CHAPTER II. The Home for Tired People
CHAPTER III. Of London and Other Matters
CHAPTER IV. Settling In
CHAPTER V. How the Cook-Lady Found her Level
CHAPTER VI. Kidnapping
CHAPTER VII. The Thatched Cottage
CHAPTER VIII. Assorted Guests
CHAPTER IX. Homewood Gets Busy
CHAPTER X. Australia in Surrey
CHAPTER XI. Cheero!
CHAPTER XII. Of Labour and Promotion
CHAPTER XIII. The End of a Perfect Day
CHAPTER XIV. Carrying On
CHAPTER XV. Prisoners and Captives
CHAPTER XVI. Through the Darkness
CHAPTER XVII. Lights Out
CHAPTER XVIII. The Watch on the Rhine
CHAPTER XIX. Reveille
CHAPTER XX. All Clear
CAPTAIN JIM
CHAPTER I
JOHN O’NEILL’S LEGACY
“Queer, isn’t it?” Jim said.
“Rather!” said Wally.
They were sitting on little green chairs in Hyde Park. Not far off
swirled the traffic of Piccadilly; glancing across to Hyde Park Corner,
they could see the great red motor-’buses, meeting, halting, and then
rocking away in different directions, hooting as they fled. The roar of
London was in their ears.
It was a sunny morning in September. The Park was dotted in every
direction with shining perambulators, propelled by smart nurses in
uniform, and tenanted by proud little people, fair-haired and rosy, and
extremely cheerful. Wally liked the Park babies. He referred to them
collectively as “young dukes.”
“They all look so jolly well tubbed, don’t they?” he remarked, straying
from the subject in hand. “Might be soap advertisements. Look, there’s
a jolly little duke in that gorgeous white pram, and a bigger sized
duke trotting alongside, with a Teddy-bear as big as himself. Awful
nice kids.” He smiled at the babies in the way that made it seem
ridiculous that he should be grown-up and in uniform.
“They can’t both be dukes,” said Jim literally. “Can’t grow more than
one in a family; at least not at the same time, I believe.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter—and anyhow, the one in the pram’s a
duchess,” returned Wally. “I say, the duke’s fallen in love with you,
Jim.”
“The duke,” a curly-haired person in a white coat, hesitated on the
footpath near the two subalterns, then mustering his courage, came
close to Jim and gravely presented him with his Teddy-bear. Jim
received the gift as gravely, and shook hands with the small boy, to
his great delight.
“Thanks, awfully,” he said. “It’s a splendid Teddy, isn’t it?”
The nurse, greatly scandalized, swooped down upon her charge, exhorting
him to be ashamed, now, and not worry the gentleman. But the “duke”
showed such distress when Jim attempted to return the Teddy-bear that
the matter had to be adjusted by distracting his attention in the
direction of some drilling soldiers, while Wally concealed the toy
under the embroidered rug which protected the plump legs of the
“duchess”—who submitted with delighted gurgles to being tickled under
the chin. They withdrew reluctantly, urged by the still horrified
nurse.
“See what it is to be beautiful and have the glad eye!” jeered Wally.
“Dukes never give _me_ Teddy-bears!”
“It’s my look of benevolent age,” Jim said, grinning. “Anyhow, young
Wally, if you’ll stop beguiling the infant peerage, and attend to
business, I’ll be glad. We’ll have Norah and Dad here presently.”
“I’m all attention,” said his friend. “But there’s nothing more to be
said than that it _is_ rum, is there? And we said that.”
“Norah gave me a letter from poor old O’Neill to show you,” Jim said.
“I’ll read it, if you like.”
The merriment that was never very far from Wally Meadows’ eyes died out
as his chum unfolded a sheet of paper, closely written.
“He wrote it in the hotel in Carrignarone, I suppose?” he asked gently.
“Yes; just after dinner on the night of the fight. You see, he was
certain he wasn’t coming back. Anyhow, this is what he says:
“My Dear Norah,—
“If I am alive after to-night you will not get this letter: it is only
to come to you if I shall have ‘gone West.’ And please don’t worry if I
do go West. You see, between you all you have managed almost to make me
forget that I am just an apology for a man. I did not think it could be
done, but you have done it. Still, now and then I remember, and I know
that there will be long years after you have all gone back to that
beloved Australia of yours when there will be nothing to keep me from
realizing that I am crippled and a hunchback. To-night I have the one
chance of my life of living up to the traditions of O’Neills who were
fighting men; so if, by good luck, I manage to wing a German or two,
and then get in the way of an odd bullet myself, you mustn’t grudge my
finishing so much more pleasantly than I had ever hoped to do.
“If I do fall, I am leaving you that place of mine in Surrey. I have
hardly any one belonging to me, and they have all more money than is
good for them. The family estates are entailed, but this is mine to do
as I please with. I know you don’t need it, but it will be a home for
you and your father while Jim and Wally are fighting, if you care for
it. And perhaps you will make some use of it that will interest you. I
liked the place, as well as I could like any place outside Ireland; and
if I can look back—and I am very sure that I shall be able to look
back—I shall like to see you all there—you people who brought the sun
and light and laughter of Australia into the grey shadows of my
life—who never seemed to see that I was different from other men.
“Well, good-bye—and God keep you happy, little mate.
“Your friend,
“John O’Neill.”
Jim folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, and there was a
long silence. Each boy was seeing again a strip of Irish beach where a
brave man had died proudly.
“Different!” Wall said, at last, with a catch in his voice. “He wasn’t
different—at least, only in being a jolly sight better than most
fellows.”
Jim nodded.
“Well, he had his fight, and he did his bit, and, seeing how he felt
about things, I’m glad for his sake that he went out,” he said. “Only
I’m sorry for us, because it was a pretty big thing to be friends with
a man like that. Anyhow, we won’t forget him. We wouldn’t even without
this astonishing legacy of Norah’s.”
“Have you any particulars about it?” Wally asked.
“Dad got a letter from O’Neill too—both were sent to his lawyers; he
must have posted them himself that evening in Carrignarone. Dad’s was
only business. The place is really left to him, in trust for Norah,
until she comes of age; that’s so that there wouldn’t be any legal
bother about her taking possession of it at once if she wants to. Poor
old Norah’s just about bowled over. She felt O’Neill’s death so
awfully, and now this has brought it all back.”
“Yes, it’s rough on Norah,” Wally said. “I expect she hates taking the
place.”
“She can’t bear the idea of it. Dad and I don’t much care about it
either.”
Wally pondered.
“May I see that letter again?” he asked presently.
Jim Linton took out the letter and handed it to his friend. He filled
his pipe leisurely and lit it, while Wally knitted his brows over the
sheet of cheap hotel paper. Presently he looked up, a flash of
eagerness in his keen brown eyes.
“Well, I think O’Neill left that place to Norah with a purpose,” he
said. “I don’t believe it’s just an ordinary legacy. Of course, it’s
hers, all right; but don’t you think he wanted something done with it?”
“Done with it?”
“Yes. Look here,” Wally put a thin forefinger on the letter. “Look what
he says—‘Perhaps you will make some use of it that may interest you.’
Don’t you think that means something?”
“I believe it might,” Jim said cautiously. “But what?”
Wally hesitated.
“Well, he was just mad keen on the War,” he said. “He was always
planning what he could do to help, since he couldn’t fight,—at least,
since he thought he couldn’t,” the boy added with a sigh. “I wonder he
hadn’t used it himself for something in connexion with the War.”
“He couldn’t—it’s let,” Jim put in quickly. “The lawyers wrote about it
to Dad. It’s been let for a year, and the lease expires this month—they
said O’Neill had refused to renew it. That rather looks as if he had
meant to do something with it, doesn’t it?”
Wally nodded vigorously.
“I’ll bet he did. Now he’s left it to Norah to carry on. You see, they
told us his own relations weren’t up to much. I expect he knew they
wouldn’t make any use of it except for themselves. Why, it’s as clear
as mud, Jim! O’Neill knew that Norah didn’t actually need the place,
and that she and your father wanted to be near you and still help the
war themselves. They didn’t like working in London—Norah’s too much of
a kid, and your father says himself he’s not trained. Now they’ve got a
perfectly ripping chance!”
“Oh, bless you, Wally!” said a thankful voice behind them.
The boys sprang to their feet. Behind them stood a tall girl with a
sun-tanned face and straight grey eyes—eyes that bore marks of tears,
of which Norah for once was unashamed. Her brown curls were tied back
with a broad black ribbon. She was very slender—“skinny,” Norah would
have said—but, despite that she was at what is known as “the awkward
age,” no movement of Norah Linton’s was ever awkward. She moved with
something of the unconcerned grace of a deer. In her blue serge coat
and skirt she presented the well-groomed look that was part and parcel
of her. She smiled at the two boys, a little tremulously.
“Hallo!” said her brother. “We didn’t hear you—where did you spring
from?”
“Dad dropped me at the Corner—he had to go on to Harrods,” Norah
answered. “I came across the grass, and you two were so busy talking
you didn’t know I was there. I couldn’t help hearing what you said,
Wally.”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” Wally answered, “But what do you think
yourself, Nor?”
“I was just miserable until I heard you,” Norah said. “It seemed too
awful to take Sir John’s house—to profit by his death. I couldn’t bear
it. But of course you’re right. I do think I was stupid—I read his
letter a dozen times, but I never saw it that way.”
“But you agree with Wally, now?” Jim asked.
“Why, of course—don’t you? I suppose I might have had the sense to see
his meaning in time, but I could only think of seeming to benefit by
his death. However, as long as one member of the family has seen it,
it’s all right.” She flashed a smile at Wally. “I’m just ever so much
happier. It makes it all—different. We were such—” her voice
trembled—“such good chums, and now it seems as if he had really trusted
us to carry on for him.”
“Of course he did,” Wally said. “He knew jolly well you would make good
use of it, and it would help you, too, when Jim was away.”
“Jim?” said that gentleman. “Jim? What are you leaving yourself out
for? Aren’t you coming? Got a Staff job at home?”
“I’m ashamed of you, Wally,” said Norah severely. “Of course, if you
don’t _want_ to belong——!” Whereat Wally Meadows flushed and laughed,
and muttered something unintelligible that nevertheless was quite
sufficient for his friends.
It was not a thing of yesterday, that friendship. It went back to days
of small-boyhood, when Wally, a lonely orphan from Queensland, had been
Jim Linton’s chum at the Melbourne Grammar School, and had fallen into
a habit of spending his holidays at the Linton’s big station in the
north of Victoria, until it seemed that he was really one of the
Billabong family. Years had knitted him and Jim and Norah into a firm
triumvirate, mates in the work and play of an Australian cattle-run;
watched over by the silent grey man whose existence centred in his
motherless son and daughter—with a warm corner in his affections for
the lithe, merry Queensland boy, whose loyalty to Billabong and its
people had never wavered since his childhood.
Then, just as Jim had outgrown school and was becoming his father’s
right-hand man on the station, came the world-upheaval of the European
War, which had whisked them all to England. Business had, at the
moment, summoned Mr. Linton to London; to leave Norah behind was not to
be thought of, and as both the boys were wild to enlist, and Wally was
too young to be accepted in Australia—though not in England—it seemed
that the simplest thing to do was to make the pilgrimage a general one,
and let the chums enlist in London. They had joined a famous British
regiment, obtaining commissions without difficulty, thanks to cadet
training in Australia. But their first experience of war in Flanders
had been a short one: they were amongst the first to suffer from the
German poison-gas, and a long furlough had resulted.
Mr. Linton and Norah had taken them to Ireland as soon as they were fit
to travel; and the bogs and moors of Donegal, coupled with
trout-fishing, had gone far to effect a cure. But there, unexpected
adventure had awaited them. They had made friends with Sir John
O’Neill, the last of an old North of Ireland family: a half-crippled
man, eating out his heart against the fate that held him back from an
active part in the war. Together they had managed to stumble on an
oil-base for German submarines, concealed on the rocky coast; and, luck
and boldness favouring them, to trap a U-boat and her crew. It had been
a short and triumphant campaign—skilfully engineered by O’Neill; and he
alone had paid for the triumph with his life.
John O’Neill had died happily, rejoicing in for once having played the
part of a fighting man; but to the Australians his death had been a
blow that robbed their victory of all its joy. They mourned for him as
for one of themselves, cherishing the memory of the high-souled man
whose spirit had outstripped his weak body. Jim and Wally, from
exposure on the night of the fight, had suffered a relapse, and
throat-trouble had caused their sick-leave to be extended several
times. Now, once more fit, they were back in London, expecting to
rejoin their regiment immediately.
“So now,” Jim said, “the only question is, what are you going to do
with it?”
“I’m going to think hard for a day,” said Norah. “So can you two; and
we’ll ask Dad, of course.”
“And then Dad will tell you what to do,” said Jim, grinning.
“Yes of course he will. Dad always has splendid ideas,” said Norah,
laughing. “But we won’t have any decision for a day, because it’s a
terribly big thing to think of. I wish I was grown up—it must be easier
to settle big questions if you haven’t got your hair down your back!”
“I don’t quite see what your old curly mop has to do with it, but
anyhow, you needn’t be in a hurry to put it up,” said her brother.
“It’s awful to be old and responsible, isn’t it Wally?” To which Wally
responded with feeling, “Beastly!” and endeavoured to look more than
nineteen—failing signally.
“Let’s go and look at the Row,” Norah said.
“Dad will find us all right, I suppose?” Jim hesitated.
“Why, he couldn’t miss you!” said Norah, laughing. “Come on.”
Even when more than a year of War had made uniform a commonplace in
London streets, you might have turned to look at Jim and Wally. Jim was
immensely tall; his chum little less so; and both were lean and
clean-shaven, tanned to a deep bronze, and stamped with a look of
resolute keenness. In their eyes was the deep glint that comes to those
who have habitually looked across great spaces. The type has become
familiar enough in London now, but it generally exists under a slouch
hat; and these lads were in British uniform, bearing the badges of a
famous marching regiment. At first they had hankered after the cavalry,
being much more accustomed to ride than to walk: but as the armies
settled down into the Flanders mud it became increasingly apparent that
this was not to be a horseman’s war, and that therefore, as Wally put
it, if they wanted to be in the fun, they had better make up their
minds to paddle with the rest. The amount of “fun” had so far been a
negligible quantity which caused them some bitterness of spirit. They
earnestly hoped to increase it as speedily as might be, and to give the
Hun as much inconvenience as they could manage in the process.
They strolled across the grass to the railings, and looked up and down
the tan ribbon of Rotten Row. Small boys and girls, on smart ponies and
woolly Shetlands, walked or trotted sedately; or occasionally galloped,
followed by elderly grooms torn between pride and anxiety. Jim and
Wally thought the famous Row an over-rated concern; failing to realize,
from its war aspect, the Row of other days, crammed from fence to fence
with beautiful horses and well-turned-out riders, and with half the
world looking on from the railings. Nowadays the small boys and girls
had it chiefly to themselves, and could stray from side to side at
their own sweet will. A few ladies were riding, and there was a
sprinkling of officers in khaki; obviously on Army horses and out for
exercise. Now and then came a wounded man, slowly, on a reliable cob or
sturdy pony—bandages visible, or one arm in a sling. A few people sat
about, or leaned on the fences, watching; but there was nothing to
attract a crowd. Every one looked business-like, purposeful; clothes
were plain and useful, with little frippery. The old glitter and
splendour of the Row was gone: the London that used to watch it was a
London that had forgotten how to play.
Beyond the Row, carriages, drawn by beautiful pairs of horses,
high-stepping, with harness flashing in the sunlight, drove up and
down. Some contained old ladies and grey-haired men; but nearly all
bore a load of wounded soldiers, with sometimes a tired-faced nurse.
“There’s that nice old Lady Ellison—the one that used to take Jim and
me out when we were in hospital,” Wally said, indicating a carriage
with a magnificent pair of bays. “She was an old dear. My word, I’d
like to have the driving of those horses—in a good light buggy on the
Billabong track!”
“So would I,” Jim assented. “But I’d take those beastly bearing-reins
off before I started.”
“Yes,” said Norah eagerly. “Poor darlings, how they must hate them!
Jim, I wish we’d struck London when the coaches used to be seen.”
“Rather!” said Jim. “Anstruther used to tell me about them. Coaches
bigger than Cobb & Co.’s, and smart as paint, with teams of four so
matched you could hardly tell which was which—and educated beyond
anything Australians could dream about. There was one man—poor chap,
Anstruther said he was drowned in the _Lusitania_—who had a team of
four black cobs. I think Anstruther used to dream about them at night;
he got poetical and incoherent when he tried to describe ’em.”
“Fancy seeing a dozen or so of those coaches swinging down Piccadilly
on a fine morning!” said Wally. “That would be something to tell black
Billy about, Norah!”
“He’d only say Plenty!” said Norah, laughing. “Look—there’s Dad!”
They turned to meet a tall grey man who came swinging across the grass
with a step as light as his son’s. David Linton greeted them with a
smile.
“I knew I should find you as near as you could get to the horses,” he
said. “This place is almost a rest-cure after Harrod’s; I never find
myself in that amazing shop without wishing I had a bell on my neck, so
that I couldn’t get lost. And I always take the wrong lift and find
myself among garden tools when all I want is collars.”
“Well, they have lifts round every corner: you want a special
lift-sense not to take the wrong one,” Norah defended him.
“Yes, and when you ask your way anywhere in one of these fifty-acre
London shops they say, ‘Through the archway, sir,’ and disappear: and
you look round you frantically, and see about seventeen different
archways, and there you are,” Wally stated. “So you plunge into them
all in turn, and get hopelessly lost. But it’s rather fun.”
“I’d like it better if they didn’t call me ‘Moddam,’” said Norah.
“‘Shoes, Moddam? Certainly, Moddam; first to the right, second to the
left, lift Number fifteen, fifth floor and the attendant will direct
you!’ Then you stagger into space, wishing for a wet towel round your
head!”
“I could almost believe,” said her father, regarding her gravely, “that
you would prefer Cunjee, with one street, one general store, one
blacksmith’s, and not much else at all.”
“Why, of course I do,” Norah laughed. “At least you can’t get lost
there, and you haven’t got half a day’s journey from the oatmeal place
to the ribbon department: they’ll sell you both at the same counter,
and a frying-pan and a new song too! Think of the economy of time and
boot-leather! And Mr. Wilkins knows all about you, and talks to you
like a nice fat uncle while he wraps up your parcels. And if you’re on
a young horse you needn’t get off at all—all you have to do is to
coo-ee, and Mr. Wilkins comes out prepared to sell you all his shop on
the footpath. If _that_ isn’t more convenient than seventeen archways
and fifty-seven lifts, then I’d like to know what is!”
“Moddam always had a great turn of eloquence, hadn’t she?” murmured
Wally, eyeing her with respect. Whereat Norah reddened and laughed, and
accused him of sentiments precisely similar to her own.
“I think we’re all much the same,” Jim said. “London’s all very well
for a visit. But just imagine what it would be if we didn’t know we
were going back to Billabong some day!”
“What a horrible idea!” Norah said. “But we are—when the old War’s
over, and the Kaiser has retired to St. Helena, and the Huns are busy
building up Belgium and France. And you’ll both be captains, if you
aren’t brigadiers, and all Billabong will expect to see you come back
in uniform glittering with medals and things.”
“I like their chance!” said Wally firmly.
“Anyhow, we’ll all go back; and that’s all that matters,” said Norah.
Her eyes dwelt wistfully on the two tall lads.
“And meanwhile,” said Jim, “we’ll all go down to Fuller’s and have
morning tea. One thing, young Norah, you won’t find a Fuller’s in
Cunjee!”
“Why would I be trying?” Norah asked cheerfully. “Sure isn’t there
Brownie at Billabong?”
“Hear, hear!” agreed Wally. “When I think of Brownie’s pikelets——”
“Or Brownie’s scones,” added Norah. “Or her sponge-cakes.”
“Or Brownie’s tea-pot, as large and as brown as herself,” said Mr.
Linton—“then London is a desert. But we’ll make the best of it for the
present. Come along to Fuller’s.”