PAST-WORTHY
Dad seated himself on the edge of the chair and let his broad-brimmed
gray hat drop to the floor at his side.
The unwonted fit of purpose that had brought him so aggressively into
the sacred private office, however, had now begun slowly but noticeably
to ebb. And, as ever, he felt curiously sheepish and ill at ease in the
presence of this flawless son of his.
To gain new hold on his resolve, and incidentally to gain time, he
switched from the theme that had brought him thither on sudden impulse.
“Is it true,” he asked, “is it true--what Jimmie was telling me--that
you have enlisted?”
“Yes, sir. In the Second Company. I ought to be drilling with the rest
this very minute. We start in three days. But I had a pressure of work
here this morning, and Captain Scofield excused me.”
Again he glanced with polite furtiveness at his desk.
But Dad did not take the hint nor even notice the look. His face aglow,
the old fellow had stretched forth his hand, half-rising eagerly from
his seat.
“Joe, my boy,” he cried, gripping the slender and wholly unresponsive
fingers of his son, “I’m proud of you! Plumb proud of you! You’ll make
the fifth generation of fighting Brintons. This news does me good clear
down to the ground. I was afraid you’d think business came first. I’m
glad to see your Brinton blood’s red enough to make you forget work for
a while and send you hustling out to fight for your country.”
The younger man smiled with gentle indulgence into his father’s flushed
face.
“I’m afraid, sir,” said he, “that I can’t claim much credit for headlong
patriotism. To be frank, this is going to prove one of the best strokes
of business I ever did. You see, the most farseeing men believe the war
will not last more than three months longer at most. It may even be over
before we get to the front.”
“But--”
“But the spirit of hysterical excitement that goes under the name of
patriotism has swept the whole country. Men who go to the front are
acclaimed as heroes. Those who stay sanely at home suffer by comparison.
“It will be a good thing for me in this town and in the State and in the
future handling of government contracts if I go on record as joining the
army at this juncture.
“I am a one-year man. If the war ends earlier--as it will--many months
earlier--I have influence enough, I think, to get my discharge. In any
event, my patriotism will be a good thing for the firm and for my future
here. Business is slack just now, and--”
“And this is your idea of serving your country!” gasped Dad. “You
measure out your services to the flag as your clerks measure out
velvet! You sneer at patriotism, you whose father and grandfather and
great-grandfather--But, lad, you’re joking! You were always
undemonstrative. You’re cloaking your act of self-sacrifice under--”
“No, sir,” said Joseph, smiling again at the veteran’s outburst. “I am
quite sincere. I wish I might claim the noble intentions you try to
credit me with. But claptrap is not in my line. It is useful with the
public. But I don’t waste it in talking with members of my family.”
The old man stared slack-jawed at his faultlessly correct son. Then his
mouth snapped shut very suddenly to choke back a flood of furious
rebuke.
Joseph glanced down at his own polished nails; glanced again at the
work-laden desk and then remarked:
“I think you said something had ‘upset’ you? That was the term, I think.
Can I be of any use?”
“Yes,” snorted Dad. “Yes, you can. I was half-afraid to speak of it
before. But I’m not now. Joe, I want to go to this war. I want to
enlist.”
“Nonsense, father! You’re too old, for one thing. And besides--”
“Too old? I’m not quite fifty-five. Down South, men of sixty and
seventy, and boys as young as Jimmie are already enlisting.”
“I beg, sir,” hastily interposed his son, “you won’t put such crazy
notions into James’s head. Even at present he is a great worry to his
mother and myself by his incessant longing to become old enough to be a
soldier. I do not mean to be harsh, sir, but we have traced that foolish
ambition of his directly to his talks with you. And I must earnestly beg
of you not to--”
“Good little Jimmie! The fighting spirit skipped a generation when it
came to you, Joe. But Jim’s a Fighting Brinton from the top of his red
head to the soles of his stubby little feet.”
“I must request, sir, that you put no more foolish notions into--”
“That’s neither here nor there, Joe,” broke in Dad, impatiently. “We can
talk about Jimmie another time. I want to go to the front. I want to
enlist in this war. And I mean to.”
“Pardon me, father, for bringing up an unpleasant subject, but--”
“But, you’re going to say, I was kicked out of the army and I can’t get
back. That’s what I came to see you about to-day.”
“To see _me_ about?” echoed Joseph. “I don’t understand!”
“You spoke awhile back of having influence,” answered Dad, with
trembling eagerness. “And you have. With the State government and
through that with the folks in charge down in Washington.
“I believe if you’d use your influence to get one of the Ohio
congressmen to put the matter up to President Lincoln, he would
reconsider my case. They say he’s a real man. He wouldn’t be too hard on
a fellow who doesn’t ask anything better of him than a chance to fight
in the ranks for the flag he loves. As like as not, he’d let me enlist.
“Won’t--won’t you see if you can’t pull wires to get the case put up
before Lincoln, Joe? Won’t you do that? _Please_, son!”
He reached across and timidly stroked the other’s immaculate
coat-sleeve.
“Lincoln’s a man, clear through,” he went on. “And he’s got a big heart.
He’d--”
“He is a gross, apelike buffoon who is doing his best to make the
Presidential office the laughing-stock of Europe with his uncouth ways
and his ribald stories!” declared Joseph, with some heat. “I would not
accept a favor at the hands of such a man.”
“But I would, Joe!” pleaded Dad. “And you’re all wrong about Lincoln.
Honest, you are. I never met him. But I’ve read his speeches and I’ve
talked with folks who know him. I guess Europe and this country,
too--the kid-glove Bell-Douglas men--will change their minds about him
before he’s done. Won’t you do this for me, Joe? I don’t often ask you
favors. And this means such an awful lot to me.”
“I am very sorry, sir,” replied Joseph. “But it is quite out of the
question. Even if I wished to lower myself by an appeal to him and if I
were criminal enough to let you go to the war, any request of mine to
Lincoln would be refused.
“He is a politician. And politicians have long memories. You seem to
forget that I was chairman of the reception committee when Douglas spoke
here in Ideala last year. My request would be refused; even if it
chanced to pass the red-tape barriers and reach the President.
“Moreover, I would not do such a thing as to send an old man into the
ardors of a campaign. Even such a short campaign as this, from all the
surface evidence, will very likely be.”
“I am not an old man. Zach Taylor won the Mexican war when he was years
older than I am. Oh, son, I want to do something for my country!” The
man’s voice almost broke in his cry of appeal.
Joseph glanced critically at the pleading eyes beneath the disheveled
thatch of whitening hair.
“Do you really want to do something for your country?” he asked, as
though arguing with a stupid schoolboy. “Then I’ll tell you how you can
best do it. I am forced to go away. I must leave my wife and son with no
guardian or protector but yourself. By helping me you can help your
country.
“Stay here and take care of them. That will enable me to go to my duty
with a free mind and to keep my mind on the needs of the nation instead
of fearing always that some trouble may befall my dear ones.”
“But,” protested Dad, “you said you looked on this just as a business
venture, and--”
“I spoke lightly. As you guessed, to avoid praise for what is only my
clear duty.”
“Oh, I’m glad. But--”
“If I can be at rest about my wife and James, leaving them in your
care--and if I can be certain,” Joseph went on reluctantly, “that while
I am away you yourself will not--will not--”
“Will not get drunk too often and disgrace you,” finished Dad. “I
understand. Go on.”
“I--Marcia and I have talked it all over,” continued Joseph, visibly
relieved, “and we have decided to ask you to close the cottage for the
time I am away and come up to our house. A room will be ready for you
there. And I shall feel much easier, leaving you in charge. You can look
out for Marcia and James so much better when you are living under the
same roof with them. And so we--”
Slowly Dad rose. Stooping, he picked up his hat and stood facing his
son. The fire was gone from his eyes, the flush from his cheek. He
looked very old.
“You’re right, Joe,” he said at last. “Dead right. It’s a way you’ve
got. I see it. I was an old fool. I’m complimented that Marcia should
want me at the house. Because I always felt she hated my calling there.
“I’ll do as you say. I’ll take the best care of her and Jimmie that I
can. And I’ll--I’ll try not to do anything while you’re gone to make you
and Marcia too much ashamed of me.
“After all, I’ve had my fighting day. Had it and smashed it. And the
only way I can help now is to make it easier for my son to go to fight.
I’ll put the dream aside. I’ll do what you say.”
Turning, he walked gropingly from the office and down the long aisle.
His sight was suddenly dimmed. So much so that he almost collided with
a well-dressed woman who had just entered the store and was walking
toward the office.
The woman drew disgustedly aside from his wavering pathway and passed on
toward the glass door beyond. The man had not seen her.
But as he left the store he heard one clerk say to another:
“Dad’s establishing a new record. Drunk before 11 A.M.; and pretty near
ran into the boss’s wife, at that.”
“I--I hope Marcia doesn’t believe I’m in that condition,” he mused
remorsefully. “And just after she was so kind and forgiving as to want
me to take charge of the big house while Joe’s away.”
On the square the recruits were still drilling, a crowd of idlers
watching their gawky maneuvers. From the group of onlookers, as Dad
emerged into the street, a small figure detached itself and darted
joyously toward him.