Chapter 8

“It is a regrettable fact that the only scandal which marred a fine and patriotic outburst of national feeling yesterday should have involved the city organization. Is it not time that loyal citizens demand an investigation into——”

* * * * *

“Never mind the rest, Lizzie,” Tish said wearily. “I suppose I’ll have to get him something to do, but I don’t know what, unless I employ him to follow me around and arrest me when I act like a dratted fool.”

She sighed, and rocked slowly.

“Another thing, Lizzie,” she said. “I don’t know but what Aggie was right about Charlie Sands. I’ve been thinking it over, and I guess it was evening, for I remember seeing a new moon just before he came, and wishing he would be a girl. But I guess I was too late. If I’d known about this war, I’d have wished it sooner. I’m a broken woman, Lizzie,” she finished.

She put on her hat wrong side before, but I had not the heart to tell her, and went away.

However, late that evening she called me up, and her voice was not the voice of a broken creature.

“I thought you might like to come over, Lizzie,” she said. “That woman below has told the janitor she is going to pour ammonia water down on my tomato plants tonight, and I am making a few small preparations.”

SALVAGE

I

After Charlie Sands had gone to a training camp in Ohio there was a great change in Tish. She seemed for the first time to regret that she was a woman, and there were times when that wonderful poise and dignity that had always distinguished her, even under the most trying circumstances, almost deserted her. She wrote, I remember, a number of letters to the President, offering to go into the Secret Service, and sending a photograph of the bandits she had caught in Glacier Park. But she only received a letter from Mr. Tumulty in reply, commencing “May I not thank you,” but saying that the Intelligence Department had recently been increased by practically the entire population of the country, and suggesting that she could best use her energies for the national welfare by working for the return of the Democratic Party in 1920.

However, as Tish is a Republican she was not interested in this, and for a time she worked valiantly for the Red Cross and spent her evenings learning the national anthem. But she recited it, since, as the well-known writer, Mr. Irvin Cobb, has observed, it can only be properly sung by a boy whose voice is changing. It was evident, however, that she was increasingly restive, and as I look back I wonder that we did not realize that there was danger in her very repression.

As Aggie has said, Tish is volcanic in her temperament; she remains inactive for certain preparatory periods, but when she overflows she does so thoroughly.

The most ominous sign was when, in July of 1917, she stopped knitting and took up French.

Only the other day, while house cleaning, she came across the aeroplane photograph of the French village of V——, where our extraordinary experience befell us, and she turned on us both with that satiric yet kindly gaze which we both knew so well.

“If you two idiots had had your way,” she observed, “I should have been knitting so many socks for Charlie Sands that he’d have had to be a centipede to wear ’em all, instead of——”

“Tish,” Aggie said in a shivering voice, “I wish you wouldn’t talk about it. I can’t bear it, that’s all. It sets me shivering.”

Tish eyed her coldly. “The body is entirely controlled by the mind, Aggie,” she reminded her. “And when I remember how nearly your lack of control cost us our lives, when you insisted on sneezing——”

“Insisted! If you had been in a shell hole full of water up to your neck, Tish Carberry——”

“The difference between you and me, Aggie,” Tish replied calmly, “is that I should not have been in a shell hole full of water up to my neck.” The war was over then, of course, but there was still a disturbed condition in certain countries, and Tish’s eyes grew reflective.

“I see they are thinking of sending a real army into Russia,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose that Russian laundress of the Ostermaiers could teach a body to talk enough to get about with.”

Shortly after that Aggie disappeared, and I found her later on in Tish’s bathroom crying into a Turkish towel.

“I won’t go, Lizzie,” she said, “and that’s flat! I’ve done my share, and if Tish Carberry thinks I am going to go through the rest of my life falling into shell holes and being potted at by all sort of strange men she can just think again. Besides that, I have been true to the memory of one man for a good many years, and I simply refuse to be kissed by any more of those immoral foreigners.”

Aggie had in her youth been betrothed to a gentleman in the roofing business, who had met with an unfortunate accident, owing to having slipped on a tin gutter, without overshoes, one rainy day; and it is quite true that we had all been kissed by two French generals and a man in civilian clothes who had not even been introduced to us. But up to that time we had kept the osculatory incident a profound secret.

“Aggie,” I said with sudden suspicion, “you haven’t told Mrs. Ostermaier about that affair, have you?”

Aggie put down the towel and looked at me defiantly.

“I have, Lizzie,” she said. “Not all of it, but some. She said she had gone to the moving pictures with the youngest girl, but that she had been obliged to take her away before it was over, owing to a picture from France of Tish’s being kissed by a French general. She said that as soon as he had kissed her on one cheek she turned the other, and that she thinks the effect on Dolores was extremely bad.”

It was a great shock to us all to learn that the incident of the town of V—— had thus been made public, and that there was a moving picture of our being decorated, et cetera, going about the country. It is, I believe, quite usual to kiss the persons receiving the Croix de Guerre, even when of the masculine sex, and I know positively that Tish never saw that French general again.

However, in view of the unfortunate publicity I have decided to make this record of the actual incident of the French town of V——. For the story has got into the papers, and only yesterday Tish discovered that the pleasant young man who had been trying to sell her a washing machine was really a newspaper reporter in disguise.

Certain things are not true. We did not see or have any conversation with the former Emperor of the Germans; nor were any of us wounded, though Aggie got a piece of plaster in her right eye when a shell hit the church roof, and I was badly scratched by barbed wire. It is not true, either, that Aggie had her teeth knocked out by a German sentry. She unfortunately fell in the darkness and lost her upper set, and it was impossible to light a match in order to search for them.

It was, as I have said, in July of the first year of the war that both Aggie and I noticed the change in Tish. She grew moody and abstracted, and on two Sundays in succession she turned over her Sunday-school class to me and went for long walks into the country. Also, going to her apartment for Sunday dinner on, I believe, the second Sunday of the month we were startled to see the Andersons, very nice people who occupy the lower floor of the building, running out wildly into the street. They said that the janitor had been quarreling with some one in the furnace cellar, and that from high words, which they could plainly hear, they had got to shooting, and a bullet had come up through the floor and hit the phonograph.

I had a strange feeling at once, and I caught Aggie’s agonized eyes on me. We remained for some time in the street, and then, everything seeming to be quiet, we ventured in, with two policemen leading the way, and the Anderson baby left outside in its perambulator for fear of accident. All was quiet, however, and we made our way upstairs to Tish’s apartment. She was waiting for us, and reading the _Presbyterian Banner_, but I thought she was almost too calm when we told her of the Andersons’ terrible experience.

“It’s a good riddance,” she said, referring to the phonograph. “Besides, what right have people over here to fuss about one bullet? Think of our boys in the trenches.”

After a time she looked up suddenly and said: “It didn’t go anywhere near the baby, I suppose?”

We said it had not, and she then observed that the building was a mere shell, and that people with small children should raise them in the country anyhow.

It was during dinner—Tish had been reading Horace Fletcher for some time, and meals lasted almost from one to the next—that Hannah came in and said the janitor wanted to see Tish. She went out and came back somewhat later, looking as irritated as our dear Tish ever looks, and got her pocketbook from behind the china closet and went out again.

“I expected as much,” Hannah said. Hannah is Tish’s maid. “She’s paying blackmail. Like as not that janitor will collect a hundred dollars from her, and that phonograph never cost more than thirty-five. They’re paying for it on the installment plan, and the man only gets a dollar a week.”

“Hannah,” I said sharply, “if you mean to insinuate——”

“Me?” Hannah replied in a hurt tone. “I don’t insinuate anything. If I was called tomorrow before a judge and jury I’d say that for all I know Miss Tish was reading the _Banner_ all morning. But I’d pray they wouldn’t take a trip here and look in the upper right-hand sideboard drawer.”

She then went out and slammed the door.

Aggie and I make it a point of honor never to pry into Tish’s secrets, so we did not, of course, look into the drawer. However, a moment later I happened to upset my glass of water and naturally went to the sideboard drawer in question for a fresh napkin. And Tish’s revolver was lying underneath her best monogrammed tray cover.

“It’s there, Aggie,” I said. “Her revolver. She’s practicing again; and you know what that means—war.”

Aggie gave a low moan.

“I wish we’d let her get that aeroplane. She might have been satisfied, Lizzie,” she said in a shaken voice.

“She might have been dead too,” I replied witheringly.

And then Tish came back. She said nothing about the Andersons; but later on when the baby started to cry she observed rather bitterly that she didn’t see why people had to have a phonograph when they had that, and that personally she felt that whoever destroyed that phonograph should have a vote of thanks instead of—— She did not complete the sentence.

It was soon after that that we went to visit Charlie Sands, Tish’s nephew, at the camp where he was learning to be an officer. We called to see the colonel in command first, and Aggie gave him two extra blankets for Charlie Sands’ bed and a pair of knitted bedroom slippers. He was very nice to us and promised to see personally that they went to the proper bed.

“I’m always delighted to attend to these little things,” he said. “Fine to feel that our boys are comfortable. You haven’t by any chance brought an eiderdown pillow?”

He seemed very regretful when he found we had not thought of one.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “I’ve discovered that there is nothing so comforting as a down pillow after a day of strenuous labor.”

It was rather disappointing to find that the duties of his position kept him closely confined to the office, and that therefore he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting Tish’s nephew, but he said he had no doubt they would meet before long.

“They’re all brought in here sooner or later, for one thing or another,” he said pleasantly.

As Tish observed going out, it was pleasant to think of Charlie Sands’ being in such good hands.

It was, however, rather a shock to find him, when we did find him, lying on his stomach in a mud puddle with a rifle in front of him. We did not recognize him at once, as a lot of men were yelling, and indeed just at first he did not seem particularly glad to see us.

“Suffering cats!” he shouted. “Don’t you see we’re shooting? You’ll be killed. Get behind the line!”

“I guess it won’t defeat the Allies if you stop shooting for two minutes,” Tish observed with her splendid poise. “But if you will take charge of this homemade apple butter, which I didn’t trust your colonel with, we will go to your sitting room, or wherever it is you receive visitors.”

There was quite a crowd of young officers round us by that time and we waited to be introduced. But Charlie Sands did not seem to think of it, so Tish put down the apple butter on the ground and said to one of them:

“Now, young man, since we seem to be in your way, perhaps you will take us to some place to wait for my nephew.” Then seeing that he looked rather strange she added: “But perhaps you have never met. This is my nephew, Mr. Sands. If you will tell me who you are——”

“Williams is my name,” he said. “I—Major Williams. I—I’ve met your nephew—that is—— Private Sands, take these ladies to the Y. M. C. A. hut, and report back here in an hour.”

Tish did not like this; nor did I. As Tish observed later, he might have been speaking to the butler.

“He might at least have said ‘Mister,’ and a ‘please’ hurts no one,” she said. As for giving him only an hour when we had come a hundred miles—it was absurd. But war does queer things.

It had indeed strangely altered Tish’s nephew. We were all worried about him that day. It was his manner that was odd. He seemed, as Tish said later, suppressed. When for instance we wished to take him back to headquarters and present him to the colonel he said at once: “Who? Me? The colonel! Say, you’d better get this and get it right: I’m nothing here. I’m less than nothing. Why, the colonel could walk right over me on the parade ground and never even know he’d stepped on anything. If I was a louse and he was a can of insect powder——”

“Now see here, Charlie Sands,” Tish said firmly, “I’ll trouble you to remember that there are certain words not in my vocabulary; and louse is one of them.”

“Still, a vocabulary is a better place than some others I can think of,” he observed.

“What is more,” Tish added, “you are misjudging that charming colonel. He told us himself that he tried to be a mother to you all.”

She then told him how interested the colonel had been in the blankets, and so on, but I must say Charlie Sands was very queer about it. He stopped and looked at us all in turn, and then he got out the dirtiest handkerchief I have ever seen and wiped his forehead with it.

“Perhaps you’d better say it again,” he said; “I don’t seem to get it altogether. You are sure it was the colonel?”

So Tish repeated it, but when she came to the eiderdown pillow he held up his hand.

“All right,” he said in a strange tone. “I believe you. I—you don’t mind if I go and get a drink of water, do you? My mouth is dry.”

Dear Tish watched him as he went away, and shook her head.

“He is changed already,” she observed sadly. “That is one of the deadliest effects of war. It takes the bright young spirit of youth and feeds it on stuff cooked by men, with not even time enough to chew properly, and puts it on its stomach in the mud, while its head is in the clouds of idealism. I think that a letter to the Secretary of War might be effective.”

I must admit that we had a series of disappointments that day. The first was in finding that they had put Tish’s nephew, a grandson of a former Justice of the Supreme Court, into a building with a number of other men. Not only that but without so much as a screen, or a closet in which to hang up his clothing.

“What do you mean, hang up my clothes?” he said when we protested. “They’re hung up all right—on me.”

“It seems rather terrible,” Aggie objected gently. “No privacy or anything.”

“Privacy! I haven’t got anything to hide.”

We found some little comfort, however, in the fact that beneath the pitiful cot that he called his bed he had a small tin trunk. Even that was destroyed, however, by the entrance of a thin young man called Smithers, who reached under the cot and dragging out the trunk proceeded to take out one of the pairs of socks that Aggie had knitted.

Charlie Sands paid no attention, but Tish fixed this person with a cold eye.

“Haven’t you made a mistake?” she inquired. The young man was changing his socks, with his back to us, and he looked back over his shoulder.

“Sorry!” he said. “Didn’t like to ask you to go out. Haven’t any place else to go, you know.”

“Aren’t you putting on my nephew’s socks?”

“Extraordinary!” he said. “Did you notice that?”

“I’ll trouble you to take them off, young man.”

“Well,” he said reflectively, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do: I’ll take off these socks if he’ll return what he’s got on that belongs to me. I don’t remember exactly, but I’m darn sure of his underwear and his breeches. You see, while you good people at home are talking democracy we’re practicing it, and Sands’ idea is the best yet. He swaps an entire outfit for a pair of socks. Even the Democratic Party can’t improve on that.”

Tish was very thoughtful during the remainder of the afternoon, but she brightened somewhat when, later on, we sat on the steps of a building watching Charlie Sands and a number of others going through what Major Williams called setting-up exercises. She was greatly interested and made notes in her memorandum book. I have a copy of the book before me now. The letters T, S, A and B stand respectively for Toes, Stomach, Arms and Back. Arms and Back. I shall not quote all Tish’s notes, but this one, for instance, is illustrative of her thorough methods:

“Lying on B. in mud, H. flat on ground, L. rigidly extended: Rise L. in air six times. Retaining prone position rise to sitting position without aid of A., but using S. muscles. Repeat six times. [Note: Director uses language unfitting a soldier and a gentleman. Report to the Secretary of War.]”

She recorded the other movements with similar care, and after one is the thoughtful observation: “Excellent to make Lizzie look less like a bolster.”

I find all of Tish’s notes taken that day as very indicative of the thoroughness with which she does everything. For instance she made the following recommendations to be sent to the War Department:

“That the camp cooks be instructed to use hemmed tea towels instead of sacking, and to boil the dish towels after each meal, preferably with soap powder and soda.

“That screens be provided between cots, to give that measure of privacy necessary to a man’s self-respect.

“Large, commodious clothes closets in the barracks. A bag of camphor in each one would serve to keep away moths. Also, that wearing apparel should not be borrowed.

“All army blankets should be marked as to the end to go to the top of the cot. Sheets should also be provided, as blankets scratch and have a tendency to keep the soldier awake.

“Soda fountains here and there through the camp would do a great deal to prevent the men in training from going to neighboring towns after certain deleterious liquids. [Should, however, be served by male attendants.]

“Pyjamas should be included in every soldier’s equipment. [Charlie Sands had told us a startling thing. On inquiring what had become of the raw-silk pyjamas we had made him as a part of his army equipment he confessed that he did not use them, and in fact had torn them into rags to clean his gun. He went even further, and stated that it was not the custom of the men to use pyjamas at all, and that in fact on cold nights some of them merely removed their hats and shoes, and then retired.]

“Table linen, even if coarse, should be provided. Are our men to come back to us savages?”

* * * * *

It may have been purely coincidence, but soon after Tish’s recommendations had been received at the War Department the Fosdick Commission was appointed. Yet we carried away a conviction that though certain things had been sadly neglected Charlie Sands was in good hands. The colonel came up to speak to us when, seeing the men standing in rows on the parade ground about sunset while the band played, we stood watching.

He was very pleasant, and said that they were about to bring in the flag. Some such conversation then ensued:

TISH: Do you bring in the flag every night?

THE COLONEL: Every night, madam.

TISH: Then you are a better housekeeper than I thought you were.

THE COLONEL: I beg your pardon?

TISH (magnanimously): You may not know much about dishcloths, but you are right about flags. They do fade, and I dare say dew is about as bad as rain for them.

He seemed very much gratified by her approval, and said in twenty-five years in the Army he had never failed to have the flag brought in at night. “I may fail in other things,” he said wistfully. “To err is human, you know. But the flag proposition is one I stand pat on.”

It was after our return visit to the camp that the real change in Tish began. We had gone to our cottage in Lake Penzance for the summer, and Tish suggested that we study French there. She had an excellent French book, with photographs in it showing where to place the tongue and how to pucker the lips for certain sounds. At first she did not allow us to do anything but practice these facial expressions, and I remember finding Hannah in the kitchen one night crying into her bread sponge and asking her what the trouble was.

“I just can’t bear it, Miss Lizzie,” she said; “when I look in and see the three of you sitting there making faces I nearly go crazy. I’ve got so I do it myself, and the milkman won’t leave the bottles no nearer than the gate.”

After some days of silent practice Tish considered that we could advance a lesson, and we began with syllable sounds, thus:

_Ba_—Said with tip of tongue against lower teeth.

_Be_—Show two upper middle teeth.

_Bi_—Broad smile.

_Bu_—Whistle.

_Bon_—Pout.

It was an excellent method, though we all found difficulty in showing only two upper middle teeth.

There were also syllables which called for hollow cheeks, and I remember Tish’s irritation at my failure.

“If you would eat less whipped cream, Lizzie,” she said scathingly, “you might learn the French language. Otherwise you might as well give it up.”

“I dare say there are plump people among the French,” I retorted. “And I never heard that a Frenchwoman who put on twenty pounds or so went dumb. That woman who trims your hats isn’t dumb so you could notice it. I’d thank my stars if she was. She can say forty dollars fast enough, and she doesn’t suck in her cheeks either!”

In the end Aggie and I gave up the French lessons, but Tish kept them up. She learned ten nouns a day, and she made an attempt at verbs, but gave it up.

“I can secure anything I want, if I ever visit our valiant Ally,” she said, “by naming it in the French and then making the appropriate gesture.”

She made the experiment on Hannah, and it worked well enough. She would say “butter” or “spoon” and point to her place at the table; but Hannah almost left on the strength of it, and when she tried it on Mr. Jennings, the fishman, he told all over Penzance that she had lost either her mind or her teeth.

Aggie and I were extremely uneasy all of July, for Tish does nothing without a motive, and she was learning in French such warlike phrases as “Take the trenches,” “The enemy is retiring,” and “We must attack from the rear.” She also took to testing out the engine of her automobile in various ways, and twice, trying to cross a plowed field with it, had to be drawn out with a rope. She took to driving at night without lights also, and had the ill luck to run into the Penzance doctor’s buggy and take a wheel off it.

It was after that incident, when we had taken the doctor home and put him to bed, that I demanded an explanation.

But she only said with a far-away look in her eyes: “It may be a useful accomplishment sometime. If one were going after wounded at night it would be invaluable.”

“Not if you killed all the doctors on the way!” I snapped.