Chapter 9

“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 pass 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 ship 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 mass-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 assistant 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 assistant 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.

“Fire, captain,” he gasped, “fire in the fuel-room--awful blaze--started in the wood box--cigarette--we were just settin' round talkin' over what we were goin' to do in the New Era, an' the first thing we knew it was burnin' like--”

“The New Era,” snapped the Commandant, “and be damned to it! Sound the fire-call. All hands to quarters. Lead along the hose. Follow me,” he cried, hurrying forward through the gathering smoke, “this ship must be saved.”

And so it was--strictly in conformity with the old laws that fire burns, water quenches, and every man must do his duty promptly. On these ancient principles, and others equally venerable, the hospital carried on its good work. But the Commandant made one new rule. It cost five dollars to mention the New Era within its walls.

THE PRIMITIVE AND HIS SANDALS

“I am sick of all this,” said the Great Author, sweeping his hand over the silver-laden dinner-table. He seemed to include in his gesture the whole house and the broad estate surrounding it. “It bores me, and I don't believe it can be right.”

His wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked dress with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward anxiously, knowing her husband's temperament.

“But, Nicholas,” she said, “what do you mean? You have earned all this by your work as a writer. You are the greatest man in the country. You are entitled to a fine house and a large estate.”

He gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant locks, and lit a fresh cigarette.

“Quite right, my dear,” said he, “you are always right on practical affairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair. My books are realistic and radical. They teach the doctrine of the universal level, that no man can be above other men. They have made poverty, perhaps not exactly popular, but at least romantic. My villains are always rich and my heroes poor. The people like this; but it is rather a strain to believe it and keep on believing it. If my work is to hold the public it must have illustrations--moving pictures, you know! Something in character! Nobody else can do that as well as I can. It will be better than many advertisements. I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a primitive.”

His wife laughed, with a slight nervous tremor in her voice. She knew her husband's temperament, to be sure, but she never knew just how far it would carry him.

“I think you must be a little crazy, Nicholas,” she said.

“Thank you, Alexandra,” he answered, “thank you for the temperate flattery. Evidently you have heard the old proverb about genius and madness. But why not make the compliment complete and say 'absolutely crazy'?”

“Well,” she replied, “because I do not understand just what you propose to do. Are you going to impoverish yourself and the whole family? Are you thinking of turning over your farms to these stupid peasants who will let them go to rack and ruin? Will you give your property to the village council who will drink it up in a month? You know how much money Peter needs; he is a member of twelve first-class clubs. And Olga's husband is not earning much. Are you going to starve your children and grandchildren for the sake of an idea of consistency in art?”

The Great Author was now standing in front of the fireplace, warming himself and filling a pipe. The flames behind him made an aureole in his extravagant white hair and beard. He smiled and puffed slowly at his pipe. At last he answered.

“My dear, you go too fast and too far. You know I am enthusiastic, but have you ever known me to be silly? It would be wrong to make you and the children suffer. I have no right to do that.”

She nodded her head emphatically, and a look of comprehension spread over her face. “Suppose,” he continued, “suppose that I should make over the real estate and farms to you--you are an excellent manager. And suppose that I should put the personal estate, including copyrights, into a trust, the income to be paid to you and the children. You would take care of me while I became a primitive, wouldn't you?”

“I would,” she answered, “you know I would. But think how uncomfortable it will be for you. While we are living in luxury, you--”

“Don't worry about that,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I shall have all the luxury I want: flannel shirts, loose around the neck, instead of these infernal stiff collars; velveteen trousers and jacket instead of this waiter's uniform; and I shall go barefoot when the weather is suitable--do you understand? Barefoot in the summer grass--it will be immense.”

“But your food,” she asked, “how will you manage that on a primitive basis?”

“You will manage it,” he replied, “you know I have always preferred beefsteak and onions to any French dish. Champagne does not agree with me. I'd rather have a glass of the straight stuff, without any gas in it.”

“But your sleeping arrangements,” she murmured, “are you going to leave the house? Our bedroom is not exactly primitive.”

“No fear of it,” he answered. “There is a little room beyond your bathroom. Put an iron cot in there, with a soft mattress, linen sheets, and light blankets. I'll do my morning wash at the pump in the yard, for the sake of the picture. When I want a bath you'll leave the door of the room open if you are not actually in the tub.”

“Nicholas,” she said, with a Mona Lisa smile, “for an author you have a very clever way of putting things. But suppose we have guests at the house, you can't come to dinner in dirty clothes and with bare feet.”

“Certainly not,” he answered. “I shall put on clean flannels, clean velveteens, and sandals.”

“Sandals,” she murmured, “sandals for dinner are simply wonderful. Do you think I could--”

“Not at all, my dear,” said the Great Author firmly. “Your present style of dress becomes you amazingly. I am the only one who has to do the primitive.”

So the arrangements were completed. The interviewers who came to the house described the Great Author in his loose flannels and velveteens, with bare feet, returning from labor in the fields. The moving pictures were full of him. But the sandals did not appear. There were no flash-lights permitted at the part-primitive dinner-table.

DIANA AND THE LIONS

In the darkest hour before the dawn, Diana floated away from her Garden Tower and came down between the Lions on the Library Steps.

At first, she did not know they were Lions. She thought they were Cats, and so she was afraid. For she was very lightly clad; and (except in Egypt) Cats are terrible to undomesticated goddesses. Diana shivered as she strung her bow for defense. She felt that she was divine, but she knew that she had cold feet.

In truth, the Library Steps were wet and glistening, for there had been a shower after midnight. But now the gibbous moon was giving a silent imitation of an arc-light high in the western heaven. Her beams silver-plated the weird architecture of the shrines of Commerce which face the great Temple dedicated to the Three Muses of New York--Astor, Lenox, and Tilden.

But on the awful animals guarding the steps the light was florid, like a flush of sunburn discovered by the ablution of a warranted complexion cream. They were wonderfully pink, and Diana hastened to draw an arrow from her quiver, for it seemed to her as if her feline neighbors were beginning to glow with rage.

“Do not shoot,” said the ruddier one; “we are not angry, we are only blushing.” And he glanced at her costume.

Diana was astonished to hear a masculine voice utter such a modest sentiment. But being a woman, she knew that the first word does not count.

“Cats never blush,” she answered boldly, “no matter how big they are.”

“But we are not Cats,” they cried, ramping suddenly like crests on a millionaire's note-paper. “We are Lions!”

Diana smiled at this, for now she felt safe, remembering that when a male begins to boast he is not dangerous.

“Roar a little for me, please,” she said, laying down her unconcealed weapon.

“Impossible,” said the Northern Lion, “a city ordinance forbids unnecessary noise.”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the Southern Lion. “Who would not break a law to oblige a lady?”

“Let us compromise,” said the Northern Lion, “and give her our reproduction of an automobile horn.”

“No,” said the Southern Lion, “we will give her our automatic record of a Book-Advertisement; it is louder.”

Then Diana trembled, indeed. But she bravely continued smiling, and said: “Thank you a thousand times for doing it once! And now please tell me what kind of Lions you are.”

“Literary Lions,” was their prompt and unanimous reply.

“Ah,” she cried, clapping her hands with a charming gesture, “how glad I am to meet you! I have been in New York more than twenty years and never seen any one like you before! Come and sit beside me and talk.”

The Lions looked at each other rather sheepishly, and glanced up and down the street, as if fearing the approach of a city ordinance. But there was no one in sight except Diana, so they shook their literary locks into a becoming disorder and sat on the steps with her, purring gently.

“Now tell me,” she said, “who you are.”

If she had been less beautiful they would have resented this. But, as it was, they looked sorry, and asked her if she had never read “Who's Who in America”? She shook her head, and admitted that she had not read it all through.

“Well,” said her neighbor on the south, “this is rather an offhand _soiree,_ and we may as well cut out proper names. But I will put you wise to the fact that I am the Magazine Lion. I got away from Roosevelt in Africa. He called me 'Mucky,' and I made tracks. Here he cannot hurt me, for they will never let that man do anything in good old New York, not even touch a Tiger.”

“And I,” said her neighbor on the north, “I am the Academic Lion, of whom you must have heard. My character is noted for its concealed sweetness, and my style leaves nothing to be hoped for. I am literally a man of letters, for I have seventeen degrees. Usually I look literary-lean and nobly dissatisfied, but yesterday I swallowed a British Female Novelist by accident, and that accounts for my inartistic air of cheerfulness. I won my splendid reputation by telling other Lions how they ought to have done their little tricks. But now, tired of that, I have gone into politics. This is my first public office.”

Diana was somewhat confused and benumbed by these personally conducted biographies, but she was too well-bred not to appear interested.

“How lovely,” she murmured, “to sit between two such Great Personages! I wonder what brought poor little Me to such an honor. And, by the way, how do you happen to be just here? What is this beautiful building behind you? Is it your Palace?”

“It is a Library,” said the Academic Lion, with a superior tone.

“The biggest book-heap in America,” said the Magazine Lion in his vivid way. “We have them all beaten to a finish--except the old junk-shop down in Washington.”

“You forget Boston,” said the Academic Lion.

“Who wouldn't?” growled the Magazine Lion.

“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Diana, with her most engaging and sprightly air, “that this splendid place is a Library, all full of books, and that you are its most prominent figures, its figureheads, so to speak? How interesting! I have travelled a great deal--under the name of Pasht or Bast, in Egypt, where the Cats liked me; and under the name of Artemis in Greece; and under my own name in Italy. Believe me, I have seen all things that the moon shines upon. But I do not remember having seen Lions on a Library before. How original! How appropriate! How suggestive! But what does it suggest? What are you here for?”

“For educational purposes,” said the Academic Lion.

“To catch the eye,” said the Magazine Lion, “same as head-lines in a newspaper.”

“I see,” exclaimed Diana. “You are here to keep the people from getting at the books? How modern!”

This remark made the Academic Lion look like a Sphinx, as if he knew something but did not want to tell. But the Magazine Lion was distinctly flattered.

“Right you are,” said he cheerfully, “or next door to it. We don't propose to keep the people out, only the authors. Why, when this place was publicly opened there was not a single author in the exhibit, except John Bigelow.”

“Why did you not keep him out?” asked Diana.

“We were not on the spot, then,” said the Lion. “Besides, there are some things that even a Lion does not dare to do.”

“But I do not understand,” said Diana, “precisely why authors should be kept away from a library.”

The Magazine Lion laughed. “Silly little thing!” he said, with a fascinating tone of virile condescension. “An author's business is to write books, not to read them. If he reads, he grows intelligent and thoughtful and careful about his work. Those old books spoil him for the modern market. But if he just goes ahead and writes whatever comes into his head, he can do it with a bang, and everybody sits up and pays attention. That's the only way to be original. See?”

“Excuse me,” broke in the Academic Lion, “but you go too far, brother. Authors should be encouraged to read, but only under critical guidance and professorial direction. Otherwise they will not be able to classify the books, and tabulate their writers, and know which ones to admire and praise. How can you expect a mere author to comprehend the faulty method of Shakespeare, or the ethical commonplaceness of Dickens and Thackeray, or the vital Ibsenism of Bernard Shaw and the other near-Ibsens, without assistance?”

“But the other people,” asked Diana, “what is going to happen to them if you let them go in free and browse among the books?”

“They are less important,” answered the Academic Lion. “Besides we expect soon to establish a cranial, neurological, and psychopathic examination which will determine the subliminal, temperamental needs of every applicant. Then we classify the readers in groups, and the books in lists, and the whole thing works with automatic precision.”

“And I am going to make the book-lists!” said the Magazine Lion, ecstatically wagging his tail, and half-unconsciously putting his paw around the lady's waist in a spirit of pure comradeship.

But she gently slipped away, stood up, and gracefully covered a yawn with her hand.

“I am ever so much obliged to you Literary Lions for not eating me,” said she. “Probably I should have disagreed with you even more than your conversation has with me. I am quite sleepy. And the moon has almost disappeared. I must be going where I can bid it good night.”

So Diana rose, with shining limbs, above the housetops, and vanished toward her Garden Tower. The Lions looked disconcerted. “Old-fashioned, Victorian prude!” said one, “Brazen hussy!” said the other. And they climbed back on their Pedestals, resuming their supercilious expression. There I suppose they will stay, no matter what Diana may think of them.

THE HERO AND TIN SOLDIERS

On December twenty-fifth, 1918, that little white house in the park was certainly the happiest dwelling in Calvinton. It was simply running over with Christmas.

You see, there had come to it a most wonderful present, a surprise full of tears and laughter. Captain Walter Mayne reached home on Christmas Eve.

For a while they had thought that he would never come back at all. News had been received that he was grievously wounded in France--shot to pieces, in effect, leading his men near Chateau-Thierry. His life hung on the ragged edge of those wounds. But his wife Katharine always believed that he would pull through. So he did. But he was lacking a leg, his right arm was knocked out of commission for the present, and various other _souvenirs de la grande guerre_ were inscribed upon his body.

Then word arrived that he was coming on a transport, with other wounded, to be patched up in a hospital on Staten Island. So his wife Katharine smiled her way through innumerable entanglements of red tape and went to nurse him. Then she set her steady hand to pull all the wires necessary to get him discharged and sent home. Christmas was in her heart and she would not be denied. So it came to pass that the one-legged Hero was in his own house on the happy day, and joy was bubbling all around him.

When the old Pastor entered, late in the afternoon, the Christmas-tree was twinkling with lights, the children swarming and buzzing all over the place, so that he was dazed for a moment. There were Walter's mother and his aunt and his sisters-in-law, boys and girls of various sizes, and a jubilant and entrancing baby. The Pastor took it all in, and was glad of it, but his mind was on the Hero.

Katharine, who always understood everything, whispered softly: “Walter is waiting to see you, Doctor. He is in his study, just across the hall.”

_Waiting?_ Well, what can a man whose right leg has been cut off above the knee, and who has not yet been able to get an artificial one--what can he do but wait?

The room was rather dimly lighted; brilliance is not good for the eyes of the wounded. Walter was in a long chair in the corner; his face was bronzed, drawn and lined a little by suffering; but steady and cheerful as ever, with the eager look which had made his students listen to him when he talked to them about English literature.

“My dear Walter,” said the Pastor, “my dear boy, we are so glad to have you home with us again. We are very proud of you. You are our Hero.”

“Thank you,” said Walter, “it is mighty good to be home again. But there is no hero business about it. I only did what all the other Americans who went over there did--fought my--excuse me, my best, against the beastly Germans.”

“But your leg,” said the Pastor impulsively, “it is gone. Aren't you angry about that?”

Walter was silent for a moment. Then he answered.

“No, I don't think angry is the right word. You remember that story about Nathan Hale in the Revolution--'I only regret that I have but one life to give to my country.' Well, I'm glad that I had two legs to give for my country, and particularly glad that she only needed one of them.”

“Tell me a bit about the fighting,” said the Pastor, “I want to know what it was like--the hero-touch--you understand?”

“Not for me,” said Walter, “and certainly not now. Later on I can tell you something, perhaps. But this is Christmas Day. And war? Well, Doctor, believe me, war is a horrible thing, full of grime and pain, madness, agony, hell--a thing that ought not to be. I have fought alongside of the other fellows to put an end to it, and now--”

The door swung open, and Sammy, the eldest son of the house, pranced in.

“Look, Daddy,” he cried, “see what Aunt Emily has sent me for Christmas--a big box of tin soldiers!”

Mayne smiled as the little boy carefully laid the box on his knee; but there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, and he closed them for a few seconds, as if his mind were going back, somewhere, far away. Then he spoke, tenderly, but with a grave voice.

“That's fine, sonny--all those tin soldiers. But don't you think they ought to belong to me? You have lots of other toys, you know. Would you give the soldiers to me?”

The child looked up at him, puzzled for a moment; then a flash of comprehension passed over his face, and he nodded valiantly.

“Sure, Father,” he said, “You're the Captain. Keep the soldiers. I'll play with the other toys,” and he skipped out of the room.

Mayne's look followed him with love. Then he turned to the old Pastor and a strange expression came into his face, half whimsical and half grim.

“Doctor,” he said, “will you do me a favor? Poke up that fire till it blazes. That's right. Now lay this box in the hottest part of the flames. That's right. It will soon be gone.”

The elder man did what was asked, with an air of slight bewilderment, as one humors the fancies of an invalid. He wondered whether Mayne's fever had quite left him. He watched the fire bulging the lid and catching round the edges of the box. Then he heard Mayne's voice behind him, speaking very quietly.

“If ever I find my little boy _playing with tin soldiers,_ I shall spank him well. No, that wouldn't be quite fair, would it? But I shall tell him why he must not do it, and _I shall make him understand that it's an impossible thing.”_

Then the old Pastor comprehended. There was no touch of fever. The one-legged Hero had come home from the wars completely well and sound in mind. So the two men sat together in love by the Christmas fire, and saw the tin soldiers melt away.

SALVAGE POINT

The Hermanns built their house at the very end of the island, five or six miles from the more or less violently rustic “summer-cottages” which adorned the hills and bluffs around the native village of Winterport.