Part 1 (2/2)

”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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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?”

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