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Captain Jim

<h1 id="id00008" style="margin-top: 8em">CAPTAIN JIM</h1> By <h5 id="id00010">MARY GRANT BRUCE</h5> <h2 id="id00022" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER I</h2> <h5 id="id00023">JOHN O'NEILL'S LEGACY</h5> "Queer, isn't it?" Jim said. "Rather!" said Wally. They were sitting on little green chairs in Hyde Park. Not far off swirled the traffic of Piccadilly; glancing across to Hyde Park Corner, they could see the great red motor-'buses, meeting, halting, and then rocking away in different directions, hooting as they fled. The roar of London was in their ears. It was a sunny morning in September. The Park was dotted in every direction with shining perambulators, propelled by smart nurses in uniform, and tenanted by proud little people, fair-haired and rosy, and extremely cheerful. Wally liked the Park babies. He referred to them collectively as "young dukes." "They all look so jolly well tubbed, don't they?" he remarked, straying from the subject in hand. "Might be soap advertisements. Look, there's a jolly little duke in that gorgeous white pram, and a bigger sized duke trotting alongside, with a Teddy-bear as big as himself. Awful nice kids." He smiled at the babies in the way that made it seem ridiculous that he should be grown-up and in uniform. "They can't both be dukes," said Jim literally. "Can't grow more than one in a family; at least not at the same time, I believe." "Oh, well, it doesn't matter—and anyhow, the one in the pram's a duchess," returned Wally. "I say, the duke's fallen in love with you, Jim." "The duke," a curly-haired person in a white coat, hesitated on the footpath near the two subalterns, then mustering his courage, came close to Jim and gravely presented him with his Teddy-bear. Jim received the gift as gravely, and shook hands with the small boy, to his great delight. "Thanks, awfully," he said. "It's a splendid Teddy, isn't it?" The nurse, greatly scandalized, swooped down upon her charge, exhorting him to be ashamed, now, and not worry the gentleman. But the "duke" showed such distress when Jim attempted to return the Teddy-bear that the matter had to be adjusted by distracting his attention in the direction of some drilling soldiers, while Wally concealed the toy under the embroidered rug which protected the plump legs of the "duchess"—who submitted with delighted gurgles to being tickled under the chin. They withdrew reluctantly, urged by the still horrified nurse. "See what it is to be beautiful and have the glad eye!" jeered Wally. "Dukes never give me Teddy-bears!" "It's my look of benevolent age," Jim said, grinning. "Anyhow, young Wally, if you'll stop beguiling the infant peerage, and attend to business, I'll be glad. We'll have Norah and Dad here presently." "I'm all attention," said his friend. "But there's nothing more to be said than that it is rum, is there? And we said that." "Norah gave me a letter from poor old O'Neill to show you," Jim said. "I'll read it, if you like." The merriment that was never very far from Wally Meadows' eyes died out as his chum unfolded a sheet of paper, closely written. "He wrote it in the hotel in Carrignarone, I suppose?" he asked gently. "Yes; just after dinner on the night of the fight. You see, he was certain he wasn't coming back. Anyhow, this is what he says: ***** "My Dear Norah,— "If I am alive after to-night you will not get this letter: it is only to come to you if I shall have 'gone West.' And please don't worry if I do go West. You see, between you all you have managed almost to make me forget that I am just an apology for a man. I did not think it could be done, but you have done it. Still, now and then I remember, and I know that there will be long years after you have all gone back to that beloved Australia of yours when there will be nothing to keep me from realizing that I am crippled and a hunchback. To-night I have the one chance of my life of living up to the traditions of O'Neills who were fighting men; so if, by good luck, I manage to wing a German or two, and then get in the way of an odd bullet myself, you mustn't grudge my finishing so much more pleasantly than I had ever hoped to do. "If I do fall, I am leaving you that place of mine in Surrey. I have hardly any one belonging to me, and they have all more money than is good for them. The family estates are entailed, but this is mine to do as I please with. I know you don't need it, but it will be a home for you and your father while Jim and Wally are fighting, if you care for it. And perhaps you will make some use of it that will interest you. I liked the place, as well as I could like any place outside Ireland; and if I can look back—and I am very sure that I shall be able to look back—I shall like to see you all there—you people who brought the sun and light and laughter of Australia into the grey shadows of my life—who never seemed to see that I was different from other men. "Well, good-bye—and God keep you happy, little mate. "Your friend, "John O'Neill." ***** Jim folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, and there was a long silence. Each boy was seeing again a strip of Irish beach where a brave man had died proudly. "Different!" Wall said, at last, with a catch in his voice. "He wasn't different—at least, only in being a jolly sight better than most fellows." Jim nodded. "Well, he had his fight, and he did his bit, and, seeing how he felt about things, I'm glad for his sake that he went out," he said. "Only I'm sorry for us, because it was a pretty big thing to be friends with a man like that. Anyhow, we won't forget him. We wouldn't even without this astonishing legacy of Norah's." "Have you any particulars about it?" Wally asked. "Dad got a letter from O'Neill too—both were sent to his lawyers; he must have posted them himself that evening in Carrignarone. Dad's was only business. The place is really left to him, in trust for Norah, until she comes of age; that's so that there wouldn't be any legal bother about her taking possession of it at once if she wants to. Poor old Norah's just about bowled over. She felt O'Neill's death so awfully, and now this has brought it all back." "Yes, it's rough on Norah," Wally said. "I expect she hates taking the place." "She can't bear the idea of it. Dad and I don't much care about it either." Wally pondered. "May I see that letter again?" he asked presently. Jim Linton took out the letter and handed it to his friend. He filled his pipe leisurely and lit it, while Wally knitted his brows over the sheet of cheap hotel paper. Presently he looked up, a flash of eagerness in his keen brown eyes. "Well, I think O'Neill left that place to Norah with a purpose," he said. "I don't believe it's just an ordinary legacy. Of course, it's hers, all right; but don't you think he wanted something done with it?" "Done with it?" "Yes. Look here," Wally put a thin forefinger on the letter. "Look what he says—'Perhaps you will make some use of it that may interest you.' Don't you think that means something?" "I believe it might," Jim said cautiously. "But what?" Wally hesitated. "Well, he was just mad keen on the War," he said. "He was always planning what he could do to help, since he couldn't fight,—at least, since he thought he couldn't," the boy added with a sigh. "I wonder he hadn't used it himself for something in connexion with the War." "He couldn't—it's let," Jim put in quickly. "The lawyers wrote about it to Dad. It's been let for a year, and the lease expires this month—they said O'Neill had refused to renew it. That rather looks as if he had meant to do something with it, doesn't it?" Wally nodded vigorously. "I'll bet he did. Now he's left it to Norah to carry on. You see, they told us his own relations weren't up to much. I expect he knew they wouldn't make any use of it except for themselves. Why, it's as clear as mud, Jim! O'Neill knew that Norah didn't actually need the place, and that she and your father wanted to be near you and still help the war themselves. They didn't like working in London—Norah's too much of a kid, and your father says himself he's not trained. Now they've got a perfectly ripping chance!" "Oh, bless you, Wally!" said a thankful voice behind them. The boys sprang to their feet. Behind them stood a tall girl with a sun-tanned face and straight grey eyes—eyes that bore marks of tears, of which Norah for once was unashamed. Her brown curls were tied back with a broad black ribbon. She was very slender—"skinny," Norah would have said—but, despite that she was at what is known as "the awkward age," no movement of Norah Linton's was ever awkward. She moved with something of the unconcerned grace of a deer. In her blue serge coat and skirt she presented the well-groomed look that was part and parcel of her. She smiled at the two boys, a little tremulously. "Hallo!" said her brother. "We didn't hear you—where did you spring from?" "Dad dropped me at the Corner—he had to go on to Harrods," Norah answered. "I came across the grass, and you two were so busy talking you didn't know I was there. I couldn't help hearing what you said, Wally." "Well, I'm glad you did," Wally answered, "But what do you think yourself, Nor?" "I was just miserable until I heard you," Norah said. "It seemed too awful to take Sir John's house—to profit by his death. I couldn't bear it. But of course you're right. I do think I was stupid—I read his letter a dozen times, but I never saw it that way." "But you agree with Wally, now?" Jim asked. "Why, of course—don't you? I suppose I might have had the sense to see his meaning in time, but I could only think of seeming to benefit by his death. However, as long as one member of the family has seen it, it's all right." She flashed a smile at Wally. "I'm just ever so much happier. It makes it all—different. We were such—" her voice trembled—"such good chums, and now it seems as if he had really trusted us to carry on for him." "Of course he did," Wally said. "He knew jolly well you would make good use of it, and it would help you, too, when Jim was away." "Jim?" said that gentleman. "Jim? What are you leaving yourself out for? Aren't you coming? Got a Staff job at home?" "I'm ashamed of you, Wally," said Norah severely. "Of course, if you don't want to belong——!" Whereat Wally Meadows flushed and laughed, and muttered something unintelligible that nevertheless was quite sufficient for his friends. It was not a thing of yesterday, that friendship. It went back to days of small-boyhood, when Wally, a lonely orphan from Queensland, had been Jim Linton's chum at the Melbourne Grammar School, and had fallen into a habit of spending his holidays at the Linton's big station in the north of Victoria, until it seemed that he was really one of the Billabong family. Years had knitted him and Jim and Norah into a firm triumvirate, mates in the work and play of an Australian cattle-run; watched over by the silent grey man whose existence centred in his motherless son and daughter—with a warm corner in his affections for the lithe, merry Queensland boy, whose loyalty to Billabong and its people had never wavered since his childhood. Then, just as Jim had outgrown school and was becoming his father's right-hand man on the station, came the world-upheaval of the European War, which had whisked them all to England. Business had, at the moment, summoned Mr. Linton to London; to leave Norah behind was not to be thought of, and as both the boys were wild to enlist, and Wally was too young to be accepted in Australia—though not in England—it seemed that the simplest thing to do was to make the pilgrimage a general one, and let the chums enlist in London. They had joined a famous British regiment, obtaining commissions without difficulty, thanks to cadet training in Australia. But their first experience of war in Flanders had been a short one: they were amongst the first to suffer from the German poison-gas, and a long furlough had resulted. Mr. Linton and Norah had taken them to Ireland as soon as they were fit to travel; and the bogs and moors of Donegal, coupled with trout-fishing, had gone far to effect a cure. But there, unexpected adventure had awaited them. They had made friends with Sir John O'Neill, the last of an old North of Ireland family: a half-crippled man, eating out his heart against the fate that held him back from an active part in the war. Together they had managed to stumble on an oil-base for German submarines, concealed on the rocky coast; and, luck and boldness favouring them, to trap a U-boat and her crew. It had been a short and triumphant campaign—skilfully engineered by O'Neill; and he alone had paid for the triumph with his life. John O'Neill had died happily, rejoicing in for once having played the part of a fighting man; but to the Australians his death had been a blow that robbed their victory of all its joy. They mourned for him as for one of themselves, cherishing the memory of the high-souled man whose spirit had outstripped his weak body. Jim and Wally, from exposure on the night of the fight, had suffered a relapse, and throat-trouble had caused their sick-leave to be extended several times. Now, once more fit, they were back in London, expecting to rejoin their regiment immediately. "So now," Jim said, "the only question is, what are you going to do with it?" "I'm going to think hard for a day," said Norah. "So can you two; and we'll ask Dad, of course." "And then Dad will tell you what to do," said Jim, grinning. "Yes of course he will. Dad always has splendid ideas," said Norah, laughing. "But we won't have any decision for a day, because it's a terribly big thing to think of. I wish I was grown up—it must be easier to settle big questions if you haven't got your hair down your back!" "I don't quite see what your old curly mop has to do with it, but anyhow, you needn't be in a hurry to put it up," said her brother. "It's awful to be old and responsible, isn't it Wally?" To which Wally responded with feeling, "Beastly!" and endeavoured to look more than nineteen—failing signally. "Let's go and look at the Row," Norah said. "Dad will find us all right, I suppose?" Jim hesitated. "Why, he couldn't miss you!" said Norah, laughing. "Come on." Even when more than a year of War had made uniform a commonplace in London streets, you might have turned to look at Jim and Wally. Jim was immensely tall; his chum little less so; and both were lean and clean-shaven, tanned to a deep bronze, and stamped with a look of resolute keenness. In their eyes was the deep glint that comes to those who have habitually looked across great spaces. The type has become familiar enough in London now, but it generally exists under a slouch hat; and these lads were in British uniform, bearing the badges of a famous marching regiment. At first they had hankered after the cavalry, being much more accustomed to ride than to walk: but as the armies settled down into the Flanders mud it became increasingly apparent that this was not to be a horseman's war, and that therefore, as Wally put it, if they wanted to be in the fun, they had better make up their minds to paddle with the rest. The amount of "fun" had so far been a negligible quantity which caused them some bitterness of spirit. They earnestly hoped to increase it as speedily as might be, and to give the Hun as much inconvenience as they could manage in the process. They strolled across the grass to the railings, and looked up and down the tan ribbon of Rotten Row. Small boys and girls, on smart ponies and woolly Shetlands, walked or trotted sedately; or occasionally galloped, followed by elderly grooms torn between pride and anxiety. Jim and Wally thought the famous Row an over-rated concern; failing to realize, from its war aspect, the Row of other days, crammed from fence to fence with beautiful horses and well-turned-out riders, and with half the world looking on from the railings. Nowadays the small boys and girls had it chiefly to themselves, and could stray from side to side at their own sweet will. A few ladies were riding, and there was a sprinkling of officers in khaki; obviously on Army horses and out for exercise. Now and then came a wounded man, slowly, on a reliable cob or sturdy pony—bandages visible, or one arm in a sling. A few people sat about, or leaned on the fences, watching; but there was nothing to attract a crowd. Every one looked business-like, purposeful; clothes were plain and useful, with little frippery. The old glitter and splendour of the Row was gone: the London that used to watch it was a London that had forgotten how to play. Beyond the Row, carriages, drawn by beautiful pairs of horses, high-stepping, with harness flashing in the sunlight, drove up and down. Some contained old ladies and grey-haired men; but nearly all bore a load of wounded soldiers, with sometimes a tired-faced nurse. "There's that nice old Lady Ellison—the one that used to take Jim and me out when we were in hospital," Wally said, indicating a carriage with a magnificent pair of bays. "She was an old dear. My word, I'd like to have the driving of those horses—in a good light buggy on the Billabong track!" "So would I," Jim assented. "But I'd take those beastly bearing-reins off before I started." "Yes," said Norah eagerly. "Poor darlings, how they must hate them! Jim, I wish we'd struck London when the coaches used to be seen." "Rather!" said Jim. "Anstruther used to tell me about them. Coaches bigger than Cobb & Co.'s, and smart as paint, with teams of four so matched you could hardly tell which was which—and educated beyond anything Australians could dream about. There was one man—poor chap, Anstruther said he was drowned in the Lusitania—who had a team of four black cobs. I think Anstruther used to dream about them at night; he got poetical and incoherent when he tried to describe 'em." "Fancy seeing a dozen or so of those coaches swinging down Piccadilly on a fine morning!" said Wally. "That would be something to tell black Billy about, Norah!" "He'd only say Plenty!" said Norah, laughing. "Look—there's Dad!" They turned to meet a tall grey man who came swinging across the grass with a step as light as his son's. David Linton greeted them with a smile. "I knew I should find you as near as you could get to the horses," he said. "This place is almost a rest-cure after Harrod's; I never find myself in that amazing shop without wishing I had a bell on my neck, so that I couldn't get lost. And I always take the wrong lift and find myself among garden tools when all I want is collars." "Well, they have lifts round every corner: you want a special lift-sense not to take the wrong one," Norah defended him. "Yes, and when you ask your way anywhere in one of these fifty-acre London shops they say, 'Through the archway, sir,' and disappear: and you look round you frantically, and see about seventeen different archways, and there you are," Wally stated. "So you plunge into them all in turn, and get hopelessly lost. But it's rather fun." "I'd like it better if they didn't call me 'Moddam,'" said Norah. "'Shoes, Moddam? Certainly, Moddam; first to the right, second to the left, lift Number fifteen, fifth floor and the attendant will direct you!' Then you stagger into space, wishing for a wet towel round your head!" "I could almost believe," said her father, regarding her gravely, "that you would prefer Cunjee, with one street, one general store, one blacksmith's, and not much else at all." "Why, of course I do," Norah laughed. "At least you can't get lost there, and you haven't got half a day's journey from the oatmeal place to the ribbon department: they'll sell you both at the same counter, and a frying-pan and a new song too! Think of the economy of time and boot-leather! And Mr. Wilkins knows all about you, and talks to you like a nice fat uncle while he wraps up your parcels. And if you're on a young horse you needn't get off at all—all you have to do is to coo-ee, and Mr. Wilkins comes out prepared to sell you all his shop on the footpath. If that isn't more convenient than seventeen archways and fifty-seven lifts, then I'd like to know what is!" "Moddam always had a great turn of eloquence, hadn't she?" murmured Wally, eyeing her with respect. Whereat Norah reddened and laughed, and accused him of sentiments precisely similar to her own. "I think we're all much the same," Jim said. "London's all very well for a visit. But just imagine what it would be if we didn't know we were going back to Billabong some day!" "What a horrible idea!" Norah said. "But we are—when the old War's over, and the Kaiser has retired to St. Helena, and the Huns are busy building up Belgium and France. And you'll both be captains, if you aren't brigadiers, and all Billabong will expect to see you come back in uniform glittering with medals and things." "I like their chance!" said Wally firmly. "Anyhow, we'll all go back; and that's all that matters," said Norah. Her eyes dwelt wistfully on the two tall lads. "And meanwhile," said Jim, "we'll all go down to Fuller's and have morning tea. One thing, young Norah, you won't find a Fuller's in Cunjee!" "Why would I be trying?" Norah asked cheerfully. "Sure isn't there Brownie at Billabong?" "Hear, hear!" agreed Wally. "When I think of Brownie's pikelets——" "Or Brownie's scones," added Norah. "Or her sponge-cakes." "Or Brownie's tea-pot, as large and as brown as herself," said Mr. Linton—"then London is a desert. But we'll make the best of it for the present. Come along to Fuller's." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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