VI

Senator Cadogan was happy. His son had returned from Cuba, and the 8:30

train that evening would bring him to the station nearest to the stone

and red shingle villa which the Senator and his family occupied on the

shores of Long Island Sound. The Senator's steam yacht lay some hundred

yards from the beach. She had just returned from a trip to Montauk

Point where the Senator had made a gallant attempt to gain his son from

the transport on which he was coming from Cuba. He had fought a brave

sea-fight with sundry petty little doctors and ship's officers who had

raked him with broadsides, describing the laws of quarantine and had

used inelegant speech to a United States Senator as he stood on the

bridge of his own steam yacht. These men had grimly asked him to tell

exactly how much better was Caspar than any other returning soldier.

But the Senator had not given them a long fight. In fact, the truth

came to him quickly, and with almost a blush he had ordered the yacht

back to her anchorage off the villa. As a matter of fact, the trip to

Montauk Point had been undertaken largely from impulse. Long ago the

Senator had decided that when his boy returned the greeting should have

something Spartan in it. He would make a welcome such as most soldiers

get. There should be no flowers and carriages when the other poor

fellows got none. He should consider Caspar as a soldier. That was the

way to treat a man. But in the end a sharp acid of anxiety had worked

upon the iron old man, until he had ordered the yacht to take him out

and make a fool of him. The result filled him with a chagrin which

caused him to delegate to the mother and sisters the entire business of

succouring Caspar at Montauk Point Camp. He had remained at home

conducting the huge correspondence of an active National politician and

waiting for this son whom he so loved and whom he so wished to be a man

of a certain strong, taciturn, shrewd ideal. The recent yacht voyage he

now looked upon as a kind of confession of his weakness, and he was

resolved that no more signs should escape him.

But yet his boy had been down there against the enemy and among the

fevers. There had been grave perils, and his boy must have faced them.

And he could not prevent himself from dreaming through the poetry of

fine actions in which visions his son's face shone out manly and

generous. During these periods the people about him, accustomed as they

were to his silence and calm in time of stress, considered that affairs

in Skowmulligan might be most critical. In no other way could they

account for this exaggerated phlegm.

On the night of Caspar's return he did not go to dinner, but had a tray

sent to his library, where he remained writing. At last he heard the

spin of the dog-cart's wheels on the gravel of the drive, and a moment

later there penetrated to him the sound of joyful feminine cries. He

lit another cigar; he knew that it was now his part to bide with

dignity the moment when his son should shake off that other welcome and

come to him. He could still hear them; in their exuberance they seemed

to be capering like schoolchildren. He was impatient, but this

impatience took the form of a polar stolidity.

Presently there were quick steps and a jubilant knock at his door.

"Come in," he said.

In came Caspar, thin, yellow, and in soiled khaki. "They almost tore me

to pieces," he cried, laughing. "They danced around like wild things."

Then as they shook hands he dutifully said "How are you, sir?"

"How are you, my boy?" answered the Senator casually but kindly.

"Better than I might expect, sir," cried Caspar cheerfully. "We had a

pretty hard time, you know."

"You look as if they'd given you a hard run," observed the father in a

tone of slight interest.

Caspar was eager to tell. "Yes, sir," he said rapidly. "We did, indeed.

Why, it was awful. We--any of us--were lucky to get out of it alive. It

wasn't so much the Spaniards, you know. The Army took care of them all

right. It was the fever and the--you know, we couldn't get anything to

eat. And the mismanagement. Why, it was frightful."

"Yes, I've heard," said the Senator. A certain wistful look came into

his eyes, but he did not allow it to become prominent. Indeed, he

suppressed it. "And you, Caspar? I suppose you did your duty?"

Caspar answered with becoming modesty. "Well, I didn't do more than

anybody else, I don't suppose, but--well, I got along all right, I

guess."

"And this great charge up San Juan Hill?" asked, the father slowly.

"Were you in that?"

"Well--yes; I was in it," replied the son.

The Senator brightened a trifle. "You were, eh? In the front of it? or

just sort of going along?"

"Well--I don't know. I couldn't tell exactly. Sometimes I was in front

of a lot of them, and sometimes I was--just sort of going along."

This time the Senator emphatically brightened. "That's all right, then.

And of course--of course you performed your commissary duties

correctly?"

The question seemed to make Caspar uncommunicative and sulky. "I did

when there was anything to do," he answered. "But the whole thing was

on the most unbusiness-like basis you can imagine. And they wouldn't

tell you anything. Nobody would take time to instruct you in your

duties, and of course if you didn't know a thing your superior officer

would swoop down on you and ask you why in the deuce such and such a

thing wasn't done in such and such a way. Of course I did the best I

could."

The Senator's countenance had again become sombrely indifferent. "I

see. But you weren't directly rebuked for incapacity, were you? No; of

course you weren't. But--I mean--did any of your superior officers

suggest that you were 'no good,' or anything of that sort? I mean--did

you come off with a clean slate?"

Caspar took a small time to digest his father's meaning. "Oh, yes,

sir," he cried at the end of his reflection. "The Commissary was in

such a hopeless mess anyhow that nobody thought of doing anything but

curse Washington."

"Of course," rejoined the Senator harshly. "But supposing that you had

been a competent and well-trained commissary officer. What then?"

Again the son took time for consideration, and in the end deliberately

replied "Well, if I had been a competent and well-trained Commissary I

would have sat there and eaten up my heart and cursed Washington."

"Well, then, that's all right. And now about this charge up San Juan?

Did any of the Generals speak to you afterward and say that you had

done well? Didn't any of them see you?"

"Why, n--n--no, I don't suppose they did ... any more than I did them.

You see, this charge was a big thing and covered lots of ground, and I

hardly saw anybody excepting a lot of the men."

"Well, but didn't any of the men see you? Weren't you ahead some of the

time leading them on and waving your sword?"

Caspar burst into laughter. "Why, no. I had all I could do to scramble

along and try to keep up. And I didn't want to go up at all."

"Why?" demanded the Senator.

"Because--because the Spaniards were shooting so much. And you could

see men falling, and the bullets rushed around you in--by the bushel.

And then at last it seemed that if we once drove them away from the top

of the hill there would be less danger. So we all went up."

The Senator chuckled over this description. "And you didn't flinch at

all?"

"Well," rejoined Caspar humorously, "I won't say I wasn't frightened."

"No, of course not. But then you did not let anybody know it?"

"Of course not."

"You understand, naturally, that I am bothering you with all these

questions because I desire to hear how my only son behaved in the

crisis. I don't want to worry you with it. But if you went through the

San Juan charge with credit I'll have you made a Major."

"Well," said Caspar, "I wouldn't say I went through that charge with

credit. I went through it all good enough, but the enlisted men around

went through in the same way."

"But weren't you encouraging them and leading them on by your example?"

Caspar smirked. He began to see a point. "Well, sir," he said with a

charming hesitation. "Aw--er--I--well, I dare say I was doing my share

of it."

The perfect form of the reply delighted the father. He could not endure

blatancy; his admiration was to be won only by a bashful hero. Now he

beat his hand impulsively down upon the table. "That's what I wanted to

know. That's it exactly. I'll have you made a Major next week. You've

found your proper field at last. You stick to the Army, Caspar, and

I'll back you up. That's the thing. In a few years it will be a great

career. The United States is pretty sure to have an Army of about a

hundred and fifty thousand men. And starting in when you did and with

me to back you up--why, we'll make you a General in seven or eight

years. That's the ticket. You stay in the Army." The Senator's cheek

was flushed with enthusiasm, and he looked eagerly and confidently at

his son.

But Caspar had pulled a long face. "The Army?" he said. "Stay in the

Army?"

The Senator continued to outline quite rapturously his idea of the

future. "The Army, evidently, is just the place for you. You know as

well as I do that you have not been a howling success, exactly, in

anything else which you have tried. But now the Army just suits you. It

is the kind of career which especially suits you. Well, then, go in,

and go at it hard. Go in to win. Go at it."

"But--" began Caspar.

The Senator interrupted swiftly. "Oh, don't worry about that part of

it. I'll take care of all that. You won't get jailed in some Arizona

adobe for the rest of your natural life. There won't be much more of

that, anyhow; and besides, as I say, I'll look after all that end of

it. The chance is splendid. A young, healthy and intelligent man, with

the start you've already got, and with my backing, can do

anything--anything! There will be a lot of active service--oh, yes, I'm

sure of it--and everybody who----"

"But," said Caspar, wan, desperate, heroic, "father, I don't care to

stay in the Army."

The Senator lifted his eyes and darkened. "What?" he said. "What's

that?" He looked at Caspar.

The son became tightened and wizened like an old miser trying to

withhold gold. He replied with a sort of idiot obstinacy, "I don't care

to stay in the Army."

The Senator's jaw clinched down, and he was dangerous. But, after all,

there was something mournful somewhere. "Why, what do you mean?" he

asked gruffly.

"Why, I couldn't get along, you know. The--the----"

"The what?" demanded the father, suddenly uplifted with thunderous

anger. "The what?"

Caspar's pain found a sort of outlet in mere irresponsible talk. "Well,

you know--the other men, you know. I couldn't get along with them, you

know. They're peculiar, somehow; odd; I didn't understand them, and

they didn't understand me. We--we didn't hitch, somehow. They're a

queer lot. They've got funny ideas. I don't know how to explain it

exactly, but--somehow--I don't like 'em. That's all there is to it.

They're good fellows enough, I know, but----"

"Oh, well, Caspar," interrupted the Senator. Then he seemed to weigh a

great fact in his mind. "I guess----" He paused again in profound

consideration. "I guess----" He lit a small, brown cigar. "I guess you

are no damn good."