There was no possible way to avoid meeting him. John Cameron knew that
with the first glance. He also knew that Wainwright had recognized him at
once and was lifting his chin already with that peculiar, disagreeable
tilt of triumph that had always been so maddening to one who knew the
small mean nature of the man.
Of course, there was still time to turn deliberately about and flee in
the other direction, but that would be all too obvious, and an open
confession of weakness. John Cameron was never at any time a coward.
His firm lips set a trifle more sternly than usual, his handsome head was
held high with fine military bearing. He came forward without faltering
for even so much as the fraction of a waver. There was not a flicker in
his eyes set straight ahead. One would never have known from his looks
that he recognized the oncoming man, or had so much as realized that an
officer was approaching, yet his brain was doing some rapid calculation.
He had said in his heart if not openly that he would never salute this
man. He had many times in their home town openly passed him without
salute because he had absolutely no respect for him, and felt that he
owed it to his sense of the fitness of things not to give him deference,
but that was a different matter from camp. He knew that Wainwright was in
a position to do him injury, and no longer stood in fear of a good
thrashing from him as at home, because here he could easily have the
offender put in the guard house and disgraced forever. Nothing, of
course, would delight him more than thus to humiliate his sworn enemy.
Yet Cameron walked on knowing that he had resolved not to salute him.
It was not merely pride in his own superiority. It was contempt for the
nature of the man, for his low contemptible plots and tricks, and cunning
ways, for his entire lack of principle, and his utter selfishness and
heartlessness, that made Cameron feel justified in his attitude toward
Wainwright. "He is nothing but a Hun at heart," he told himself bitterly.
But the tables were turned. Wainwright was no longer in his home town
where his detestable pranks had goaded many of his neighbors and
fellowtownsmen into a cordial hatred of him. He was in a great military
camp, vested with a certain amount of authority, with the right to report
those under him; who in turn could not retaliate by telling what they
knew of him because it was a court-martial offense for a private to
report an officer. Well, naturally the United States was not supposed to
have put men in authority who needed reporting. Cameron, of course,
realized that these things had to be in order to maintain military
discipline. But it was inevitable that some unworthy ones should creep
in, and Wainwright was surely one of those unworthy ones. He would not
bend to him, officer, or no officer. What did he care what happened to
himself? Who was there to care but his mother? And she would understand
if the news should happen to penetrate to the home town, which was hardly
likely. Those who knew him would not doubt him, those who did not
mattered little. There was really no one who would care. Stay! A letter
crackled in his breast pocket and a cold chill of horror struggled up
from his heart. Suppose _she_ should hear of it! Yes, he would care for
that!
They were almost meeting now and Cameron's eyes were straight ahead
staring hard at the big green shape of the theatre a quarter of a mile
away. His face under its usual control showed no sign of the tumult in
his heart, which flamed with a sudden despair against a fate that had
placed him in such a desperate situation. If there were a just power who
controlled the affairs of men, how could it let such things happen to one
who had always tried to live up upright life? It seemed for that instant
as if all the unfairness and injustice of his own hard life had
culminated in that one moment when he would have to do or not do and bear
the consequences.
Then suddenly out from the barracks close at hand with brisk step and
noble bearing came Captain La Rue, swinging down the walk into the road
straight between the two men and stopped short in front of Cameron with a
light of real welcome in his eyes, as he lifted his hand to answer the
salute which the relieved Cameron instantly flashed at him.
In that second Lieutenant Wainwright flung past them with a curt salute
to the higher officer and a glare at the corporal which the latter seemed
not to see. It was so simultaneous with Cameron's salute of La Rue that
nobody on earth could say that the salute had not included the
lieutenant, yet both the lieutenant and the corporal knew that it had
not; and Wainwright's brow was dark with intention as he turned sharply
up the walk to the barracks which the captain had just left.
"I was just coming in search of you, Cameron," said the captain with a
twinkle in his eyes, and his voice was clearly distinct to Wainwright as
he loitered in the barracks doorway to listen, "I went down to Washington
yesterday and put in the strongest plea I knew how for your transfer. I
hope it will go through all right. There is no one else out for the job
and you are just the man for the place. It will be a great comfort to
have you with me."
A few more words and the busy man moved on eluding Cameron's earnest
thanks and leaving him to pursue his course to the Y.M.C.A. hut with a
sense of soothing and comfort. It never occurred to either of them that
their brief conversation had been overheard, and would not have disturbed
them if it had.
Lieutenant Wainwright lingered on the steps of the barracks with a
growing curiosity and satisfaction. The enemy were playing right into his
hands: _both_ the enemy--for he hated Captain La Rue as sin always hates
the light.
He lounged about the barracks in deep thought for a few minutes and then
made a careful toilet and went out.
He knew exactly where to go and how to use his influence, which was not
small, although not personal. It was characteristic of the man that it
made no difference to him that the power he was wielding was a borrowed
power whose owner would have been the last man to have done what he was
about to do with it. He had never in his life hesitated about getting
whatever he wanted by whatever means presented itself. He was often aware
that people gave him what he wanted merely to get rid of him, but this
did not alloy his pleasure in his achievement.
He was something of a privileged character in the high place to which he
betook himself, on account of the supreme regard which was held for the
uncle, a mighty automobile king, through whose influence he had obtained
his commission. So far he had not availed himself of his privileges too
often and had therefore not as yet outworn his welcome, for he was a true
diplomat. He entered this evening with just the right shade of delicate
assurance and humble affrontery to assure him a cordial welcome, and
gracefully settled himself into the friendliness that was readily
extended to him. He was versed in all the ways of the world and when he
chose could put up a good appearance. He knew that for the sake of his
father's family and more especially because of his uncle's high standing,
this great official whom he was calling upon was bound to be nice to him
for a time. So he bided his time till a few other officials had left and
his turn came.
The talk was all personal, a few words about his relatives and then
questions about himself, his commission, how he liked it, and how things
were going with him. Mere form and courtesy, but he knew how to use the
conversation for his own ends:
"Oh, I'm getting along fine and dandy!" he declared effusively, "I'm just
crazy about camp! I like the life! But I'll tell you what makes me tired.
It's these little common guys running around fussing about their jobs and
trying to get a lot of pull to get into some other place. Now there's an
instance of that in our company, a man from my home town, no account
whatever and never was, but he's got it in his head that he's a square
peg in a round hole and he wants to be transferred. He shouts about it
from morning till night trying to get everybody to help him, and at last
I understand he's hoodwinked one captain into thinking he's the salt of
the earth, and they are plotting together to get him transferred. I
happened to overhear them talking about it just now, how they are going
to this one and that one in Washington to get things fixed to suit them.
They think they've got the right dope on things all right and it's going
through for him to get his transfer. It makes me sick. He's no more fit
for a commission than my dog, not as fit, for he could at least obey
orders. This fellow never did anything but what he pleased. I've known
him since we were kids and never liked him. But he has a way with him
that gets people till they understand him. It's too bad when the country
needs real men to do their duty that a fellow like that can get a
commission when he is utterly inefficient besides being a regular breeder
of trouble. But, of course, I can't tell anybody what I know about him."
"I guess you needn't worry, Wainwright. They can't make any transfers
without sending them up to me, and you may be good and sure I'm not
transferring anybody just now without a good reason, no matter who is
asking it. He's in your company, is he? And where does he ask to be
transferred? Just give me his name. I'll make a note of it. If it ever
comes up I'll know how to finish him pretty suddenly. Though I doubt if
it does. People are not pulling wires just now. This is _war_ and
everything means business. However, if I find there has been wire-pulling
I shall know how to deal with it summarily. It's a court-martial offense,
you know."
They passed on to other topics, and Wainwright with his little eyes
gleaming triumphantly soon took himself out into the starlight knowing
that he had done fifteen minutes' good work and not wishing to outdo it.
He strolled contentedly back to officers' quarters wearing a more
complacent look on his heavy features. He would teach John Cameron to
ignore him!
Meantime John Cameron with his head among the stars walked the dusty camp
streets and forgot the existence of Lieutenant Wainwright. A glow of
gratitude had flooded his soul at sight of his beloved captain, whom he
hoped soon to be able to call _his_ captain. Unconsciously he walked with
more self-respect as the words of confidence and trust rang over again in
his ears. Unconsciously the little matters of personal enmity became
smaller, of less importance, beside the greater things of life in which
he hoped soon to have a real part. If he got this transfer it meant a
chance to work with a great man in a great way that would not only help
the war but would be of great value to him in this world after the war
was over. It was good to have the friendship of a man like that, fine,
clean, strong, intellectual, kind, just, human, gentle as a woman, yet
stern against all who deviated from the path of right.
The dusk was settling into evening and twinkling lights gloomed out amid
the misty, dust-laden air. Snatches of wild song chorused out from open
windows:
She's my lady, my baby,
She's cock-eyed, she's crazy.
The twang of a banjo trailed in above the voices, with a sound of
scuffling. Loud laughter broke the thread of the song leaving _"Mary
Ann!"_ to soar out alone. Then the chorus took it up once more:
All her teeth are false
From eating Rochelle salts--
She's my freckled-faced, consumptive MARY ANN-N-N!
Cameron turned in at the quiet haven of the Y.M.C.A. hut, glad to leave
the babel sounds outside. Somehow they did not fit his mood to-night,
although there were times when he could roar the outlandish gibberish
with the best of them. But to-night he was on such a wonderful sacred
errand bent, that it seemed as though he wanted to keep his soul from
contact with rougher things lest somehow it might get out of tune and so
unfit him for the task before him.
And then when he had seated himself before the simple desk he looked at
the paper with discontent. True, it was all that was provided and it was
good enough for ordinary letters, but this letter to her was different.
He wished he had something better. To think he was really writing to
_her_! And now that he was here with the paper before him what was he to
say? Words seemed to have deserted him. How should he address her?
It was not until he had edged over to the end of the bench away from
everybody else and taken out the precious letter that he gained
confidence and took up his pen:
"My dear friend:----" Why, he would call her his friend, of course, that
was what she had called him. And as he wrote he seemed to see her again
as she sat in her car by the station the day he started on his long, long
trail and their eyes had met. Looking so into her eyes again, he wrote
straight from his soul: