HOME FROM THE WAR
The war was over. Oliver October Baxter came through without a scratch.
He saw two years of hard fighting with the glorious Canadians; when the
United States went in, he gave up his hard-earned commission as first
lieutenant and was transferred to the American Army. He learned a great
deal about red tape before his transfer was effected, and he discovered
to his disgust that he knew a great deal less about war than he might
reasonably have been supposed to know after two years of slogging along
at it under shot and shell from the German Armies. He had to go back to
America and enter a training camp, and even then, to employ his own
expression, he had the “devil of a time” getting a commission as second
lieutenant.
There were so many able young business men and college graduates out for
commissions that he just barely managed to scrape through “by the skin
of his teeth” in the struggle for honors. The fact that he had had two
years of actual experience at the front, part of that time as an
officer, did not seem to help him very much with his studies at the
“Camp,” nor with the intensive drilling that was supposed to make a
soldier of him in three months. Two medals for distinguished service on
the field of battle were of absolutely no service to him in the contest
that was being waged in the training camp—in fact, he was advised by
the major in command that he would better not even speak of them, much
less expose them to view.
Then, to his intense chagrin, he was sent from one camp to another—a
sort of floating officer—finally winding up in a mid-western division
that did not go over seas until the spring of 1918, only a few months
before the war ended. Once with the Army in France, however, things took
a belated change for the better. Far-sighted and fair-minded officers in
high places were not slow in transferring him from the camp far behind
the lines to a veteran division up in the battle zone. He went through
the Argonne and was close on the bloody heels of the German Army when
the last guns in the great conflict were fired. He came out a captain.
In April, 1919, he sailed from Brest and on the tenth of May arrived in
Rumley, discharged from the Army and jobless. On the way home he stopped
over in Chicago to notify his employers that he would be ready to resume
work after a month’s much-needed rest and quiet down in the old town. He
was blandly informed that as soon as anything turned up they would be
pleased and happy to take him back into the concern, but at present
there wasn’t a vacancy in sight—in fact, they were cutting down the
operating force wherever it was possible, and so on and so forth. Yes,
they remembered perfectly that they had promised him his old place when
he returned, but how in God’s name were they to know that the war was
going to last as long as it did? He couldn’t expect them to hold a job
open for him for nearly four years, could he? Only too glad to take you
on again, Baxter, when things begin to pick up—and all that.
Being a captain in the Army and used to plain speaking, he told the
astonished general manager what he thought of him and the whole works
besides, and airily went his way.
The horrors of war had not affected his spirits. He went over in the
first place full of cheer and enthusiasm; he came back without the
latter, but indomitably possessed of the former. He had seen grim sights
and sickened under the spectacle; he had stood by the side of dying
comrades and wept as he would have wept over his own brother; he had
known times when life was far harder to bear than the thought of death;
and he had said what he believed to be his last prayer a hundred times
or more. But when the guns ceased their everlasting roar and the smoke
lifted to reveal a blue sky that smiled, he too smiled and was glad to
be alive. He had lived on hope through the carnage of what seemed a
thousand years; the hope which men, in their bewildered after-joy, were
prone to call their luck. It was hope that went over the top with them,
but it was luck that saw them through.
And so when he was turned away, empty-handed, from the place where he
had proved his worth as a soldier of industry, he was not dismayed. He
experienced a lively sense of indignation, he felt outraged, but he did
not sit himself down over against the walls of Nineveh to devote a
single hour to lamentation.
The injustice rankled. He had heard of other men coming back to find
their places occupied by indispensables, but it had never occurred to
him that _his_ bosses would “welch” on their promise. He had never for
an instant doubted, and yet when he was turned away he was not
surprised. It seemed odd to him that he was not surprised. Perhaps it
was because he had reached the point where nothing could surprise him.
In any case, he strode out of the old familiar offices with his chin
high, enjoying a very good opinion of himself and an extremely poor one
of his late employers. It did not occur to him to feel the slightest
uneasiness about the future. He would be no time at all in landing a
good job with any one of the half dozen big concerns that had tried in
vain to get him away from the V—— Company. He would take his month or
two of idleness down in the old town, where he could realize on the
dreams and the longings that had never ceased to attend him, awake or
asleep, through all the black ages spent in France.
This time there was no delegation at the station to meet him. Too many
of Rumley’s young men had preceded him home from the war. He was no
better than the rest of them and deserved no more. His father and Sammy
Parr were waiting for him when the train pulled in.
“By thunder, Oliver, it beats the dickens how you work into my plans so
neatly,” cried the latter. “You always seem to be coming home at the
right minute. You couldn’t have timed it better if you’d—oh, excuse me,
Mr. Baxter, I forgot you hadn’t—er, here’s your father, Oliver.”
Old Oliver came shuffling up from the background. He eyed his son
narrowly.
“What’s this, I hear about them not taking you back on your old job?” he
demanded. He extended his hand, which young Oliver gripped in both of
his.
“Aren’t you glad to see me back, alive and well, dad?” he cried. “Not
even scratched, or gassed or shell-shocked or anything. You act as
though you—”
“Of course, I’m glad you’re back, sonny—of course, I am. I’ve been
praying for this ever since you went away. I don’t see how on earth you
ever escaped being killed. I—I guess it wasn’t meant for you to die
that way. Seems so, at any rate. But what did I tell you about them
holding your job for you? What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you just
what would happen? Didn’t I say you’d never get it back? Didn’t I say
you were a fool for giving up a seven thousand dollar job to go over and
mix up in a war that wasn’t any of our business? Well, you see what’s
happened. Just what I said would happen. Here you are, a grown man, out
of a job and probably won’t be able to get one in God knows how long.
I—”
“Oh, I’m not down and out, you know, dad,” broke in young Oliver,
slapping his father on the shoulder. “I’ve got quite a bunch of money in
the bank and I’ve got my health and a few million dollars’ worth of
brains left. So, cheer up! I’m not worrying. I learned a long time ago
how to land on my feet—and that’s the way I’ll land this crack.”
“Course you’re not worrying,” was his father’s sour retort. “You’ve got
me to fall back on, with a good home and grub and a darned fine business
to drop into when I’m dead and gone. Four-fifths of the fellers who
served in the army from this town alone are back here now, loafing and
living off of their folks, and kicking like a bay steer because the
government won’t do something for them. I hope you ain’t going to be one
of that kind, Oliver. I hope to God you ain’t.”
His son could hardly believe his ears. He was bewildered, hurt.
“If you mean, dad, that I am counting on living off of you—of sponging
on you—why, put it out of your mind. Nothing like that is going to
happen. I did plan to stay a month or two, just for a rest and to be
with you for a while—but if you’d rather have me beat it back to
Chicago to look for a job, I’ll only hang around a few days.”
“I want you to stay here as long as you like, sonny,” cried old Oliver,
melting. “I don’t want you ever to go away again. Maybe I sounded as if
I did—but—but, I don’t. I’m getting purty old—seventy-four last
month—and I guess I’m not good for much longer. Don’t you get it into
your head that I don’t want you to stay here in Rumley. Nothing would
suit me better than to turn the business over to you right now and let
me retire, but I guess it’s not your idea to go into the retail hardware
business.”
“If you need me, dad, I—I will stay,” said Oliver, swallowing hard.
“Oh, I don’t need you yet,” said his father, crusty once more. “I can
get along, I guess. I’ve done it for a good many years, and I’m not all
in yet, as the feller says. There was a time when I thought of selling
out and moving into another state to live, but I’ve given that idea up.”
“Still living in dread of what that darned old fraud said the day I was
born, eh? Well, the agony will soon be over. A year and a half more,
isn’t it? That will end the tale, and I will live happily forever
afterward.”
Sammy Parr was consulting his vest-pocket note book.
“Just one year, six months and twenty-one days,” said he.
“Good Lord, Sam! Have _you_ gone off your nut, too?”
“Vital statistics, old boy. It’s my business, you know. Come on; I’ve
got my car out here. Your father’s Ford died last fall and he’s been an
orphan ever since. Grab up some of this junk and I’ll bring the rest.
Never mind, Mr. Baxter. We can manage it.”
“Drop me at the store,” said old Oliver crossly.
Sammy gave young Oliver a significant look. “All right, Mr. Baxter.
We’ll wait outside for you. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands
to-day, and besides I want to talk to Oliver about a—er—something
private.”
As the two young men hurried across the platform with the bags and
bundles, Sammy found opportunity to say to Oliver:
“He’ll be in a good humor in a minute or two. It’s just a habit he’s
fallen into since you’ve been away. I guess it’s that infernal gypsy
business. He’s as peevish as blazes a good part of the time.”
They stopped in front of the Baxter store and the old man reluctantly
got out of the car. It was plain to be seen that he had not intended to
stop there at all but was now obliged to do so to save his face.
“I won’t be a minute,” he said, affecting a briskness that was
calculated to deceive his son. Then he darted into the store, where,
from a shadowy corner in the stove section, he shifted his uneasy gaze
from the clock on the wall to the car at the curb.
“How’s your wife, Sam?” inquired Oliver.
Sammy grinned. “Little premature, ain’t you?”
“Premature?”
“Sure. I’m not going to be married till next week.”
“Oh, I say, old chap, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard of Laura’s death. Her
name _was_ Laura, wasn’t it?”
“Yep. And it still is. But her last name isn’t Parr any longer. It’s
Collins. We’ve been divorced for five or six months, Oliver. Don’t look
so darned serious. I’m not sensitive. It’s the way things are done these
days. Nobody gets married for keeps nowadays. It’s not supposed to be
proper. The idea is to try it out for a year or so and if it doesn’t
work, zing! You up and get divorced. Pretty much the same thing as an
armistice. The war has changed everything. Quite a few old married
people I know of are taking advantage of the new order of things. I’ve
had to change the beneficiaries in four or five policies already.
They’ve suddenly awoke to the fact that it’s easy. God knows where it
will end. But I haven’t time now to tell you how Laura and I came to
split up. Some other time, if you’ll just remind me of it. The question
of the hour is, will you be best man again for me next week, old boy?
I’m marrying the sweetest little woman that ever came down the pike, and
this time it’s for keeps. No monkey business. Her first husband was a
Lieutenant Higby—we were in the same camp for months and months. That’s
where I met her. Well, he didn’t appreciate her. That’s the long and
short of it. Got to running around after other women. She up and canned
him. Long and short of it. Laura, God bless her, fell in love with a
chap named Collins. I don’t blame her, mind you—not a bit of it. She’s
as square as anything. Of course, it hurt my pride a little when she ran
away with him—but it simplified matters. I’m sure you will like Muriel.
She’s as fine as they make ’em. We’re to be married next Thursday
afternoon. Up in the city. Her people live there. How about it? Will you
repeat for me? I promise you it will be the last time, Oliver. Never
again. We both know what we’re about this time. We’ve cut all our wisdom
teeth—and, by Gosh, if you ask me, I’ve had a couple pulled.”
“We had a very jolly time at your first wedding, Sammy,” sighed Oliver.
“Jane was maid-of-honor and—well, I would have sworn that you two were
the kind who would stick.”
“So would I,” agreed Sammy cheerfully. “We can’t very well ask Jane to
be maid-of-honor this time,” he went on. “Religious scruples, you see.
Minister’s daughter. Wouldn’t look right. I mean, wouldn’t look right
for her. But it’s different with you. You haven’t any religious
scruples. What say? Will you do it?”
“Certainly. Rumley seems to be keeping up with the times, Sammy. When I
was a kid, nobody ever dreamed of getting a divorce. It was looked upon
as a—er—a sort of a crime.”
“Still is by some of the old-timers,” confessed Sammy. “Here comes your
father. Don’t say anything about me being married next week. I’m closing
up a deal to renew his fire insurance to-morrow or next day, and if he
knew I was thinking of committing bigamy next week, he’d turn me down
cold. He calls it bigamy, you see.”
“I see. By the way, where is Jane, Sammy?”
He remembered having asked that very question when he returned after a
former protracted absence—and how many times had he asked it even
before that? Every time he came home from college for a brief visit,
every time he met Mr. Sage on the street—why, all his life he had been
asking: “Where is Jane?”
“Jane Sage? Oh, she’s around, same as ever. Things are a lot easier for
Mr. Sage now. I guess maybe you haven’t heard about his brother dying
out in California and leaving him quite a bit of money. Yep. About a
hundred thousand dollars, they say—safely invested, mostly at six per
cent. The old boy still sticks to his job as preacher, though. He’s
getting eighteen hundred a year now from the church. I’m glad of it. He
gets a new suit of clothes every once in a while, and Jane doesn’t have
to make her own dresses as she used to. It looks like a pretty serious
affair between her and Doc Lansing. Been going on now for nearly a
year.”
“What’s that?” demanded Oliver, startled.
“I guess it’s all happened since you went away. Why, sure it has. Doc’s
only been practicing here since last summer. Got hurt over in France in
1917 and had to take his discharge. Went over early in ’Seventeen in the
Medical Corps. Leg smashed. Limps. Fine feller, though.”
“I don’t seem to remember him,” said Oliver, dully.
“His father is president of the new bank here—that brick building down
there at the corner of Clay and Pershing Streets.”
“Pershing Street?”
“Yep. Used to be Ridley’s Lane.”
“Oh.” Oliver was feeling a little like Rip Van Winkle. “You say
she’s—er—in love with him?”
“Looks that way,” said Sammy, indifferently. “He’s dead gone on her,
that’s sure. I had him in not long ago for the baby. He’s all right. I
forgot to tell you that the court gave the kid to me for eight months
every year—four months to Laura. All right, Mr. Baxter. Hop in. I’ll
snake you home in no time. Hang on to your hat.”
The volatile, insouciant Mr. Parr employed the correct word when he said
“snake,” for he wriggled a swift and serpentinous way through the
traffic of Clay Street in his noisy red roadster, keeping up a running
fire of conversation all the time, much of it being drowned by the
louder fire of the muffler cut-out—which he used unsparingly in place
of his horn in tight pinches.
“There’s Jane on ahead,” he sang out to Oliver as they whizzed across
Pershing Street.
“Where?” cried Oliver, starting up.
“Back there,” replied Sammy, with a jerk of his head.
Oliver twisted in the seat and looked over his shoulder. Jane was
standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring after the red roadster.
He half-rose and waved his hand to her. She did not respond at once. The
car was swinging into a cross street before she recovered from her
astonishment. Then she waved her hand—and the last he saw of her she
was standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Say, what the—what’s the rush?” he roared. “I want to speak to Jane.
Stop the damn thing, will you? Let me out. I’ll run back and—”
“Keep your shirt on,” chirped Sammy. “I’ll run you clear around the
block and we’ll head her off. Quicker than backing and turning in
this—”
“Go ahead!” commanded Mr. Baxter sharply. “Let’s get home. You can see
Jane to-morrow or next day,” he shouted to his son.
“Oh, I say, dad!”
“If you’d sooner see her than me—all right. All right! Turn around,
Sammy, and take him back. Let me out. I’ll walk the rest of the way
home.”
“Drive on, Sam,” said Oliver, sinking back in the seat.
Presently Mr. Baxter cackled. He was in high good humor again. “Say,” he
said, “I fooled the whole crowd of ’em. I told Joe and the rest of ’em
you wouldn’t be coming down till to-morrow. Pretty smart trick, eh?
Joe’ll be so mad he’ll pay me the twenty dollars he owes me, claiming he
don’t want to have anything more to do with me. He-he-he!”
Oliver was silent. Sammy snorted and then got very red in the face.
“I had to tell Serepty Grimes,” went on Mr. Baxter, as if apologizing to
himself. “She’s keeping house for me now, and so I had to tell her. I
didn’t tell her till just about an hour ago, though. She was as mad as a
wet hen.”
“Aunt Serepta keeping house for you?”
“Yes. Have you got any objections?”
“None whatever, dad. I think it’s great.”
“Well,” began the old man, slightly mollified, “I’m glad it suits you.”
“I wouldn’t have thought she’d give up her own nice little house
to—Don’t tell she’s in financial difficulties, dad.”
“She’s better off than she ever was. She sold her house and lot and the
Grimes sawmill two years ago, and now she’s living off the fat of the
land. She was the one who proposed the housekeeper scheme, not me. I
tried to argue her out of it. Wasn’t any use. I said that people would
be sure to talk if she came over and lived at my house. Make a regular
scandal out of it. But she just laughed and said nothing in the world
would tickle her so much as to have people say complimentary things
about her at her age. I was a long time figuring out what she meant.
She’s sixty-nine. She says I ought to feel the same way about it, me
being seventy-four. ‘Let ’em talk,’ says she, and after a while she got
me to saying ‘let ’em talk.’ But the cussed part of it is, nobody thinks
there’s anything scandalous about it. There hasn’t been a derned bit of
talk. The only thing people say, far as I can make out, is that it’s a
mighty nice arrangement. What the dickens are you laughing at, Sam?”
“I just ran over a hen,” lied Samuel promptly.