CHAPTER V.

A VISIT TO LOCKWOOD.

“_A military gent I see_”—_Thackeray, “The Newcomes.”_

Four weeks of the European fury had become history, but as yet the district around Beulah preserved its accustomed indifference to outside influences. In staid self-sufficiency farmers garnered their harvest, for, if the war ever entered their heads, it was soon dismissed as a far-away happening which could never have relation to themselves. Great Britain had conducted campaigns before, when, as now, a veteran here or there might heed the alarm and be off to his favorite sport, but it was never dreamed that the inviolate aloofness of Lantern Marsh, for instance, could ever be affected.

Farm lands continued, as usual, to be bought and sold. Bard, after much careful barter, procured the valuable estate of William Henry McBratney for a sum which he might have been ashamed to confess, save for personal vanity over his own close bargaining. The purchase, however, ended in a disappointment, for, on offering it to his elder son as a proposed wedding endowment, he discovered that William was averse to marrying, and the newly acquired property had therefore to lie idle. Hired help was not to be had, since already the excitement of war was drawing floaters to the cities and Bard had to content himself with the thought that the war would soon be ended and that William might by then have discovered a woman whom he would be willing to marry.

Mauney found in the war the first successful antidote to his long existing boredom, for, except when he was working, he was reading the _Merlton Globe_ and following events with keenest interest. One day at noon, a large, green motor-car drove suddenly up the lane, and two uniformed officers enquired of Bard if he had any horses to sell. It was to be an army purchase, and Bard, after sending them away empty, bethought himself seriously, with an air of brewing plans.

“Bill,” he said, “if this here war goes on, I’d like to own a few horses. But then,” he added, “’tain’t goin’ to last!”

Meanwhile, Mauney had heard that men were enlisting in Lockwood. Like a flash, he imagined the possibilities of offering himself as a recruit. It was the first time that he had connected the war in any way with himself, and it was mostly his long-cherished craving to leave home that made him do so. The first real breath of the actual war entered the Bard household one evening at supper when Mauney said to his father:

“Dad, I’d love to go to war!”

Bard was rendered speechless; William smiled sarcastically at his father, and then all, including hired help, stopped eating and stared at Mauney.

“You!” gasped Bard. “Well, what put that in your head?”

William laughed quietly.

“I guess they’d never take him, Dad,” he said.

“What do you know about soldierin’?” Bard demanded. “Why, you’d be a nice-lookin’ outfit. Now look here,” he said in a tone of ominous finality; “you can just get that idea out o’ your head, right away, understand me. You ain’t goin’ to no war, and the sooner you realize it the better for you.”

That night, however, Mauney did not sleep. The germ of unrest had been inoculated into his blood. His glimpse of a solution for his troubles had turned his mind so irrevocably toward the new purpose that he did not even undress, but lay wakeful and undecided. He knew his father’s present attitude well enough, but he did not know what his attitude would be in case he were defied.

When the first breezes of morning moved the cotton curtains of his window, showing grey in the dawning light, Mauney got up and sat by the window, gazing at the indistinct outlines of trees, listening to the stirring birds and the distant call of a rooster. He felt that he was listening to these particular sounds for the last time. As it grew lighter he tip-toed to the attic for an old leather valise, brought it to his room, and packed up his few belongings. Then, when he heard movement in the kitchen, he went down. The woman, busy at the stove, turned and looked at his valise.

“Where are you goin’, Maun?” she asked, a little dubiously.

“To Lockwood.”

“What for?” she continued, searching his face.

“To enlist.”

She made no reply, but applied herself quietly to her task of preparing breakfast. When Bard came in he saw Mauney sitting on the step that led to the dining-room with his valise on the floor beside him.

“What are you doin’ with your Sunday clothes on?” he asked, while his narrow eyes fell to notice the valise. “Where are yuh goin’?”

“Lockwood.”

“What for?”

“To enlist.”

Bard stamped across the floor to the wash basin and began vigorously washing his hands. Only the unnecessary splashing of water and the rattling of the basin expressed his mental condition. When he finished he walked to his place at the table and sat down.

“Annie,” he said very softly, “give me them eggs.”

The woman obeyed with great punctiliousness as if dreading the storm of language soon to escape the paternal lips. Bard ate in silence, never once looking up. Then, pushing his plate from him, he loaded his pipe, lit it, and for the first time glanced at Mauney.

“When are you goin’?” he asked, as casually as if it were to Beulah for the evening mail.

“This morning,” said Mauney.

“How are you going to get there?” Bard continued, in ominous calmness.

“I thought perhaps Snowball would drive me down,” said Mauney, uncertain at what instant to expect a volcano of abuse.

For a moment or two Bard stood thoughtfully by the window, evidently weighing the situation.

“Well, Maun, I tell yuh,” he said at length. “There ain’t no chanct in the world of ’em takin’ a kid like you. But I guess maybe the best way to cure you is to let you go down and get it over with. When you get down there and see the hull outfit lined up you’ll change yer mind, anyhow. Tell yuh what I’ll do. I’ll let Snowball and you off fer the day. Snowball’s gettin’ kind o’ stale on the job, too, and maybe a drive to Lockwood would sort o’ brace him up. But, mind, I don’t want to hear no more damned nonsense after you get home, understand me.”

At noon that day old Charlie, covered with lather from the twenty-mile journey, drew Mauney and the hired man into the town of Lockwood. Mauney sat leaning back, absent-mindedly watching the road, while Snowball held the reins and occasionally touched the horse’s flanks with the whip.

A great weight had fallen from Mauney’s shoulders the moment they had passed out of his father’s farmyard and, during the drive in the sultry morning air, his imagination had moved quickly. He felt the great doors of the world opening to receive him. He felt that he was proceeding now into the mystery of real life long denied him. The war was truly a secondary consideration. He knew nothing about the practical side of campaigning. Dimly, though, he fancied that once he reached the Lockwood armouries, some one there would take him admiringly by the hand with expressions of welcome and commendation for his noble decision.

When they had passed along King Street they came to the wide green upon whose upper portion reposed the grey stone armouries with its mullioned windows, its turrets, its scalloped parapets, and its tall flag-pole bearing a huge flag that floated lazily in the breeze. A dozen men in ordinary clothes stood in several groups near the huge doorway, while an occasional soldier in uniform walked stiffly across the lawn to disappear beneath the arch. After noting that his suitcase was safely bestowed in the bottom of the buggy, Mauney got out and adjusted his tie and soft hat.

“Snowball,” he said, “you stay here till I come back. I’m going to see if this is where to enlist.”

“I guess I’ll g-go in with you, Maun!” stammered the hired man as he got out and began tying the horse to a pavement ring. “I hain’t never worried much about soldierin’, but may’s well see the doin’s now as I’m here. Wait a minute, Maun.”

Together they walked across the green and soon came up with a group of civilians who were talking about the war. One of them was a veteran of several campaigns, for he wore a line of medals pinned to his vest and kept his coat well pulled back to display them. He pointed Mauney to the doorway.

As they were about to enter, an erect individual, neatly uniformed, with waxed moustache and a short, black stick held under one Of his straight arms, advanced to meet them.

“What do you want?” he demanded, crisply.

“I want to enlist,” Mauney explained.

“Recruits?” he snapped haughtily, and pointed with his finger. “To the right, fall in line behind the others and wait your turn.”

Mauney thanked him and turned to the hired man.

“You better wait for me outside, Snowball!” he said.

The crisp individual in uniform glanced quickly at Snowball, his eyes keenly studying him.

“You may wait here,” he said, “if you choose.”

The interior of the armouries was so dark that until Mauney’s eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he paused, unable to see the queue of civilians who were standing in line in front of a frosted-glass door. He then made his way over the flag-stones and took up his position in the rear. From a skylight in the high roof a beam of light fell through the dusty air of the big room and, striking in a huge square pattern on the centre of the floor, revealed two teams of horses dragging a field-gun down the middle of the drill-space. The rattle and din, increased by the shouted commands of some visible officers, were so deafening that Mauney did not notice the frosted-glass door open to receive six of his companions. He moved up and patiently waited his turn. At last his time came and he entered with five of his fellow recruits.

In the meantime Snowball sat on the edge of a green box at the entrance, smoking his pipe. The sergeant who had so leniently granted him permission to remain was at a short distance, tête-a-tête with a second sergeant who wore a dangle of white, red and green ribbons from the peak of his cap. The first sergeant pointed toward Snowball, made a gesture with his hands, at which the other nodded, and advanced toward the unsuspecting servant.

“Hello, my man,” said the sergeant, slapping Snowball genially on the back. “How old are you?”

“Forty-five or six,” he replied, looking up curiously.

“Stand up, won’t you?”

Snowball obeyed, rather dubiously.

“My word!” remarked the sergeant, feigning to be overcome with admiring surprise. “You’re a splendid specimen. Where did you get that chest?”

“I g-guess hard work done that,” he said, commencing to giggle.

“You’re just the kind of a man we’re looking for, sir,” said the sergeant, placing one hand on Snowball’s bosom and the other on his back. “Take a long breath.”

He inspired deeply, casting a sharp, doubtful glance at the sergeant.

“I say, but you’re well put together, sir,” remarked the latter. “You’d make a fine soldier, I reckon.”

For an instant Snowball’s tilted face turned hesitatingly toward his flatterer. Then he began once more to laugh.

“You can’t fool me, so you can’t,” he said, sitting down and avoiding the sergeant’s eyes.

“But I’m not trying to fool you, sir,” he averted. “You’d be an A1 man, I swear.”

Snowball shuffled his feet, and drew vigorously on his pipe.

“They wouldn’t take me, so they wouldn’t,” he said seriously with a jerk of his head toward the doorway.

“Well,” said the sergeant, “would you go, if they found you fit?”

“Hain’t no use t-talking about it,” Snowball responded in a melancholy tone. “So they hain’t!”

“Try them, sir, try them—won’t you?”

“Come with me, sir,” he added, taking Snowball’s arm, when much to his surprise, the latter rose and accompanied him.

Mauney passed his physical examination and was led into a second room. He noticed that none of the others had been taken there. Behind a desk sat a young, clear-faced man with bone-rimmed spectacles, engaged in looking through a pile of documents.

“Doctor Poynton,” said the sergeant, who brought him in, “would you report on this recruit’s vision. The M.O. just sent him in.”

“All right,” nodded the doctor, as the sergeant went out.

For fully five minutes Mauney stood motionless, waiting for the eye-examination to commence, while the doctor continued reading the documents before him and idly smoking a cigar. When his impatience had nearly gotten the better of him and he felt tempted to remind the medical man of his presence, the latter turned in his chair and placed a stool on the floor a few feet from his desk.

“Sit down there!” he said in a distant tone, without looking at Mauney, who obeyed and awaited further instructions.

Doctor Poynton threw away the butt of his cigar and, opening a drawer, selected another from a box. This he lighted and blew out the match, meanwhile continuing uninterruptedly in his reading of the documents.

Mauney, greatly elated at the success of his physical examination, found his present occupation of waiting greatly to his dislike. Why should they examine his eyes? He had never had any trouble with them. He controlled his impatience, however, as best he could, until, after many minutes, the doctor looked up.

“Now, then,” he said. “Look at that card on the wall over yonder. Can you see the letters?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, read them. First letter?”

“E.”

“Next line!”

Mauney read four lines and paused.

“You can’t read the fifth line?”

“I’m afraid not.”

From a drawer, the doctor produced a testing frame, perched it on Mauney’s nose, and slipped two lenses before his eyes.

“Can you read it now?” he asked.

“No, it’s worse than ever.”

He removed the lenses and put in two others.

“Now.”

Mauney read it accurately.

“All right,” said Poynton, removing the frame, and scribbling some hieroglyphics on a slip of paper. “That’s all I want. Take this chit in to Captain Blackburn.”

“Where’s he?”

“He’s the officer who examined you.”

“Thank you,” said Mauney, returning to the room from which he had come. There were still half a dozen recruits stripped, undergoing examination. He waited until Captain Blackburn should be disengaged.

“Ever had rheumatism?” Blackburn was asking one of the candidates, while he percussed his chest.

“No,” said a voice which seemed very familiar to Mauney.

“Cough! All right! Now turn around.”

As the recruit turned, Mauney was astonished to behold the sun-burned face of Snowball. He would have exclaimed aloud, but already he felt the humility of a private soldier restraining him in an officer’s presence.

Blackburn, after applying the bell of his stethoscope to various areas on Snowball’s back, snapped the instrument from his ears.

“That’s all—go along—pass him fit, sergeant! Next!”

Snowball scrambled into his clothes and walked quickly towards Mauney.

“For heaven’s sake, Snowball, did you enlist?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Shake on it.”

Mauney grasped the hired man’s hand and gave it a powerful shaking. “You’re a brick, Snowball. Just wait outside for me, I got through too, but there’s some red-tape about my eyes.”

When the recruits were all examined and were dressing, Capt. Blackburn pointed at Mauney.

“Get your eyes tested, boy?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring me the report.”

Sticking on a pair of spectacles Blackburn glanced over the slip of paper.

“Too bad,” he said. “You’re unfit. Sergeant, mark off M. Bard as unfit for service.”

“But I’m all right,” expostulated Mauney.

“No you’re not, boy.”

“Yes, I am.”

Blackburn stiffened up.

“Do you realize to whom you’re talking?” he snapped.

A sergeant walked quickly forward and tapped Mauney’s knuckles with his stick.

“Hands down at your side!” he barked. “You’re speaking to an officer. Address him as ‘sir!’”

Blackburn tossed the eye-report on the top of his desk, leisurely removed his spectacles, and then calmly nodded at the sergeant who was standing stiffly nearby.

“That’s all, sergeant!” he said, indifferently, with a slight nod toward Mauney.

“Very good, sir,” bawled the sergeant, clicking his metal-plated heels together and saluting. Then, seizing Mauney by the arm, he led him toward the door.

“You can’t join—may as well go home,” he said, opening the door.

“But I never had any trouble with my eyes,” Mauney argued, as the sergeant shoved him out into the big room of the Armouries.

“Don’t matter. You’re unfit!”

Bang! The door closed in his face.