Futile.... Futile.... Futile.
No--by Heaven, no! Not while we remember our dead; not while the spirit
of comradeship still lives in the breasts of those who went out there;
never, if the Britain of the future is worthy of her knights of the
greatest crusade of all, and of the mothers who gave that which had
sprung from their very heart-beats.
"_Out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a
child or a star there is pain._"
Half-mad with joy, I rushed into the street and urged my hospitality on
the mutilated soldier, who came into my den and took a seat by the
fire, while I fetched a decanter and cigars that we might make the
occasion a jovial one. As I came into the room I noticed that he was
examining me curiously.
"Hexcuse me," he said, "but if I may make so bold--wasn't you 'is pal?"
"Good heavens!" I cried, a light bursting upon me. "You're the man with
a face like a--like a----" I suppose I blushed.
"Don't 'esitate," he grinned. "Many a time over there 'e told me you
called me Pumpkin-Fice,' and, beggin' your pardon, sir, I likes it a
sight better than 'Pest.'"
"Then--it was Norman I saw in March?"
"Ay." He sipped his glass meditatively. "'E lied about 'is 'eart, and
was took O.K. late in 'fifteen. 'E was a ranker like the rest of us,
but 'e was a proper gentleman, 'e was--that is, not just like we
hunderstands the word in Hengland, but a _real_ gentleman. 'E never
preached and 'e never whined, but them two heyes just kept twinklin',
and whenever hany of us was a bit windy, 'e 'd sort of buck us hup by
that there smile 'e 'ad. I ain't much on langwidge, not 'avin' no
eddication to speak of, or I'd hexplain better; but when little Sawyers
got 'is from a sniper, and 'e knew 'is ticket was punched for to go
West, the sergeant says, 'Fetch the padre,' but Sawyers 'e says, 'No,
it's Bubbles I want.'... I ain't much on religion neither, and I've
done a 'eap o' filthy swearin', which I guess is all down agin me in
the book; but wherever Bubbles is goin' is good enough for me, whether
it's brimstin and blazes or hangels playin' 'arps."
"Tell me"--I dreaded the answer to the question--"where is he now?"
"'E's took a cottage hover in the Hisle o' Wight," he said, clearing
his throat and speaking slowly, "and 'e's married to the sweetest
creetur I ever saw houtside a book. Blime! after I gets hout o'
'ospital, me not 'avin' any hold woman of my own, 'e finds me hout and
sends a letter sayin' to go there for my convalessings, which likewise
I did. That's 'is haddress on the top of that there letter."
I took the paper from his hand, but kept my eyes on his face; he was
keeping something from me. "Tell me the truth about him," I said, and
waited.
He shifted uneasily in his chair. "'E got a blighty near 'is 'eart," he
said, making a supreme effort, "and 'e'll never get hup from 'is chair
no more."