Part 21 (1/2)

”Well, Blair, I expected you'd have a cork leg by this time,” said Lane.

”Nothing doing,” returned the other. ”I want to be perpetually reminded that I was in the war. This 'forget the war' propaganda we see and hear all over acts kind of queer on a soldier.... Let's find a bench away from these people.”

After they were comfortably seated Blair went on: ”Do you know, Dare, I don't miss my leg so much when I'm crutching around. But when I try to sit down or get up! By heck, sometimes I forget it's gone. And sometimes I want to scratch my lost foot. Isn't that h.e.l.l?”

”I'll say so, Buddy,” returned Lane, with a laugh.

”Read this,” said Blair, taking a paper from his pocket, and indicating a column.

Whereupon Lane read a brief a.s.sociated Press dispatch from Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., stating that one Payson, disabled soldier of twenty-five, suffering with tuberculosis caused by ga.s.sed lungs, had come to Was.h.i.+ngton to make in person a protest and appeal that had been unanswered in letters. He wanted money from the government to enable him to travel west to a dry climate, where doctors a.s.sured him he might get well. He made his statement to several clerks and officials, and waited all day in the vestibule of the department. Suddenly he was seized with a hemorrhage, and, falling on the floor, died before aid could be summoned.

Without a word Lane handed the paper back to his friend.

”Red was a queer duck,” said Blair, rather hoa.r.s.ely. ”You remember when I 'phoned you last over two weeks ago?... Well, just after that Red got bad on my hands. He wouldn't accept charity, he said. And he wanted to beat it. He got wise to my mother. He wouldn't give up trying to get money from the government--back money owed him, he swore--and the idea of being turned down at home seemed to obsess him.

I talked and cussed myself weak. No good! Red beat it soon after that--beat it from Middleville on a freight train. And I never heard a word from him.... Not a word....”

”Blair, can't you see it Red's way?” queried Lane, sadly.

”Yes, I can,” responded Blair, ”but h.e.l.l! he might have gotten well.

Doc Bronson said Red had a chance. I could have borrowed enough money to get him out west. Red wouldn't take it.”

”And he ran off--exposed himself to cold and starvation--over-exertion and anger,” added Lane.

”Exactly. Brought on that hemorrhage and croaked. All for nothing!”

”No, Blair. All for a principle,” observed Lane. ”Red was fired out of the hospital without a dollar. There was something terribly wrong.”

”Wrong?... G.o.d Almighty!” burst out Blair, with hard pa.s.sion. ”Let me read you something in this same paper.” With shaking hands he unfolded it, searched until he found what he wanted, and began to read:

”'If the _actual_ needs of disabled veterans require the expenditure of much money, then unquestionably a majority of the taxpayers of the country will favor spending it. Despite the insistent demand for economy in Was.h.i.+ngton that is arising from every part of the country, no member of House or Senate will have occasion to fear that he is running counter to popular opinion when eventually he votes to take generous care of disabled soldiers.'”

Blair's trembling voice ceased, and then twisting the newspaper into a rope, he turned to Lane. ”Dare, can you understand that?... Red Payson was a bull-headed boy, not over bright. But you and I have some intelligence, I hope. We can allow for the immense confusion at Was.h.i.+ngton--the senselessness of red tape--the callosity of politicians. But when we remember the eloquent calls to us boys--the wonderfully worded appeals to our patriotism, love of country and home--the painted posters bearing the picture of a beautiful American girl--or a young mother with a baby--remembering these deep, pa.s.sionate calls to the best in us, can you understand _that_ sort of talk now?”

”Blair, I think I can,” replied Lane. ”Then--before and after the draft--the whole country was at a white heat of all that the approach of war rouses. Fear, self-preservation, love of country, hate of the Huns, inspired patriotism, and in most everybody the will to fight and to sacrifice.... The war was a long, hideous, soul-racking, nerve-destroying time. When it ended, and the wild period of joy and relief had its run, then all that pertained to the war sickened and wearied and disgusted the majority of people. It's 'forget the war.'

You and Payson and I got home a year too late.”

”Then--it's just--monstrous,” said Blair, heavily.

”That's all, Blair. Just monstrous. But we can't beat our spirits out against this wall. No one can understand us--how alone we are. Let's forget _that_--this wall--this thing called government. Shall we spend what time we have to live always in a thunderous atmosphere of mind--hating, pondering, bitter?”

”No. I'll make a compact with you,” returned Blair, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. ”Never to speak again of _that_--so long as we live!”

”Never to a living soul,” rejoined Lane, with a ring in his voice.

They shook hands much the same as when they had met half an hour earlier.

”So!” exclaimed Blair, with a deep breath. ”And now, Dare, tell me how you made out with Helen. You cut me short over the 'phone.”

”Blair, that day coming into New York on the s.h.i.+p, you didn't put it half strong enough,” replied Lane. Then he told Blair about the call he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio.

Blair did not voice the scorn that his eyes expressed. And, in fact, most of his talking was confined to asking questions. Lane found it easy enough to unburden himself, though he did not mention his calls on Mel Iden, or Colonel Pepper's disclosures.