

he had, as Jerry miserably reflected, a bit of a preponderance in

artillery, especially as he had opened fire more than a fortnight before

the British Navy had appeared on the scene. This, then, was the general

situation; and the particular feature of the moment, which caused an

outlook on life even more gloomy than usual in the heart of the

torpedo-lieutenant, was that the Baron von Dressler had been invited to

lunch with his adored one, while he had not.

* * * * *

"Something potent, Fritz." Lawson piloted him firmly to the bar and

addressed the presiding being respectfully. "Something potent and heady

which will make this officer's sad heart bubble once again with the joie

de vivre. He has been crossed in love."

"Don't be an ass, Ginger," said the other peevishly.

"My dear fellow, the credit of the Navy is at stake. Admitted that

you've had a bad start in the Honks stakes, nevertheless--you never

know--our Teuton may take a bad fall. And, incidentally, there they both

are, to say nothing of Honks pere et mere." He was peering through the

window. "No, you don't, my boy!" as the other made a dash for the door.

"The day is yet young. Lap it up; repeat the dose; and then in the

nonchalant style for which our name is famous we will sally forth and

have at them."

"Confound it, Ginger! they seem to be on devilish good terms. Look at

the blighter, bending towards her as if he owned her." Travers stood in

the window rubbing his hands with his handkerchief nervously.

"What d'you expect him to do? Look the other way?" The navigating

officer snorted. "You make me tired, Torps. Come along if you're ready;

and try and look jaunty and debonair."

"Heavens! old boy; I'm as nervous as an ugly girl at her first party."

They were passing into the street. "My hands are clammy and my boots are

bursting with feet."

"I don't mind about your boots; but for goodness' sake dry your hands.

No self-respecting woman would look at a man with perspiring palms."

Ten minutes later three pairs of people might have been seen strolling

up and down the Promenade. And as the arrangement of those pairs was

entirely due to the navigating lieutenant, their composition is perhaps

worthy of a paragraph. At one end, as was very right and proper, Jerry

and Miss Honks discussed men and matters--at least, I assume so--with a

zest that seemed to show his nervousness was only transient. In the

middle the stage-manager and Mrs. Honks discussed Society, with a

capital "S"--a subject of which the worthy woman knew nothing and talked

a lot. At the other end Mr. Honks poured into the unresponsive ear of an

infuriated Prussian nobleman his new scheme for cornering sausages.

Which shows what a naval officer can do when he gets down to it.

* * * * *

Now, it is certainly not my intention to recount in detail the course of

Jerry Travers's love affair during his stay on the Riviera. Sufficient

to say, it did not run smoothly. But there are one or two things which I

must relate--things which concern our three principals. They cover the

first round in the contest--the round which the German won on points.

And though they have no actual bearing on the strange happenings which

brought about the second and last round, in circumstances nothing short

of miraculous at a future date, yet for the proper understanding of the

retribution that came upon the Hun at the finish it is well that they

should be told.

They occurred that same evening, at the ball given by the British Navy

on the flagship. Few sights, I venture to think, are more imposing, and

to a certain extent more incongruous, than a battleship in gala mood.

For days beforehand, men skilled in electricity erect with painstaking

care a veritable fairyland of coloured lights, which shine softly on the

deck cleared for dancing, and discreet kala juggers prepared with equal

care by officers skilled in love. Everywhere there is peace and luxury;

the music of the band steals across the silent water; the engine of

death is at rest. Almost can one imagine the mighty turbines, the great

guns, the whole infernal paraphernalia of destruction, laughing grimly

at their master's amusements--those masters whose brains forged them and

riveted them and gave them birth; who with the pressure of a finger can

launch five tons of death at a speck ten miles away; whose lightest

caprice they are bound to obey--and yet who now cover them with flimsy

silks and fairy lights, while they dance and make love to laughing,

soft-eyed girls. And perhaps there was some such idea in the

gunnery-lieutenant's mind as he leant against the breech of a

twelve-inch gun, waiting for his particular guest. "Not yet, old man,"

he muttered thoughtfully--"not yet. To-night we play; to-morrow--who

knows?"

Above, the lights shone out unshaded, silhouetting the battle-cruiser

with lines of fire against the vault of heaven, sprinkled with the

golden dust of a myriad stars; while ceaselessly across the violet water

steam-pinnaces dashed backwards and forwards, carrying boatloads of

guests from the landing-stage, and then going back for more. At the top

of the gangway the admiral, immaculate in blue and gold, welcomed them

as they arrived; the flag-lieutenant, with the weight of much

responsibility on his shoulders, having just completed a last lightning

tour of the ship, only to discover a scarcity of hairpins in

the ladies' cloak-room, stood behind him. And in the wardroom the

engineer-commander--a Scotsman of pessimistic outlook--reviled with

impartiality all ball dances, adding a special clause for the one now

commencing. But then, off duty, he had no soul above bridge.

In this setting, then, appeared the starters for the Honks stakes on the

night in question, only, for the time being, the positions were

reversed. Now the Baron was the stranger in a strange land; Jerry was at

home--one of the hosts. Moreover, as has already been discreetly hinted,

there was a certain and very particular kala jugger. And into this very

particular kala jugger Jerry, in due course, piloted his adored one.

I am now coming to the region of imagination. I was not in that dim-lit

nook with them, and therefore I am not in a position to state with any

accuracy what occurred. But--and here I must be discreet--there was a

midshipman, making up in cheek and inquisitiveness what he lacked in

years and stature. Also, as I have said, the Honks stakes were not a

private matter--far from it. The prestige of the British Navy was at

stake, and betting ran high in the gunroom, or abode of "snotties."

Where this young imp of mischief hid, I know not; he swore himself that

his overhearing was purely accidental, and endeavoured to excuse his

lamentable conduct by saying that he learned a lot!

His account of the engagement was breezy and nautical; and as there is,

so far as I know, no other description of the operations extant, I give

it for what it is worth.

Jerry, he told me in the Union Club, Valetta, at a later date, opened

the action with some tentative shots from his lighter armament. For ten

minutes odd he alternately Honked and Maisied, till, as my ribald

informant put it, the deck rang with noises reminiscent of a jibbing

motor-car. She countered ably with rhapsodies over the ship, the band,

and life in general, utterly refusing to be drawn into personalities.

Then, it appeared, Jerry's self-control completely deserted him, and

with a hoarse and throaty noise he opened fire with the full force of

his starboard broadside; he rammed down the loud pedal and let drive.

He assured her that she was the only woman he could ever love; he seized

her ungloved hand and fervently kissed it; in short, he offered her his

hand and heart in the most approved style, the while protesting his

absolute unworthiness to aspire to such an honour as her acceptance of

the same.

"Net result, old dear," murmured my graceless informant, pressing the

bell for another cocktail, "nix--a frost absolute, a frost complete."

"She thought he and the whole ship were bully, and wasn't that little

boy who'd brought them out in the launch the cutest ever, but she

reckoned sailors cut no ice with poppa. She was just too sorry for words

it had ever occurred, but there it was, and there was nothing more to be

said."

For the truth of these statements I will not vouch. I do know that on

the night in question Jerry was refused by the only woman he'd ever

really cared about, because he told me so, and the method of it is of

little account. And if there be any who may think I have dealt with this

tragedy in an unfeeling way, I must plead in excuse that I have but

quoted my informant, and he was one of those in the gunroom who had lost

money on the event.

Anyway, let me, as a sop to the serious-minded, pass on to the other

little event which I must chronicle before I come to my finale. In this

world the serious and the gay, the tears and the laughter, come to us

out of the great scroll of fate in strange, jumbled succession. The

lucky dip at a bazaar holds no more variegated procession of surprises

than the mix up we call life brings to each and all. And so, though my

tone in describing Jerry's proposal has perhaps been wantonly flippant,

and though the next incident may seem to some to savour of

melodrama--yet, is it not life, my masters, is it not life?

I was in the wardroom when it occurred. Jerry, standing by the

fireplace, was smoking a cigarette, and looking like the proverbial

gentleman who has lost a sovereign and found sixpence. There were

several officers in there at the time, and--the Baron von Dressler. And

the Prussian had been drinking.

Not that he was by any means drunk, but he was in that condition when

some men become merry, some confidential, some--what shall I say?--not

exactly pugnacious, but on the way to it. He belonged to the latter

class. All the worst traits of the Prussian officer, the domineering,

sneering, aggressive mannerisms--which, to do him justice, in normal

circumstances he successfully concealed, at any rate, when mixing with

other nationalities--were showing clearly in his face. He was once again

the arrogant, intolerant autocrat--truly, _in vino veritas_. Moreover,

his eyes were wandering with increasing frequency to Jerry, who, so far,

seemed unconscious of the scrutiny.

After a while I caught Ginger Lawson's eye and he shrugged his shoulders

slightly. He told me afterwards that he had been fearing a flare-up for

some minutes, but had hoped it would pass over. However, he strolled

over to Jerry and started talking.

"Mop that up, Jerry," he said, "and come along and do your duty. Baron,

you don't seem to be dancing much to-night. Can't I find you a partner?"

"Thank you, but I probably know more people here than you do." The tone

even more than the words was a studied insult. "Lieutenant Travers's

duty seems to have been unpleasant up to date, which perhaps accounts

for his reluctance to resume it. Are you--er--lucky at cards?" This time

the sneer was too obvious to be disregarded.

Jerry looked up, and the eyes of the two men met. "It is possible, Baron

von Dressier," he remarked icily, "that in your navy remarks of that

type are regarded as witty. Would it be asking you too much to request

that you refrain from using them in a ship where they are merely

considered vulgar?"

By this time a dead silence had settled on the wardroom, one of those

awkward silences which any scene of this sort produces on those who are

in the unfortunate position of onlookers.

Von Dressler was white with passion. "You forget yourself, lieutenant. I

would have you to know that my uncle is a prince of the blood royal."

"That apparently does not prevent his nephew from failing to remember

the customs that hold amongst gentlemen."

"Gentlemen!" The Prussian looked round the circle of silent officers

with a scornful laugh; the fumes of the spirits he had drunk were

mounting to his head with his excitement. "You mean--shopkeepers."

With a muttered curse several officers started forward; no ball is a

teetotal affair, I suppose, and scenes of this sort are dangerous at any

time. Travers held up his hand, sharply, incisively.

"Gentlemen, remember this--er--Prussian officer and gentleman is our

guest. That being the case, sir"--he turned to the German--"you are

quite safe in insulting us as much as you like."

"The question of safety would doubtless prove irresistible to an

Englishman." The face of the German was distorted with rage, he seemed

to be searching in his mind for insults; then suddenly he tried a new

line.

"Bah! I am not a guttersnipe to bandy words with you. You will not have

long to wait, you English, and then--when the day does come, my friends;

when, at last, we come face to face, then, by God! then----"

"Well, what then, Baron von Dressler?" A stern voice cut like a whiplash

across the wardroom; standing in the door was the admiral himself, who

had entered unperceived.

For a moment the coarse, furious face of the Prussian paled a little;

then with a supreme effort of arrogance he pulled himself together.

"Then, sir, we shall see--the world will see--whether you or we will be

the victor. The old and effete versus the new and efficient. Der Tag."

He lifted his hand and let it drop; in the silence one could have heard

a pin drop.

"The problem you raise is of interest," answered the admiral, in the

same icy tone. "In the meanwhile any discussion is unprofitable; and in

the surroundings in which you find yourself at present it is more than

unprofitable--it is a gross breach of all good form and service

etiquette. As our guest we were pleased to see you; you will pardon my

saying that now I can no longer regard you as a guest. Will you kindly

give orders, Lieutenant Travers, for a steam-pinnace? Baron von Dressler

will go ashore."

Such was the other matter that concerned my principals, and which, of

necessity, I have had to record. Such an incident is probably almost

unique; but when there's a girl at the bottom of things and wine at the

top, something is likely to happen. The most unfortunate thing about it

all, as far as Jerry was concerned, was an untimely indisposition on the

part of Honks mere. As a coincidence nothing could have been more

disastrous.

The pinnace was at the foot of the gangway, and the Baron--his eyes

savage--was just preparing to take an elaborate and sarcastic farewell

of the silent torpedo-lieutenant, who was regarding him with an air of

cold contempt, when Mr. Honks appeared on the scene.

"Say, Baron, are you going away?"

"I am, Mr. Honks. My presence seems distasteful to the officers."

The American seemed hardly to hear the last part of the remark. "I guess

we'll quit too. My wife's been taken bad. Can we come in your boat,

Baron?"

"I shall be more than delighted." His eyes came round with ill-concealed

triumph to Travers's impassive face as the American bustled away. "I

venture to think that the Honks stakes are still open."

"By Heaven! You blackguard!" muttered Jerry, his passion overcoming him

for a moment. "I believe I'd give my commission to smash your damned

face in with a marline-spike and chuck you into the sea."

"I won't forget what you say," answered the German vindictively, "One

day I'll make you eat those words; and then when I've sunk your

rat-eaten ship, it will be me that uses the marline-spike--you swine."

It was as well for Jerry, and for the Baron too, that at this

psychological moment the Honks menage arrived, otherwise that German

would probably have gone into the sea.

"Good night, lady," murmured Jerry, when he had solicitously inquired

after her mother's health. "Is there no hope?" He was desperately

anxious to seize the second or two left; he knew she would not hear the

true account of what had happened from the Baron.

"I guess not," she answered softly. "But come and call." With a smile

she was gone, and from the boat there came the Baron's voice mocking

through the still air, "Good night, Lieutenant Travers. Thank you so

much."

And, drowned by the band that started at that moment, the wonderful and

fearful curse that left the torpedo-lieutenant's lips drifted into the

night unheard.

* * * * *

Let us go on a couple of years. The moment thought of by the

gunnery-lieutenant, the day acclaimed by the Prussian officer had come.

England was at war. Der Tag was a reality. No longer did silks and

shaded lights form part of the equipment of the Navy, but grim and

sombre, ruthlessly stripped of everything not absolutely necessary, the

great grey monsters watched tirelessly through the flying scud of the

North Sea for "the fleet that stayed at home." Only their submarines

were out, and these, day by day, diminished in numbers, until the men

who sent them out looked at one another fearfully--so many went out, so

few came back.

Tearing through the water one day, away a bit to the south-west of

Bantry Bay, with the haze of Ireland lying like a smudge on the horizon,

was a lean, villainous-looking torpedo-boat-destroyer. She was plunging

her nose into the slight swell, now and again drenching the oilskinned

figure standing motionless on the bridge. Behind her a great cloud of

black smoke drifted across the grey water, and the whole vessel was

quivering with the force of her engines. She was doing her maximum and a

bit more, but still the steady, watchful eyes of the officer on the

bridge seemed impatient, and every now and again he cursed softly and

with wonderful fluency under his breath.

It was our friend Jerry, who at the end of his time on the flagship had

been given one of the newest T.B.D.'s, and now with every ounce he could

get out of her he was racing towards the spot from which had come the

last S.O.S. message, nearly an hour ago. There was something grimly

foreboding about those agonised calls sent out to the world for perhaps

twenty minutes, and then--silence, nothing more. German submarines, he

reflected, as for the tenth time he peered at his wrist-watch, German

submarines engaged once again in the only form of war they could compete

in or dared undertake. And not for the first time his thoughts went back

to the vainglorious boastings of his friend the Baron.

"Damn him," he muttered. "I haven't forgotten the sweep."

There were many things he hadn't forgotten; how, when he'd gone to call

on the lady as requested, she had been "out," and it was that sort of

"out" that means "in." How a letter had been answered courteously but

distinctly coldly, and, impotent with rage, he had been forced to the

conclusion that she was offended with him. And with the Prussian able to

say what he liked, it was not difficult to find the reason.

Then the Fleet left, and Jerry resigned himself to the inevitable, a

proceeding which was not made easier by the many rumours he heard to the

effect that the Baron himself had done the trick. Distinctly he wanted

once again to meet that gentleman.

"We ought to see her, if she hasn't sunk, sir, by now." The

sub-lieutenant on the bridge spoke in his ear.

Travers nodded and shrugged his shoulders. He had realised that fact for

some minutes.

"Something on the starboard bow." The voice of the look-out man came to

his ears.

"It's a boat, an open boat," cried the sub., after a careful inspection,

"and it's pretty full, by Jove!"

A curt order, and the T.B.D. swung round and tore down on the little

speck bobbing in the water. And they were still a few hundred yards away

when a look of dawning horror strangely mixed with joy spread over

Jerry's face. His glass was fixed on the boat, and who in God's name was

the woman--impossible, of course--but surely.... If it wasn't her it was

her twin sister; his hand holding the glass trembled with eagerness, and

then at last he knew. The woman standing up in the stern of the boat

_was_ Maisie, and as he got nearer he saw there was a look on her face

which made him catch his breath sharply.

"Great God!" The sub's voice roused him. "What have they been doing?" No

need to ask whom he meant by "they." "The boat is a shambles."

The destroyer slowed down, and from the crew who looked into that

little open boat came dreadful curses. It ran with blood; and at the

bottom women and children moaned feebly, while an elderly man contorted

with pain in the stern, writhed and sobbed in agony. And over this black

scene the eyes of the man and the woman met.

"Carefully, carefully, lads," Travers sang out. This was no time for

questions, only the poor torn fragments counted. Afterwards, perhaps.

Very tenderly the sailors lifted out the bodies, and one of them--a

little girl in his arms, with a dreadful wound in her head--jabbered

like a maniac with the fury of his rage. And so after many days they

again came face to face.

"Are you wounded?" he whispered.

"No." Her voice was hard and strained; she was near the breaking point.

"They sunk us without warning--the _Lucania_--and then shelled us in the

open boats."

"Dear heavens!" Jerry's voice was shaking. "Ah! but you're not hurt, my

lady; they didn't hit you?"

"My mother was drowned, and my father too." She was swaying a little.

"It was the U 99."

"Ah!" The man's voice was almost a sigh.

"Submarine on the port bow, sir." A howl came from the look-out,

followed by the sharp, detonating reports of the destroyer's

quick-firers. And then a roaring cheer. Like lightning Jerry was upon

the bridge, and even he could scarcely contain himself. There, lying

helpless in the water, with a huge hole in her conning tower, wallowed

the U 99. Two direct hits from the destroyer's guns in a vital spot, and

the submarine was a submarine no longer. Just one of those strokes of

poetic justice which happen so rarely in war.

Like rats from a sinking ship the Germans were pouring up and diving

into the water, and with snarling faces the Englishmen waited for them,

waited for them with the dying proofs of their vileness still lying on

the deck as one by one they came on board. Suddenly with a sucking noise

the submarine foundered, and over the seething, troubled waters where

she had been a sheet of blackish oil slowly spread.

But Jerry spared no glance for the sinking boat--he did not so much as

look at the German sailors huddled fearfully together. With hard,

merciless eyes he faced the submarine commander. For the first time in

his life he saw red: for the first time in his life there was murder in

his soul, and the heavy belaying-pin in his hand seemed to goad him on.

"Suppose the positions had been reversed," mocked a voice in his brain.

"Would he have hesitated?" The night two years ago surged back to his

mind; the plaintive crying of the dying child struck on his ears. He

stepped a pace forward with a snarl--his grip tightened on the

bar--when suddenly the man who had carried up the little girl gave a

hoarse cry, and with all his force smote the nearest German in the

mouth. The German fell like a stone.

"Stand fast." Jerry's voice dominated the scene. The old traditions had

come back: the old wonderful discipline. The iron pin dropped with a

clang on the deck. "It is not their fault, they were only obeying his

orders." And once again his eyes rested on their officer.

"So we meet again, Baron von Dressler," he remarked, "and the rat-eaten

ship is not sunk. Is this your work?" He pointed to the mangled bodies.

"It is not," muttered the Prussian.

"You lie, you swine, you lie! Unfortunately for you you didn't quite

carry out your infamous butchery completely enough. There is one person

on board who knows the U 99 sank the _Lucania_ without warning and was

in the boat you shelled."

"I don't believe you, I----"

"Then perhaps you'll believe her. I rather think you know her--very

well." As he spoke he was looking behind the Prussian, to where

Maisie--roused from her semi-stupor by the Baron's voice--had got up,

and with her hand to her heart was swaying backwards and forwards. "Look

behind you, you cur."

The Prussian turned, and then with a cry staggered back, white to the

lips. "You, great heavens, you--Maisie----"

And so once again the three principals of my little drama were face to

face: only the setting had changed. No longer sensuous music and the

warm, violet waters of the Riviera for a background; this time the

moaning of dying men and children was the ghastly orchestra, and, with

the grey scud of the Atlantic flying past them, the Englishman and the

German faced one another, while the American girl stood by. And watching

them were the muttering sailors.

At last she spoke. "This ring, I believe, is yours." She took a

magnificent half-hoop of diamonds from her engagement finger and flung

it into the sea. Then she moved towards him.

"You drowned my mother, and for that I strike you once." She hit him in

the face with an iron-shod pin. "You drowned my father, and for that I

strike you again." Once again she struck him in the face. "I will leave

a fighting man and a gentleman to deal with you for those poor mites."

With a choking sob she turned away, and once again sank down on the coil

of rope.

The Prussian, sobbing with pain and rage, with the blood streaming from

his face, was not a pretty sight; but in Travers's face there was no

mercy.

"'The old and effete versus the new and efficient!' I seem to recall

those words from our last meeting. May I congratulate you on your

efficiency? Bah! you swine"--his face flamed with sudden passion--"if

you aren't skulking in Kiel, you're butchering women. By heavens! I can

conceive of nothing more utterly perfect than flogging you to death."

The Prussian shrank back, his face livid with fear.

"They were my orders," he muttered. "For God's sake----"

"Oh, don't be frightened, Baron von Dressler." The Englishman's voice

was once again under control. "The old and effete don't do that. You

were safe as our guest two years ago; you are safe as our prisoner now.

Your precious carcass will be returned safe and sound to your Royal

uncle at the end of the war, and my only hope is that your face will

still bear those honourable scars. Moreover, if what you say is true, if

the orders of your Government include shelling an open boat crammed with

defenceless women and children--and neutrals at that--I can only say

that their infamy is so incredible as to force one to the conclusion

that they are not responsible for their actions. But--make no

mistake--they will get their retribution."

For a moment he fell silent, looking at the cowering, blood-stained

face opposite him, and then a pitiful wail behind him made him turn

round.

"Mummie, I'se hurted." On her knees beside the little girl was Maisie,

soothing her as best she could, easing the throbbing head, whispering

that mummie couldn't come for a while. "I'se hurted, mummie--I'se

hurted."

Travers turned back again, and the eyes of the two men met.

"My God! Is it possible that a sailor could do such a thing?"

His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the Prussian heard and winced.

In the depths of even the foulest bully there is generally some little

redeeming spark.

"I'se hurted; I want my mummie."

The Prussian's lips moved, but no sound came, while in his eyes was the

look of a man haunted. Travers watched him silently; and at length he

spoke again.

"As I said, your rulers will get their deserts in time, but I think,

Baron von Dressler, your Nemesis has come on you already. That little

poor kid is asking you for her mother. Don't forget it in the years to

come, Baron. No, I don't think you _will_ forget it."

* * * * *

My story is finished. Later on, when some of the dreadful nightmare

through which she had passed had been effaced from her mind, Maisie and

the man who had come to her out of the grey waters discussed many

things. And the story which the Prussian had told her after the dance on

the flagship was finally discredited.

Can anyone recommend me a good cheap book on "Things a Best Man Should

Know"?

CHAPTER VII

THE DEATH GRIP

Two reasons have impelled me to tell the story of Hugh Latimer, and both

I think are good and sufficient. First I was his best friend, and second

I know more about the tragedy than anyone else--even including his wife.

I saw the beginning and the end; she--poor broken-hearted girl--saw only

the end.

There have been many tragedies since this war started; there will be

many more before Finis is written--and each, I suppose, to its own

particular sufferers seems the worst. But, somehow, to my mind Hugh's

case is without parallel, unique--the devil's arch of cruelty. I will

give you the story--and you shall judge for yourself.

Let us lift the curtain and present a dug-out in a support trench

somewhere near Givenchy. A candle gutters in a bottle, the grease

running down like a miniature stalactite congeals on an upturned

packing-case. On another packing-case the remnants of a tongue, some

sardines, and a goodly array of bottles with some tin mugs and plates

completes the furniture--or almost. I must not omit the handsome

coloured pictures--three in all--of ladies of great beauty and charm,

clad in--well, clad in something at any rate. The occupants of this

palatial abode were Hugh Latimer and myself; at the rise of the curtain

both lying in corners, on piles of straw.

Outside, a musician was coaxing noises from a mouth-organ; occasional

snatches of song came through the open entrance, intermingled with

bursts of laughter. One man, I remember, was telling an interminable

story which seemed to be the history of a gentleman called Nobby Clark,

who had dallied awhile with a lady in an estaminet at Bethune, and had

ultimately received a knock-out blow with a frying-pan over the right

eye, for being too rapid in his attentions. Just the usual dull,

strange, haunting trench life--which varies not from day's end to day's

end.

At intervals a battery of our own let drive, the blast of the explosion

catching one through the open door; at intervals a big German shell

moaned its way through the air overhead--an express bound for somewhere.

Had you looked out to the front, you would have seen the bright green

flares lobbing monotonously up into the night, all along the line.

War--modern war; boring, incredible when viewed in cold blood....

"Hullo, Hugh." A voice at the door roused us both from our doze, and

the Adjutant came in. "Will you put your watches right by mine? We are

making a small local attack to-morrow morning, and the battalion is to

leave the trenches at 6.35 exactly."

"Rather sudden, isn't it?" queried Hugh, setting his watch.

"Just come through from Brigade Headquarters. Bombs are being brought up

to H.15. Further orders sent round later. Bye-bye."

He was gone, and once more we sat thinking to the same old accompaniment

of trench noises; but in rather a different frame of mind. To-morrow

morning at 6.35 peace would cease; we should be out and running over the

top of the ground; we should be...

"Will they use gas, I wonder?" Hugh broke the silence.

"Wind too fitful," I answered; "and I suppose it's only a small show."

"I wonder what it's for. I wish one knew more about these affairs; I

suppose one can't, but it would make it more interesting."

The mouth-organ stopped; there were vigorous demands for an encore.

"Poor devils," he went on after a moment. "I wonder how many?--I wonder

how many?"

"A new development for you, Hugh." I grinned at him. "Merry and bright,

old son--your usual motto, isn't it?"

He laughed. "Dash it, Ginger--you can't always be merry and bright. I

don't know why--perhaps it's second sight--but I feel a sort of

presentiment of impending disaster to-night. I had the feeling before

Clements came in."

"Rot, old man," I answered cheerfully. "You'll probably win a V.C., and

the greatest event of the war will be when it is presented to your

cheeild."

Which prophecy was destined to prove the cruellest mixture of truth and

fiction the mind of man could well conceive....

"Good Lord!" he said irritably, taking me seriously for a moment; "we're

a bit too old soldiers to be guyed by palaver about V.C.'s." Then he

recovered his good temper. "No, Ginger, old thing, there's big things

happening to-morrow. Hugh Latimer's life is going into the melting-pot.

I'm as certain of it as--as that I'm going to have a whisky and soda."

He laughed, and delved into a packing-case for the seltzogene.

"How's the son and heir?? I asked after a while.

"Going strong," he answered. "Going strong, the little devil."

And then we fell silent, as men will at such a time. The trench outside

was quiet; the musician, having obliged with his encore, no longer

rendered the night hideous--even the guns were still. What would it be

to-morrow night? Should I still be...? I shook myself and started to

scribble a letter; I was getting afraid of inactivity--afraid of my

thoughts.

"I'm going along the trenches," said Hugh suddenly, breaking the long

silence. "I want to see the Sergeant-Major and give some orders."

He was gone, and I was alone. In spite of myself my thoughts would drift

back to what he had been saying, and from there to his wife and the son

and heir. My mind, overwrought, seemed crowded with pictures: they

jumbled through my brains like a film on a cinematograph.

I saw his marriage, the bridal arch of officers' swords, the

sweet-faced, radiant girl. And then his house came on to the screen--the

house where I had spent many a pleasant week-end while we trained and

sweated to learn the job in England. He was a man of some wealth was

Hugh Latimer, and his house showed it; showed moreover his perfect,

unerring taste. Bits of stuff, curios, knick-knacks from all over the

world met one in odd corners; prints, books, all of the very best,

seemed to fit into the scheme as if they'd grown there. Never did a

single thing seem to whisper as you passed, "I'm really very rare and

beautiful, but I've been dragged into the wrong place, and now I know

I'm merely vulgar." There are houses I wot of where those clamorous

whispers drown the nightingales. But if you can pass through rooms full

of bric-a-brac--silent bric-a-brac: bric-a-brac conscious of its

rectitude and needing no self apology, you may be certain that the owner

will not give you port that is improved by a cigarette.

Then came the son, and Hugh's joy was complete. A bit of a dreamer, a

bit of a poet, a bit of a philosopher, but with a virility all his own;

a big man--a man in a thousand, a man I was proud to call Friend. And

he--at the dictates of "Kultur"--was to-morrow at 6.35 going to expose

himself to the risk of death, in order to wrest from the Hun a small

portion of unprepossessing ground. Truly, humour is not dead in the

world!...

A step outside broke the reel of pictures, and the Sapper Officer looked

in. "I hear a whisper of activity in the dark and stilly morn," he

remarked brightly. "Won't it be nice?"

"Very," I said sarcastically. "Are you coming?"

"No, dear one. That's why I thought it would be so nice. My opposite

number and tireless companion and helper to-morrow morning will prance

over the greensward with you, leading his merry crowd of minions,

bristling with bowie knives, sandbags, and other impedimenta."

"Oh! go to Hell," I said crossly. "I want to write a letter."

"Cheer up, Ginger." He dropped his bantering tone. "I'll be up to drink

a glass of wine with you to-morrow night in the new trench. Tell Latimer

that the wire is all right--it's been thinned out and won't stop him,

and that there are ladders for getting out of the trench on each

traverse."

"Have you been working?" I asked.

"Four hours, and got caught by shrapnel in the middle. Night-night, and

good luck, old man."

He was gone; and when he had, I wished him back again. For the game

wasn't new to him--he'd done it before; and I hadn't. It tends to give

one confidence....

It was about four I woke up. For a few blissful moments I lay forgetful;

then I turned and saw Hugh. There was a new candle in the bottle, and by

its flicker I saw the glint in his sombre eyes, the clear-cut line of

his profile. And I remembered....

I felt as if something had caught me by the stomach--inside: a sinking

feeling, a feeling of nausea: and for a while I lay still. Outside in

the darkness the men were rousing themselves; now and again a curse was

muttered as someone tripped over a leg he didn't see; and once the

Sergeant-Major's voice rang out--"'Ere, strike a light with them

breakfasts."

"Awake, Ginger?" Hugh prodded me with his foot. "You'd better get

something inside you, and then we'll go round and see that everything is

O.K."

"Have you had any sleep, Hugh?"

"No. I've been reading." He put Maeterlinck's "Blue Bird" on the table.

With his finger on the title he looked at me musingly, "Shall we find it

to-day, I wonder?"

* * * * *

I have lingered perhaps a little long on what is after all only the

introduction to my story. But it is mainly for the sake of Hugh's wife

that I have written it at all; to show her how he passed the last few

hours before--the change came. Of what happened just after 6.35 on that

morning I cannot profess to have any very clear idea. We went over the

parapet I remember, and forward at the double. For half an hour

beforehand a rain of our shells had plastered the German trenches in

front of us, and during those eternal thirty minutes we waited tense.

Hugh Latimer alone of all the men I saw seemed absolutely unconscious of

anything unusual. Some of the men were singing below their breath, and

one I remember sucked his teeth with maddening persistency. And one and

all watched me curiously, speculatively--or so it seemed to me. Then we

were off, and of crossing No-Man's-Land I have no recollection. I

remember a man beside me falling with a crash and nearly tripping me

up--and then, at last, the Huns. I let drive with my revolver from the

range of a few inches into the fat, bloated face of a frightened-looking

man in dirty grey, and as he crashed down I remember shouting, "There's

the Blue Bird for you, old dear." Little things like that do stick. But

everything else is just a blurred phantasmagoria in my mind. And after a

while it was over. The trench was full of still grey figures, with here

and there a khaki one beside them. A sapper officer forced his way

through shouting for a working-party. We were the flanking company, and

vital work had to be done and quick. Barricades rigged up, communication

trenches which now ran to our Front blocked up, the trench made to fire

the other way. For we knew there would be a counter-attack, and if you

fail to consolidate what you've won you won't keep it long. It was while

I slaved and sweated with the men shifting sandbags--turning the

parados, or back of the trench into the new parapet, or front--that I

got word that Hugh was dead. I hadn't seen him since the morning, and

the rumour passed along from man to man.

"The Captain's took it. Copped it in the head. Bomb took him in the

napper."

But there was no time to stop and enquire, and with my heart sick within

me I worked on. One thing at any rate; it had only been a little show,

but it had been successful--the dear chap hadn't lost his life in a

failure. Then I saw the doctor for a moment.

"No, he's not dead," he said, "but--he's mighty near it. You know he

practically ran the show single-handed on the left flank."

"What did he do?" I cried.

"Do? Why he kept a Hun bombing-party who were working up the trench at

bay for half an hour by himself, which completely saved the situation,

and then went out into the open, when he was relieved, and pulled in

seven men who'd been caught by a machine-gun. It was while he was

getting the last one that a bomb exploded almost on his head. Why he

wasn't killed on the spot, I simply can't conceive." And the doctor was

gone.

But strange things happen, and the hand of Death is ever capricious. Was

it not only the other day that we exploded a mine, and sailing through

the air there came a Hun--a whole complete Hun. Stunned and winded he

fell on the parapet of our trench, and having been pulled in and

revived, at last sat up. "Goot," he murmured; "I hof long vanted to

surrender...."

Hugh Latimer was not dead--that was the great outstanding fact; though

had I known the writing in the roll of Fate, I would have wished a

thousand times that the miracle had not happened. There are worse

things than death....

And now I bring the first part of my tragedy to a halt; the beginning as

I called it--that part which Hugh's wife did not know. She, with all the

world, saw the announcement in the paper, the announcement--bald and

official of the deed for which he won his V.C. It was much as the doctor

described it to me. She, with all the world, saw his name in the

Casualty List as wounded; and on receipt of a telegram from the War

Office, she crossed to France in fear and trembling--for the wire did

not mince words; his condition was very critical. He did not know

her--he was quite unconscious, and had been so for days. That night they

were trephining, and there was just a hope....

The next morning Hugh knew his wife.

* * * * *

For the next three months I did not see him. The battalion was still up,

and I got no chance of going down to Boulogne. He didn't stay there

long, but, following the ordinary routine of the R.A.M.C., went back to

England in a hospital ship, and into a home in London. Sir William

Cremer, the eminent brain specialist, who had operated on him, and been

particularly interested in his case, kept him under his eye for a

couple of months, and then he went to his own home to recuperate.

All this and a lot more besides I got in letters from his wife. The King

himself had graciously come round and presented him with the cross--and

she was simply brimming over with happiness, dear soul. He was ever so

much better, and very cheerful; and Sir William was a perfect dear; and

he'd actually taken out six ounces of brain during the operation, and

wasn't it wonderful. Also the son and heir grew more perfect every day.

Which news, needless to say, cheered me immensely.

Then came the first premonition of something wrong. For a fortnight I'd

not heard from her, and then I got a letter which wasn't quite so

cheerful.

"... Hugh doesn't seem able to sleep." So ran part of it. "He is

terribly restless, and at times dreadfully irritable. He doesn't seem to

have any pain in his head, which is a comfort. But I'm not quite easy

about him, Ginger. The other evening I was sitting opposite to him in

the study, and suddenly something compelled me to look at him. I have

never seen anything like the look in his eyes. He was staring at the

fire, and his right hand was opening and shutting like a bird's talon. I

was terrified for a moment, and then I forced myself to speak calmly.

"'Why this ferocious expression, old boy,' I said, with a laugh. For a

moment he did not answer, but his eyes left the fire, and travelled

slowly round till they met mine. I never knew what that phrase meant

till then; it always struck me as a sort of author's license. But that

evening I felt them coming, and I could have screamed. He gazed at me in

silence and then at last he spoke.

"'Have you ever heard of the Death Grip? Some day I'll tell you about

it.' Then he looked away, and I made an excuse to go out of the room,

for I was shaking with fright. It was so utterly unlike Hugh to make a

silly remark like that. When I came back later, he was perfectly calm

and his own self again. Moreover, he seemed to have completely forgotten

the incident, because he apologised for having been asleep.

"I wanted Sir William to come down and see him; or else for us to go up

to town, as I expect Sir William is far too busy. But Hugh wouldn't hear

of it, and got quite angry--so I didn't press the matter. But I'm

worried, Ginger...."

I read this part of the letter to our doctor. We were having an omelette

of huit-oeufs, and une bouteille de vin rouge in a little estaminet way

back, I remember; and I asked him what he thought.

"My dear fellow," he said, "frankly it's impossible to say. You know

what women are; and that letter may give quite a false impression of

what really took place. You see what I mean: in her anxiety she may

have exaggerated some jocular remark. She's had a very wearing time, and

her own nerves are probably a bit on edge. But----" he paused and leaned

back. "Encore du vin, s'il vous plait, mam'selle. But, Ginger, it's no

good pretending, there may be a very much more sinister meaning behind

it all. The brain is a most complex organisation, and even such men as

Cremer are only standing on the threshold of knowledge with regard to

it. They know a lot--but how much more there is to learn! Latimer, as

you know, owes his life practically to a miracle. Not once in a thousand

times would a man escape instant death under such circumstances. A great

deal of brain matter was exposed, and subsequently removed at Boulogne

by Sir William, when he trephined. And it is possible that some radical

alteration has taken place in Hugh Latimer's character, soul--whatever

you choose to call that part of a man which controls his life--as a

result of the operation. If what Mrs. Latimer says is the truth--and

when I say that I mean if what she says is to be relied on as a cold,

bald statement of what happened--then I am bound to say that I think the

matter is very serious indeed."

"God Almighty!" I cried, "do you mean to say that you think there is a

chance of Hugh going mad?"

"To be perfectly frank, I do; always granted that that letter is

reliable. I consider it vital that whether he wishes to or whether he

doesn't, Sir William Cremer should be consulted. And--_at once_." The

doctor emphasised his words with his fist on the table.

"Great Scott! Doc," I muttered. "Do you really think there is danger?"

"I don't know enough of the case to say that. But I do know something

about the brain, enough to say that there might be not only danger, but

hideous danger, to everyone in the house." He was silent for a bit and

then rapped out. "Does Mrs. Latimer share the same room as her husband?"

"I really don't know," I answered. "I imagine so."

"Well, I don't know how well you know her; but until Sir William gives a

definite opinion, if I knew her well enough, I would strongly advise her

to sleep in another room--_and lock the door_."

"Good God! you think ..."

"Look here, Ginger, what's the good of beating about the bush. It is

possible--I won't say probable--that Hugh Latimer is on the road to

becoming a homicidal maniac. And if, by any chance, that assumption is

correct, the most hideous tragedy might happen at any moment. Mam'selle,

l'addition s'il vous plait. You're going on leave shortly, aren't you?"

"In two days," I answered.

"Well, go down and see for yourself; it won't require a doctor to

notice the symptoms. And if what I fear is correct, track out Cremer in

his lair--find him somehow and find him quickly."

We walked up the road together, and my glance fell on the plot of ground

on the right, covered so thickly with little wooden crosses. As I looked

away the doctor's eyes and mine met. And there was the same thought in

both our minds.

* * * * *

Three days later I was in Hugh's house. His wife met me at the station,

and before we got into the car my heart sank. I knew something was

wrong.

"How is he?" I asked, as we swung out of the gates.

"Oh! Ginger," she said. "I'm frightened--frightened to death."

"What is it, lady," I cried. "Has he been looking at you like that

again, the way you described in the letter?"

"Yes--it's getting more frequent. And at nights--oh! my God! it's awful.

Poor old Hugh."

She broke down at that, while I noticed that her hands were all

trembling, and that dark shadows were round her eyes.

"Tell me about it," I said, "for we must do something."

She pulled herself together, and called through the speaking-tube to

the chauffeur. "Go a little way round, Jervis. I don't want to get in

till tea-time."

Then she turned to me. "Since his operation I've been using another

room." The doctor's words flashed into my mind. "Sir William thought it

essential that he should have really long undisturbed nights, and I'm

such a light sleeper. For a few weeks everything panned out splendidly.

He seemed to get better and stronger, and he was just the same dear old

Hugh he's always been. Then gradually the restlessness started; he

couldn't sleep, he became irritable,--and the one thing which made him

most irritable of all was any suggestion that he wasn't going on all

right; or any hint even that he should see a doctor. Then came the

incident I wrote to you about. Since that evening I've often caught the

same look in his eye." She shuddered, and again I noticed the quiver in

her hands, but she quickly controlled herself. "Last night, I woke up

suddenly. It must have been about three, for it was pitch dark, and I

think I'd been asleep some hours. I don't know what woke me; but in an

instant I knew there was someone in the room. I lay trembling with

fright, and suddenly out of the darkness came a hideous chuckle. It was

the most awful, diabolical noise I've ever heard. Then I heard his

voice.

"He was muttering, and all I could catch were the words 'Death-Grip.' I

nearly fainted with terror, but forced myself to keep consciousness. How

long he stood there I don't know, but after an eternity it seemed, I

heard the door open and shut. I heard him cross the passage, and go into

his own room. Then there was silence. I forced myself to move; I

switched on the light, and locked the door. And when dawn came in

through the windows, I was still sitting in a chair sobbing, shaking

like a terrified child.

"This morning he was perfectly normal, and just as cheerful and loving

as he'd ever been. Oh! Ginger, what am I to do?" She broke down and

cried helplessly.

"You poor kid," I said; "what an awful experience! You must lock your

door to-night, and to-morrow, with or without Hugh's knowledge, I shall

go up to see Cremer."

"You don't think; oh! it couldn't be true that Hugh, my Hugh, is

going----" She wouldn't say the word, but just gazed at me fearfully

through her tears.

"Hush, my lady," I said quietly. "The brain is a funny thing; perhaps

there is some pressure somewhere which Sir William will be able to

remove."

"Why, of course that's it. I'm tired, stupid--it's made me exaggerate

things. It will mean another operation, that's all. Wasn't it splendid

about his getting the V.C.; and the King, so gracious, so kind...." She

talked bravely on, and I tried to help her.

But suppose there wasn't any pressure; suppose there was nothing to

remove; suppose.... And in my mind I saw the plot with the little wooden

crosses; in my mind I heard the express for somewhere booming sullenly

overhead. And I wondered ... shuddered.

* * * * *

Hugh met us at the door; dear old Hugh, looking as well as he ever did.

"Splendid, Ginger, old man! So glad you managed the leave all right."

"Not a hitch, Hugh. You're looking very fit."

"I am. Fit as a flea. You ask Elsie what she thinks."

His wife smiled. "You're just wonderful, old boy, except for your

sleeplessness at night. I want him to see Sir William Cremer, Ginger,

but he doesn't think it worth while."

"I don't," said Hugh shortly. "Damn that old sawbones."

In another man the remark would have passed unnoticed; but the chauffeur

was there, and a maid, and his wife--and the expression was quite

foreign to Hugh.

But I am bound to say that except for that one trifling thing I noticed

absolutely nothing peculiar about him all the evening. At dinner he was

perfectly normal; quite charming--his own brilliant self. When he was in

the mood, I have seldom heard his equal as a conversationalist, and that

night he was at the top of his form. I almost managed to persuade myself

that my fears were groundless....

"I want to have a buck with Ginger, dear," he said to his wife after

dinner was over. "A talk over the smells and joys of Flanders."

"But I should like to hear," she answered. "It's so hard to get you men

to talk."

"I don't think you would like to hear, my dear." His tone was quite

normal, but there was a strange note of insistence in it. "It's shop,

and will bore you dreadfully." He still stood by the door waiting for

her to pass through. After a moment's hesitation she went, and Hugh

closed the door after her. What suggested the analogy to my mind I

cannot say, but the way in which he performed the simple act of closing

the door seemed to be the opening rite of some ceremony. Thus could I

picture a morphomaniac shutting himself in from prying gaze, before

abandoning himself to his vice; the drunkard, at last alone, returning

gloatingly to his bottle. Perhaps my perceptions were quickened, but it

seemed to me that Hugh came back to me as if I were his colleague in

some guilty secret--as if his wife were alien to his thoughts, and now

that she was gone, we could talk.... His first words proved I was right.

"Now we can talk, Ginger," he remarked. "These women don't understand."

He pushed the port towards me.

"Understand what?" I was watching him closely.

"Life, my boy, _the_ life. The life of an eye for an eye and a tooth for

a tooth. Gad! it was a great day that, Ginger." His eyes were fixed on

me, and for the first time I noticed the red in them, and a peculiar

twitch in the lids.

"Did you find the Blue Bird?" I asked quietly.

"Find it?" He laughed--and it was not a pleasant laugh. "I used to think

it lay in books, in art, in music." Again he gave way to a fit of

devilish mirth. "What damned fools we are, old man, what damned fools.

But you mustn't tell her." He leaned over the table and spoke

confidentially. "She'd never understand; that's why I got rid of her."

He lifted his glass to the light, looking at it as a connoisseur looks

at a rare vintage, while all the time a strange smile--a cruel

smile--hovered round his lips. "Music--art," his voice was full of

scorn. "Only we know better. Did I ever tell you about that grip I

learned in Sumatra--the Death Grip?"

He suddenly fired the question at me, and for a moment I did not

answer. All my fears were rushing back into my mind with renewed

strength; it was not so much the question as the tone--and the eyes of

the speaker.

"No, never." I lit a cigarette with elaborate care.

"Ah! Someday I must show you. You take a man's throat in your right

hand, and you put your left behind his neck--like that." His hands were

curved in front of him--curved as if a man's throat was in them. "Then

you press and press with the two thumbs--like that; with the right thumb

on a certain muscle in the neck, and the left on an artery under the

ear; and you go on pressing, until--until there's no need to press any

longer. It's wonderful." I can't hope to give any idea of the dreadful

gloating tone in his voice.

"I got a Prussian officer like that, that day," he went on after a

moment. "I saw his dirty grey face close to mine, and I got my hands on

his throat. I'd forgotten the exact position for the grip, and then

suddenly I remembered it. I squeezed and squeezed--and, Ginger, the grip

was right. I squeezed his life out in ten seconds." His voice rose to a

shout.

"Steady, Hugh," I cried. "You'll be frightening Elsie."

"Quite right," he answered; "that would never do. I haven't told her

that little incident--she wouldn't understand. But I'm going to show

her the grip one of these days. As a soldier's wife, I think it's a

thing she ought to know."

He relapsed into silence, apparently quite calm, though his eyelids

still twitched, while I watched him covertly from time to time. In my

mind now there was no shadow of doubt that the doctor's fears were

justified; I knew that Hugh Latimer was insane. That his loss of mental

balance was periodical and not permanent was not the point; layman

though I was, I could realise the danger to everyone in the house. At

the moment the tragedy of the case hardly struck me; I could only think

of the look on his face, the gloating, watching look--and Elsie and the

boy....

At half-past nine he went to bed, and I had a few words with his wife.

"Lock your door to-night," I said insistently, "as you value everything,

lock your door. I am going to see Cremer to-morrow."

"What's he been saying?" she asked, and her lips were white. "I heard

him shouting once."

"Enough to make me tell you to lock your door," I said as lightly as I

could. "Elsie, you've got to be brave; something has gone wrong with

poor old Hugh for the time, and until he's put right again, there are

moments when he's not responsible for his actions. Don't be uneasy; I

shall be on hand to-night."

"I shan't be uneasy" she answered, and then she turned away, and I saw

her shoulders shaking. "My Hugh--my poor old man." I caught the

whispered words, and she was gone.

* * * * *

I suppose it was about two that I woke with a start. I had meant to keep

awake the whole night, and with that idea I had not undressed, but,

sitting in a chair before the fire, had tried to keep myself awake with

a book. But the journey from France had made me sleepy, and the book had

slipped to the floor, as has been known to happen before. The light was

still on, though the fire had burned low; and I was cramped and stiff.

For a moment I sat listening intently--every faculty awake; and then I

heard a door gently close, and a step in the passage. I switched off the

light and listened.

Instinctively, I knew the crisis had come, and with the need for action

I became perfectly cool. Soft footsteps, like a man walking in his

socks, came distinctly through the door which I had left ajar--once a

board creaked. And after that sharp ominous crack there was silence for

a space; the nocturnal walker was cautious, cautious with the devilish

cunning of the madman.

It seemed to me an eternity as I listened--straining to hear in the

silent house--then once again there came the soft pad-pad of stockinged

feet; nearer and nearer till they halted outside my door. I could hear

the heavy breathing of someone outside, and then stealthily my door was

pushed open. In the dim light which filtered in from the passage Hugh's

figure was framed in the doorway. With many pauses and very cautious

steps he moved to the bed, while I pressed against the wall watching

him.

His hands wandered over the pillows, and then he muttered to himself.

"Old Ginger--I suppose he hasn't come to bed yet. And I wanted to show

him that little grip--that little death-grip." He chuckled horribly.

"Never mind--Elsie, dear little Elsie; I will show her first. Though she

won't understand so well--only Ginger would really understand."

He moved to the door, and once again the slow padding of his feet

sounded in the passage; while he still muttered, though I could not hear

what he said. Then he came to his wife's door and cautiously turned the

handle....

What happened then happened quickly. He realised quickly that it was

locked, and this seemed to infuriate him. He gave an inarticulate shout,

and rattled the door violently; then he drew back to the other side of

the passage and prepared to charge it. And at that moment we closed.

I had followed him out of my room, and, knowing myself to be far

stronger than him, I threw myself on him without a thought I hadn't

reckoned on the strength of a madman, and for two minutes he threw me

about as if I were a child. We struggled and fought, while frightened

maids wrung their hands--and a white-faced woman watched with tearless

eyes. And at last I won; when his temporary strength gave out, he was as

weak as a child. Poor old Hugh! Poor old chap!...

* * * * *

Sir William Cremer came down the next day, and to him I told everything.

He made all the necessary wretched arrangements, and the dear fellow was

taken away--seemingly quite sane--and telling Elsie he'd be back soon.

"They say I need a change, old dear, and this old tyrant says I've been

restless at night." He had his hand on Sir William's shoulder as he

spoke, while the car was waiting at the door.

"Jove! little girl--you do look a bit washed out Have I been worrying

you?"

"Of course not, old man." Her voice was perfectly steady.

"There you are, Sir William." He turned triumphantly to the doctor.

"Still perhaps you're right. Where's the young rascal? Give me a kiss,

you scamp--and look after your mother while I'm away. I'll be back

soon." He went down the steps and into the car.

"And very likely he will, Mrs. Latimer. Keep your spirits up and never

despair." Sir William patted her shoulder paternally, but over her bent

head I saw his eyes.

"God knows," he said reverently to me as he followed Hugh. "The brain is

such a wonderful thing; just a tiny speck and a genius becomes a madman.

God knows."

* * * * *

Later on I too went away, carrying in my mind the picture of a girl--she

was no more--holding a little bronze cross in front of a laughing

baby--the cross on which is written, "For Valour." And once again my

mind went back to that little plot in Flanders covered with wooden

crosses.

CHAPTER VIII

JAMES HENRY

James Henry was the sole remaining son of his mother, and she was a

widow. His father, some twelve months previously, had inadvertently

encountered a motor-car travelling at great speed, and had forthwith

been laid to rest. His sisters--whom James Henry affected to

despise--had long since left the parental roof and gone to seek their

Fortunes in the great world; while his brothers had in all cases died

violent deaths, following in the steps of their lamented father. In

fact, as I said, James Henry was alone in the world saving only for his

mother: and as she'd married again since his father's death he felt that

his responsibility so far as she was concerned was at an end. In fact,

he frequently cut her when he met her about the house.

Relations had become particularly strained after this second matrimonial

venture. An aristocrat of the most unbending description himself, he had

been away during the period of her courtship--otherwise, no doubt, he

would have protected his father's stainless escutcheon. As it was, he

never quite recovered from the shock.

It was at breakfast one morning that he heard the news. Lady Monica told

him as she handed him his tea. "James Henry," she remarked

reproachfully, "your mother is a naughty woman." True to his

aristocratic principle of stoical calm he continued to consume his

morning beverage. There were times when the mention of his mother bored

him to extinction. "A very naughty woman," she continued. "Dad"--she

addressed a man who had just come into the room--"it's occurred."

"What--have they come?"

"Yes--last night. Five."

"Are they good ones?"

Lady Alice laughed. "I was just telling James Henry what I thought of

his Family when you came in. I'm afraid Harriet Emily is incorrigible."

"Look at James!" exclaimed the Earl--"he's spilled his tea all over the

carpet." He was inspecting the dishes on the sideboard as he spoke.

"He always does. His whiskers dribble. Jervis tells me that he thinks

Harriet Emily must have--er--flirted with a most undesirable

acquaintance."

"Oh! has she?" Her father opened the morning paper and started to enjoy

his breakfast. "We must drown 'em, my dear, drown---- Hullo! the

Russians have crossed the----" It sounded like an explosion in a

soda-water factory, and James Henry protested.

"Quite right, Henry. He oughtn't to do it at breakfast. It doesn't

really make any one any happier. Did _you_ know about your mother? Now

don't gobble your food." Lady Monica held up an admonishing finger.

"Four of your brothers and sisters are more or less respectable, James,

but there's _one_--there's one that is distinctly reminiscent of a

dachshund. Oh! 'Arriet, 'Arriet--I'm ashamed of you."

James Henry sneezed heavily and got down from the table. Always a

perfect gentleman, he picked up the crumbs round his chair, and even

went so far as to salvage a large piece of sausage skin which had

slipped on to the floor. Then, full of rectitude and outwardly

unconcerned, he retired to a corner behind a cupboard and earnestly

contemplated a little hole in the floor.

Outwardly calm--yes: that at least was due to the memory of his

blue-blooded father. But inwardly, he seethed. With his head on one side

he alternately sniffed and blew as he had done regularly every morning

for the past two months. His father's wife the mother of a sausage-dog!

Incredible! It must have been that miserable fat beast who lived at the

Pig and Whistle. The insolence--the inconceivable impertinence of such

an unsightly, corpulent traducer daring to ally himself with One of the

Fox Terriers. He growled slightly in his disgust, and three mice inside

the wall laughed gently. But--still, the girls are ever frail. He

blushed slightly at some recollection, and realised that he must make

allowances. But a sausage dog! Great Heavens!

"James--avancons, mon brave." Lady Monica was standing in the window.

"We will hie us to the village. Dad, don't forget that our branch of the

Federated Association of Women War Workers are drilling here this

afternoon."

"Good Heavens! my dear girl--is it?" Her father gazed at her in alarm.

"I think--er--I think I shall have to--er--run up to Town--er--this

afternoon."

"I thought you'd have to, old dear. In fact, I've ordered the car for

you. Come along, Henry--we must go and get a boy scout to be bandaged."

James Henry gave one last violently facial contortion at the entrance of

the mouse's lair, and rose majestically to his feet. If she wanted to go

out, he fully realised that he must go with her: Emily would have to

wait. He would go round later and see his poor misguided mother and

reason with her; but just at present the girl was his principal duty.

She generally asked his advice on various things when they went for a

walk, and the least he could do was to pretend to be interested at any

rate.

Apparently this morning she was in need of much counsel and help.

Having arrived at a clearing in the wood, on the way to the village, she

sat down on the fallen trunk of a tree, and addressed him.

"James--what am I to do? Derek is coming this afternoon before he goes

back to France. What shall I tell him, Henry--what _shall_ I tell him?

Because I know he'll ask me again. Thank you, old man, but you're not

very helpful, and I'd much sooner you kept it yourself."

Disgustedly James Henry removed the carcase of a field mouse he had just

procured, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

"I'm fond of him; I like him--in fact at times more than like him. But

is it the _real_ thing? Now what do you think, James Henry?--tell me all

that is in your mind. Ought I----"

It was then that he gave his celebrated rendering of a young typhoon,

owing to the presence of a foreign substance--to wit, a fly--in a

ticklish spot on his nose.

"You think that, do you? Well, perhaps you're right. Come on, my lad, we

must obtain the victim for this afternoon. I wonder if those little boys

like it? To do some good and kindly action each day--that's their motto,

James. And as one person to another you must admit that to be revived

from drowning, resuscitated from fainting, brought to from an epileptic

fit, and have two knees, an ankle, and a collarbone set at the same

time is some good action even for a boy scout."

* * * * *

It was not until after lunch that James Henry paid his promised call on

his mother. Maturer considerations had but strengthened his resolve to

make allowances. After all, these things do happen in the best families.

He was, indeed, prepared to be magnanimous and forgive; he was even

prepared to be interested; the only thing he wasn't prepared for was the

nasty bite he got on his ear. That settled it. It was then that he

finally washed his hands of his undutiful parent. As he told her, he

felt more sorrow than anger; he should have realised that anyone who

could have dealings with a sausage-hound must be dead to all sense of

decency--and that the only thing he asked was that in the future she

would conceal the fact that they were related.

Then he left her--and trotting round to the front of the house, found

great activity in progress on the lawn.

"Good Heavens! James Henry, do they often do this?" With a shout of joy

he recognised the speaker. And having told him about Harriet, and blown

heavily at a passing spider and then trodden on it, he sat down beside

the soldier on the steps. The game on the lawn at first sight looked

dull; and he only favoured it with a perfunctory glance. In fact, what

on earth there was in it to make the soldier beside him shake and shake

while the tears periodically rolled down his face was quite beyond

Henry.

The principal player seemed to be a large man--also in khaki--with a

loud voice. Up to date he had said nothing but "Now then, ladies," at

intervals, and in a rising crescendo. Then it all became complicated.

"Now then, ladies, when I says Number--you numbers from Right to Left in

an heven tone of voice. The third lady from the left 'as no lady behind

'er--seeing as we're a hodd number. She forms the blank file. Yes, you,

mum--you, I means."

"What are you pointing at me for, my good man?" The Vicar's wife

suddenly realised she was being spoken to. "Am I doing anything wrong?"

"No, mum, no. Not this time. I was only saying as you 'ave no one behind

you."

"Oh! I'll go there at once--I'm so sorry." She retired to the rear rank.

"Dear Mrs. Goodenough, _did_ I tread upon your foot?--so clumsy of me!

Oh, what is that man saying now? But you've just told me to come here.

You did nothing of the sort? How rude!"

But as I said, the game did not interest James Henry, so he wandered

away and played in some bushes. There were distinct traces of a recently

moving mole which was far more to the point. Then having found--after a

diligent search and much delight in pungent odours--that the mole was a

has-been, our Henry disappeared for a space. And far be it from me to

disclose where he went: his intentions were always strictly honourable.

When he appeared again the Earl had just returned from London, and was

talking to the tall soldier-man. The Women War Workers had departed,

and, as James Henry approached, his mistress came out and joined the two

men.

"Have those dreadful women gone, my dear?" asked the Earl as he saw her.

"You're very rude, Dad. The Federated Association of the W.W.W. is a

very fine body of patriotic women. What did you think of our drill,

Derek?"

"Wonderful, Monica. Quite the most wonderful thing I've ever seen." The

soldier solemnly offered her a cigarette.

"You men are all jealous. We're coming out to France as V.A.D.'s soon."

"Good Lord, Derek--you ought to have seen their first drill. In one

corner of the lawn that poor devil of a sergeant with his face a shiny

purple alternately sobbed and bellowed like a bull--while twenty-seven

W.W.W.'s tied themselves into a knot like a Rugby football scrum, and

told one another how they'd done it. It was the most heart-rending

sight I've ever seen."

"Dear old Dad!" The girl blew a cloud of smoke. "You told it better last

time."

"Don't interrupt, Monica. The final tableau----"

"Which one are you going to tell him, dear? The one where James Henry

bit the Vicar's wife in the leg, or the one where the sergeant with a

choking cry of 'Double, damn you!' fell fainting into the rhododendron

bush?"

"I think the second is the better," remarked the soldier pensively.

"Dogs always bite the Vicar's wife's leg. Not a hobby I should

personally take up, but----"

They all laughed. "Now run indoors, old 'un, and tell John to get you a

mixed Vermouth--I want to talk to Derek." The girl gently pushed her

father towards the open window.

It was at that particular moment in James Henry's career that, having

snapped at a wasp and partially killed it, he inadvertently sat on the

carcase by mistake. As he explained to Harriet Emily afterwards, it

wasn't so much the discomfort of the proceeding which annoyed him, as

the unfeeling laughter of the spectators. And it was only when she'd

bitten him in the other ear that he remembered he had disowned her that

very afternoon.

* * * * *

But elsewhere, though he was quite unaware of the fact, momentous

decisions as to his future were being taken. The Earl had gone in to get

his mixed Vermouth, and outside his daughter and the soldier-man sat and

talked. It was fragmentary, disjointed--the talk of old friends with

much in common. Only in the man's voice there was that suppressed note

which indicates things more than any mere words. Monica heard it and

sighed--she'd heard it so often before in his voice. James Henry had

heard it too during a previous talk--one which he had graced with his

presence--and had gone to the extent of discussing it with a friend. On

this occasion he had been gently dozing on the man's knee, when suddenly

he had been rudely awakened. In his dreams he had heard her say, "Dear

old Derek--I'm afraid it's No. You see, I'm not sure;" which didn't seem

much to make a disturbance about.

"Would you believe it," he remarked later, "but as she spoke the

soldier-man's grip tightened on my neck till I was almost choked."

"What did you do?" asked his Friend, a disreputable "long-dog." "Did you

bite him?"

"I did not." James Henry sniffed. "It was not a biting moment. Tact was

required. I just gave a little cough, and instantly he took his hand

away. 'Old man,' he whispered to me--she'd left us--'I'm sorry. I

didn't mean to--I wasn't thinking.' So I licked his hand to show him I

understood."

"I know what you mean. I'm generally there when my bloke comes out of

prison, and he always kicks me. But it's meant kindly."

"As a matter of fact that is not what I mean--though I daresay your

experiences on such matters are profound." James was becoming

blue-blooded. "The person who owns you, and who is in the habit of going

to--er--prison, no doubt shows his affection for you in that way. And

very suitable too. But the affair to which I alluded is quite different.

The soldier-man is almost as much in my care as the girl. And so I know

his feelings. At the time, he was suffering though why I don't

understand; and therefore it was up to me to suffer with him. It helped

him."

"H'm," the lurcher grunted. "Daresay you're right. What about a trip to

the gorse? I haven't seen a rabbit for some time."

And if Henry had not sat on the wasp, his neck might again have been

squeezed that evening. As it was, the danger period was over by the time

he reappeared and jumped into the girl's lap. Not only had the sixth

proposal been gently turned down--but James's plans for the near future

had been settled for him in a most arbitrary manner.

"Well, old man, how's the tail?" laughed the soldier. James Henry

yawned--the subject seemed a trifle personal even amongst old friends.

"Have you heard you're coming with me to France?"

"And you must bring him to me as soon as I get over," cried the girl.

"At once, dear lady. I'll ask for special leave, and if necessary an

armistice."

"Won't you bark at the Huns, my cherub?" She laughed and got up. "Go to

your uncle--I'm going to dress."

What happened then was almost more than even the most long-suffering

terrier could stand. He was unceremoniously bundled into his uncle's

arms by his mistress, and at the same moment she bent down. A strange

noise was heard such as he had frequently noted, coming from the top of

his own head, when his mistress was in an affectionate mood--a peculiar

form of exercise he deduced, which apparently amused some people. But

the effect on the soldier was electrical. He sprang out of his chair

with a shout--"Monica--you little devil--come back," and James Henry

fell winded to the floor. But a flutter of white disappearing indoors

was the only answer....

"She's not sure, James, my son--she's not sure." The man pulled out his

cigarette case and contemplated him thoughtfully. "And how the deuce

are we to make her sure? I want it, and her father wants it, and so

does she if she only knew it. They're the devil, James Henry--they're

the devil."

But his hearer did not want philosophy; he wanted his tummy rubbed. He

lay with one eye closed, his four paws turned up limply towards the sky,

and sighed gently. Never before had the suggestion failed; enthusiastic

admirers had always taken the hint gladly, and he had graciously allowed

them the pleasure. But this time--horror upon horror--not only was there

no result, but in a dreamy, contemplative manner the soldier actually

deposited his used and still warm match carefully on the spot where

James Henry's wind had been. Naturally there was only one possible

course open to him. He rose quietly, and left. It was only when he was

thinking the matter over later that it struck him that his exit would

have been more dignified if he hadn't sat down halfway across the lawn

to scratch his right ear. It was more than likely that a completely

false construction would be put on that simple action by anyone who

didn't know he'd had words with Harriet Emily.

* * * * *

Thus James Henry--gentleman, at his country seat in England. I have gone

out of my way to describe what may be taken as an average day in his

life, in order to show him as he was before he went to France to be

banished from the country--cashiered in disgrace a few weeks after his

arrival. Which only goes to prove the change that war causes in even the

most polished and courtly.

I am told that the alteration for the worse started shortly after his

arrival at the front. What did it I don't know--but he lost one whisker

and a portion of an ear, thus giving him a somewhat lopsided appearance;

though rakish withal. It may have been a detonator which went off as he

ate it--it may have been foolish curiosity over a maxim--it may even

have been due to the fact that he found a motor-bicycle standing still,

what time it made strange provocative noises, and failed to notice that

the back wheel was off the ground and rotating at a great pace.

Whatever it was it altered James Henry. Not that it soured his

temper--not at all; but it made him more reckless, less careful of

appearances. He forgot the repose that stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,

and a series of incidents occurred which tended to strain relations all

round.

There was the question of the three dead chickens, for instance. Had

they disappeared decently and in order much might have been thought but

nothing would have been known. But when they were deposited on their

owner's doorstep, with James Henry mounting guard over the corpses

himself, it was a little difficult to explain the matter away. That was

the trouble--his sense of humour seemed to have become distorted.

The pastime of hunting for rats in the sewers of Ypres cannot be too

highly commended; but having got thoroughly wet in the process, James

Henry's practice of depositing the rat and himself on the Adjutant's bed

was open to grave criticism.

But enough: these two instances were, I am sorry to state, but types of

countless other regrettable episodes which caused the popularity of

James Henry to wane.

The final decree of death or banishment came when James had been in the

country some seven weeks.

On the day in question a dreadful shout was heard, followed by a flood

of language which I will refrain from committing to print. And then the

Colonel appeared in the door of his dug-out.

"Where is that accursed idiot, Murgatroyd? Pass the word along for the

damn fool."

"'Urry up, Conky. The ole man's a-twittering for you." Murgatroyd

emerged from a recess.

"What's 'e want?"

"I'd go and find out, cully. I think 'e's going to mention you in 'is

will." At that moment a fresh outburst floated through the stillness.

"Great 'Eavens!" Murgatroyd reluctantly rose to his feet. "So long,

boys. Tell me mother she was in me thoughts up to the end." He paused

outside the dug-out and then went manfully in. "You wanted me, sir."

"Look at this, you blithering ass, look at this." The Colonel was

searching through his Fortnum and Mason packing-case on the floor.

"Great Heavens! and the caviar too--imbedded in the butter. Five defunct

rodents in the brawn"--he threw each in turn at his servant, who dodged

round the dug-out like a pea in a drum--"the marmalade and the pate de

fois gras inseparably mixed together, and the whole covered with a thick

layer of disintegrating cigar."

"It wasn't me, sir," Murgatroyd spoke in an aggrieved tone.

"I didn't suppose it was, you fool." The Colonel straightened himself

and glared at his hapless minion. "Great Heavens! there's another rat on

my hairbrush."

"One of the same five, sir. It ricocheted off my face." With a

magnificent nonchalance his servant threw it out of the door. "I think,

sir, it must be James 'Enry."

"Who the devil is James Henry?"

"Sir Derek Temple's little dawg, sir."

"Indeed." The Colonel's tone was ominous. "Go round and ask Sir Derek

Temple to be good enough to come and see me at once."

What happened exactly at that interview I cannot say; although I

understand that James Henry considered an absurd fuss had been made

about a trifle. In fact he found it so difficult to lie down with any

comfort that night that he missed much of his master's conversation with

him.

"You've topped it, James, you've put the brass hat on. The old man

threatens to turn out a firing party if he ever sees you again."

James feigned sleep: this continual harping on what was over and done

with he considered the very worst of form. Even if he had put the caviar

in the butter and his foot in the marmalade--well, hang it all--what

then? He'd presented the old buster with five dead rats, which was more

than he'd do for a lot of people.

"In fact, James, you are not popular, my boy--and I shudder to think

what Monica will do with you when she gets you. She's come over, you may

be pleased to hear, Henry. She is V.A.D.-ing at a charming hospital that

overlooks the sea. James, why can't I go sick--and live for a space at

that charming hospital that overlooks the sea? Think of it: here am I,

panting to have my face washed by her, panting----"

For a moment he rhapsodised in silence. "Breakfast in bed, poached egg

in the bed: oh! James, my boy, and she probably never even thinks of

me."

He took a letter out of his pocket and held it under the light of the

candle. "'Not much to do at present, but delightful weather. The

hospital is nearly empty, though there's one perfect dear who is almost

fit--a Major in some Highland regiment.'

"Listen to that, James. Some great raw-boned, red-kneed Scotchman, and

she calls him a perfect dear!" His listener blew resignedly and again

composed himself to slumber.

"'How is James behaving? I'd love to see the sweet pet again.' Sweet

pet: yes--my boy--you look it. 'Do you remember how annoyed he was when

I put him in your arms that afternoon at home?' Do you hear that,

James?--do I remember? Monica, you adorable soul...." He relapsed into

moody thought.

* * * * *

At what moment during that restless night the idea actually came I know

not. Possibly a diabolical chuckle on the part of James Henry, who was

hunting in his dreams, goaded him to desperation. But it is an undoubted

fact that when Sir Derek Temple rose the next morning he had definitely

determined to embark on the adventure which culminated in the tragedy of

the cat, the General, and James. The latter is reputed to regard the

affair as quite trifling and unworthy of the fierce glare of publicity

that beat upon it. The cat, has, or rather had, different views.

Now, be it known to those who live in England that it is one thing to

say in an airy manner, as Derek had said to Lady Monica, that he would

come and see her when she landed in France; it is another to do it. But

to a determined and unprincipled man nothing is impossible; and though

it would be the height of indiscretion for me to hint even at the

methods he used to attain his ends, it is a certain fact that in the

afternoon of the second day following the episode of the five rodents he

found himself at a certain seaport town with James Henry as the other

member of the party. And having had his hair cut, and extricated his

companion from a street brawl, he hired a motor and drove into the

country.

Now, Derek Temple's knowledge of hospitals and their ways was not

profound. He had a hazy idea that on arriving at the portals he would

send in his name, and that in due course he could consume a tete-a-tete

tea with Monica in her private boudoir. He rehearsed the scene in his

mind: the quiet, cutting reference to Highlanders who failed to

understand the official position of nurses--the certainty that this

particular one was a scoundrel: the fact that, on receiving her letter,

he had at once rushed off to protect her.

And as he got to this point the car turned into the gates of a palatial

hotel and stopped by the door. James Henry jumped through the open

window, and his master followed him up the steps.

"Is Lady Monica Travers at home; I mean--er--is she in the hospital?" He

addressed an R.A.M.C. sergeant in the entrance.

"No dawgs allowed in the 'ospital, sir." The scandalised N.C.O. glared

at James Henry, who was furiously growling at a hot-air grating in the

floor. "You must get 'im out at once, sir: we're being inspected

to-day."

"Heel, James, heel. He'll be quite all right, Sergeant. Just find out,

will you, about Lady Monica Travers?"

"Beg pardon, sir, but are you a patient?"

"Patient--of course I'm not a patient. Do I look like a patient?"

"Well, sir, there ain't no visiting allowed when the sisters is on

duty."

"What? But it's preposterous. Do you mean to say I can't see her unless

I'm a patient? Why, man, I've got to go back in an hour."

"Very sorry, sir--but no visiting allowed. Very strict 'ere, and as I

says we're full of brass 'ats to-day."

For a moment Derek was nonplussed; this was a complication on which he

had not reckoned.

"But look here, Sergeant, you know..." and even as he spoke he looked

upstairs and beheld Lady Monica. Unfortunately she had not seen him, and

the situation was desperate. Forcing James Henry into the arms of the

outraged N.C.O., he rushed up the stairs and followed her.

"Derek!" The girl stopped in amazement. "What in the world are you doing

here?"

"Monica, my dear, I've come to see you. Tell me that you don't really

love that damn Scotchman."

An adorable smile spread over her face. "You idiot! I don't love anyone.

My work fills my life."

"Rot! You said in your letter you had nothing to do at present. Monica,

take me somewhere where I can make love to you."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. In the first place you aren't allowed

here at all; and in the second I don't want to be made love to."

"And in the third," said Derek grimly, as the sound of a procession

advancing down a corridor came from round the corner, "you're being

inspected to-day, and that--if I mistake not--is the great pan-jan-drum

himself."

"Oh! good Heavens. Derek, I'd forgotten. Do go, for goodness' sake.

Run--I shall be sacked."

"I shall not go. As the great man himself rounds that corner I shall

kiss you with a loud trumpeting noise.'

"You brute! Oh! what shall I do?--there they are. Come in here." She

grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into a small deserted

sitting-room close by.

"You darling," he remarked and promptly kissed her. "Monica, dear, you

must listen----"

"Sit down, you idiot. I'm sure they saw me. You must pretend you're a

patient just come in. I know I shall be sacked. The General is

dreadfully particular. Put this thermometer in your mouth. Quick, give

me your hand--I must take your pulse."

"I think," said a voice outside the door, "that I saw--er--a patient

being brought into one of these rooms."

"Surely not, sir. These rooms are all empty." The door opened and the

cavalcade paused. "Er--Lady Monica... really."

"A new patient, Colonel," she remarked. "I am just taking his

temperature." Derek, his eyes partially closed, lay back in a chair,

occasionally uttering a slight groan.

"The case looks most interesting." The General came and stood beside

him. "Most interesting. Have you--er--diagnosed the symptoms, sister?"

His lips were twitching suspiciously.

"Not yet, General. The pulse is normal--and the temperature"--she looked

at the thermometer--"is--good gracious me! have you kept it properly

under your tongue?" She turned to Derek, who nodded feebly. "The

temperature is only 93." She looked at the group in an awestruck manner.

"Most remarkable," murmured the General. "One feels compelled to wonder

what it would have been if he'd had the right end in his mouth." Derek

emitted a hollow groan. "And where do you feel it worst, my dear boy?"

continued the great man, gazing at him through his eyeglass.

"Dyspepsia, sir," he whispered feebly. "Dreadful dyspepsia. I can't

sleep, I--er--Good Lord!" His eyes opened, his voice rose, and with a

fixed stare of horror he gazed at the door. Through it with due

solemnity came James Henry holding in his mouth a furless and very dead

cat. He advanced to the centre of the group--laid it at the General's

feet--and having sneezed twice sat down and contemplated his handiwork:

his tail thumping the floor feverishly in anticipation of well-merited

applause.

It was possibly foolish, but, as Derek explained afterwards to Monica,

the situation had passed beyond him. He arose and confronted the

General, who was surveying the scene coldly, and with a courtly

exclamation of "Your cat, I believe, sir," he passed from the room.

* * * * *

The conclusion of this dreadful drama may be given in three short

sentences.

The first was spoken by the General. "Let it be buried." And it was so.

The second was whispered by Lady Monica--later. "Darling, I had to _say_

we were engaged: it looked so peculiar." And it was even more so.

The third was snorted by James Henry. "First I'm beaten and then I'm

kissed. Damn all cats!"

PART TWO

THE LAND OF TOPSY TURVY

PART TWO

THE LAND OF TOPSY TURVY

CHAPTER I

THE GREY HOUSE

You come on it unexpectedly, round a little spur in the side of the

valley, which screens it from view. It stands below you as you first see

it, not a big house, not a little one, but just comfortable. It seems in

keeping with the gardens, the tennis courts, the orchards which lie

around it in a hap-hazard sort of manner, as if they had just grown

there years and years ago and had been too lazy to move ever since.

Peace is the keynote of the whole picture--the peace and contentment of

sleepy unwoken England.

Down in the valley below, the river, brown and swollen, carries on its

bosom the flotsam and jetsam of its pilgrimage through the country. Now

and then a great branch goes bobbing by, only to come to grief in the

shallows round the corner--the shallows where the noise of the water on

the rounded stones lulls one to sleep at night, and sounds a ceaseless

reveille each morning. On the other side of the water the woods stretch

down close to the bank, though the upper slopes of the hills are bare,

and bathed in the golden light of the dying winter sun. Slowly the dark

shadow line creeps up--creeps up to meet the shepherd coming home with

his flock. Faint, but crisp, the barks of his dog, prancing excitedly

round him, strike on one's ears, and then of a sudden--silence. They

have entered the purple country; they have left the golden land, and the

dog trots soberly at his master's heels. One last peak alone remains,

dipped in flaming yellow, and then that too is touched by the finger of

oncoming night. For a few moments it survives, a flicker of fire on its

rugged tip, and then--the end; like a grim black sentinel it stands

gloomy and sinister against the evening sky.

The shepherd is out of sight amongst the trees; the purple is changing

to grey, the grey to black; there is no movement saving only the

tireless swish of the river....

To the man leaning over the gate the scene was familiar--but familiarity

had not robbed it of its charm. Involuntarily his mind went back to the

days before the Madness came--to the days when others had stood beside

him watching those same darkening hills, with the smoke of their pipes

curling gently away in the still air. Back from a day's shooting, back

from an afternoon on the river, and a rest at the top of the hill before

going in to tea in the house below. So had he stood countless times in

the past--with those others....

The Rabbit, with a gun under his arm, and his stubby briar glowing red

in the paling light. The Rabbit, with his old shooting-coat, with the

yarn of the one woodcock he nearly got, with his cheery laugh. But they

never found anything of him--an eight-inch shell is at any rate

merciful.

Torps--the naval candidate: one of the worst and most gallant riders

that ever threw a leg across a horse. Somewhere in the depths of the

Pacific, with the great heaving combers as his grave, he lies

peacefully; and as for a little while he had gasped and struggled while

hundreds of others gasped and struggled near him--perhaps he, too, had

seen the hills opposite once again even as the Last Fence loomed in

front and the whispered Kismet came from his lips....

Hugh--the son of the house close by. Twice wounded, and now out again in

Mesopotamia. Did the sound of the water come to him as the sun dropped,

slow and pitiless, into the west? The same parching, crawling days

following one another in deadly monotony: the same....

"Dreaming, Jim?" A woman's voice behind him broke on the man's thoughts.

"Yes, lady," he answered soberly. "Dreaming. Some of the ghosts we knew

have been coming to me out of the blue grey mists." He fell into step

beside her, and they moved towards the house.

"Ah! don't," she whispered--"don't! Oh! it's wicked, this war; cruel,

damnable." She stopped and faced him, her breast rising and falling

quickly. "And we can't follow you, Jim--we women. You go into the

unknown."

"Yes--yours is the harder part. You can only wait and wonder."

"Wait and wonder!" She laughed bitterly. "Hope and pray--while God

sleeps."

"Hush, lady!" he answered quietly; "for that way there lies no peace. Is

Sybil indoors?"

"Yes--she's expecting you. Thank goodness you're not going out yet

awhile, Jim; the child is fretting herself sick over her brother as it

is--and when you go...."

"Yes--when I go, what then?" he asked quietly. "Because I'm very nearly

fit again, Lady Alice. My arm is nearly all right."

"Do you want to go back, Jim?" Her quiet eyes searched his face. "Look

at that."

They had rounded a corner, and in front of them a man was leaning

against a wall talking to the cook. They were in the stage known as

walking-out--or is it keeping company? The point is immaterial and

uninteresting. But the man, fit and strong, was in a starred trade. He

was a forester--or had been since the first rumour of compulsion had

startled his poor tremulous spirit. A very fine, but not unique example

of the genuine shirker....

"What has he to do with us?" said Jim bitterly. "That thing takes his

stand along with the criminals, and the mental degenerates. He's worse

than a conscientious objector. And we've got no choice. He reaps the

benefits for which he refuses to fight. I don't want to go back to

France particularly; every feeling I've got revolts at the idea just at

present. I want to be with Sybil, as you know; I want to--oh! God knows!

I was mad over the water--it bit into me; I was caught by the fever.

It's an amazing thing how it gets hold of one. All the dirt and

discomfort, and the boredom and the fright--one would have thought...."

He laughed. "I suppose it's the madness in the air. But I'm sane now."

"Are you? I wonder for how long. Let's go in and have some tea." The

woman led the way indoors; there was silence again save only for the

sound of the river.