The Valley of Vision Part 17

Hardman, who was a thoroughly good fellow at heart, held out his hand.

"Good for you, d.i.c.k! But I must be going now. I am putting up at the Ivy. Will you walk up with me? I'd like to have a word with you."

The two men walked in silence along the shady, moon-flecked streets of the tranquil old university town. Then the elder one spoke.

"You have done the right thing, I am sure. That officers'

training-school is a good place to get a practical education. When you are through, how would you like to have a post in the Ordnance Department at Was.h.i.+ngton? I have some influence there and believe I could get you in without difficulty."

"Thanks, a lot," answered the lad modestly. "You're awfully kind.

But, if you don't mind my saying so, I think I'd rather have service at the front--that is, if I can qualify for it."

There was another long silence before Hardman spoke again, with an apparent change of subject:

"I wish you would tell me what you really think of your uncle's views on the cla.s.sics, you and the other fellows of your age in the university."

d.i.c.k hesitated a moment before he replied:

"Well, personally, you know, I believe what Uncle says is usually about right. He has the habit of it. But I allow when he gets on his hobby he rides rather hard. Most of the other fellows have given up the cla.s.sics--they like the modern-language course with sciences better--perhaps it's softer. They say not; but I know the cla.s.sics are hard enough. I flunked out on my Greek exam junior year. So, you see, I'm not a very good judge. But, anyhow, wasn't the bit he read us from Juvenal simply fine? And didn't he read it well? I've felt that a hundred times, but never knew how to say it."

It was in the early fall of 1918, more than a year later, that Hardman came once more into the familiar library at Calvinton. He had read the casualty list of the last week of August and came to condole with his friend De Vries.

The old man sat in the twilight of the tranquil book-lined room, leaning back in his armchair, with an open letter on the table before him. He gave his hand cordially to Hardman and thanked him for his sympathetic words. He talked quietly and naturally about d.i.c.k, and confessed how much he should miss the boy--as it were, his only son.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I am going to be lonely, but I am not forsaken. I shall be sad sometimes, but never sorry--always proud of my boy. Would you like to see this letter? It is the last that he wrote."

It was a young, simple letter, full of cheerful joking and personal details and words of affection which the shy lad would never have spoken face to face. At the end he wrote:

"Well, dear Governor, this is a rough life, and some parts are not easy to bear. But I want you to know that I was never happier in all my days. I know that we are fighting for a good cause, justice, and freedom, and a world made clean from this beastly German militarism. The things that the Germans have done to France and Belgium must be stopped, and they must never be done again.

We want a decent world to live in, and we are going to have it, no matter what it costs. Of course I should like to live through it all, if I can do it with honor. But a man never can tell what is going to happen. And I certainly would rather give up my life than the things we are fighting for--the things you taught me to believe are according to the will of G.o.d. So good-night for the present, Uncle, and sleep well.

"Your loving nephew and son,

"d.i.c.k."

Hardman's hand shook a little as he laid the paper on the table.

"It is a beautiful letter," he said.

"Yes," nodded the old professor, putting his hand upon it; "it is a cla.s.sic; very clear and simple and high-minded. The German Crown Prince says our American soldiers do not know what they are fighting for. But Richard knew. It was to defend 'the things for which we live' that he gladly gave his life."

September, 1918.

HALF-TOLD TALES

THE NEW ERA AND CARRY ON

The Commandant of the Marine Hospital was at his desk, working hard, when the door of the room was flung open and the Officer of the Day rushed in.

"Sir," he exploded, "the New Era has come."

"Very likely, Mr. Corker," answered the Commandant. "It has been coming continually since the world began. But is that any reason why you should enter without knocking, and with your coat covered with bread-crumbs and cigarette-ashes?"

So the Officer of the Day went outside, brushed his coat, knocked at the door, and awaited orders.

"Mr. Corker," said the Commandant, "have the kindness to bring me your report on the condition of yesterday's cases, and let me know what operations are indicated for to-day. Good morning. Orderly, my compliments to the Executive Officer, and I wish to see him at once."

When the Executive Officer arrived, he began:

"Sir, the New Era--"

"Quite so, Mr. Greel, but you understand this Hospital has to carry on as required in any kind of an era. How many patients did we receive yesterday? Good. Have we enough bedding and provisions?

Bad. Attend to it immediately, and let me know the result of your efforts to remedy a situation which should never have arisen. The Navy cannot be run on hot air."

As the Executive Officer went out he held the door open for the Head Nurse to pa.s.s in. She was a fine, upstanding creature, tremulous with emotion.

"Oh, Doctor," she cried, "I simply must tell you about the New Era.

Woman Suffrage is going to save the world."

"I hope so, Miss Dooby, it certainly needs saving. Meantime how are things in the pneumonia ward?"

"Two deaths last night, sir, three new cases this morning. Oxygen is running short: no beef-tea or milk. Five of my nurses have gone to attend conventions of woman--"

"Slackers," interrupted the Commandant. "Put them on report for leaving the s.h.i.+p without permission. I shall attend to their cases.

Fill their places from the volunteer list. Be so good as to send the head steward here immediately."

"I'm very sorry, Sir," said the steward, "but ye see it's just this way. The mess-boys was holdin' a New Era ma.s.s-meetin', and the cook he forgot--"

"Milk and beef-tea!" growled the Commandant as if they were swear-words. "What the devil is this new influenza that has struck the hospital? Steward, you will provide what the head nurse requires at once. Orderly, my cap, and call Mr. Greel to accompany me on inspection."

In the galley the fires were out, the ovens cold, the soup-kettles empty, and all the cooks, dish-washers, and scrubbers were absorbing the eloquence of the third a.s.sistant pie-maker, who stood on an empty biscuit-box and explained the glories of the one-hour day in the New Era.

'"Ten_shun!_" yelled the Orderly, and the force of habit brought the men up, stiff and silent. The Commandant looked around the circle, grinning.

"My word!" he cried, "what a beautiful sight! What do you think this is--a blooming debating society? Wrong! It's a hospital, with near a thousand sick and wounded to take care of. And it's going to be done, see? And you're going to help do it, see? No work--no pay and no food! Neglect of orders means extra duty and no liberty--perhaps a couple of twenty-four-hour days in the brig. That's the rule in all eras, see? Now get busy, all of you. Chow at twelve as usual. Carry on, men."

"Aye, aye, sir," they answered cheerily, for they were weary of the third a.s.sistant pie-maker's brand of talk and felt the pangs of healthy hunger.

Then came the second engineer, out of breath with running, followed by two or three helpers.