Part 32 (1/2)

The officer smiled. ”Is that why you rejected my last two ma.n.u.scripts?”

”Yes. Neither of them did you credit. Both of them betrayed rather a nasty cynicism in your style.”

”I meant them for satire.”

”Ah! there is a great difference. Cynicism recoils on the cynic; satire is always delightful, and is never offensive. However, I may say, in spite of their faults, if you survive the war you should become one of America's finest writers.”

The young man flushed with pleasure. ”Thanks very much, Mr. Townsend.”

”You have temperament and you have language,” went on the editor, ”and, though your emotions are artificial and your judgments too impetuous, that is a natural condition of youth--nature has to keep something to recompense us for growing old. But you have big moments, plus some most promising incoherency, as I said before, and when that chaos becomes cosmos, the world will acknowledge you. You have never been to England before, have you?”

The officer shook his head, a little puzzled at the abrupt descent from the abstract.

Mr. Townsend smoked reflectively for a full minute. ”England,” he said slowly, ”is the paradox of the ages. In America we have the present and the future; England has the present and the past--princ.i.p.ally the past.

Inefficiency is often no bar to success there--as a matter of fact, an Englishman dislikes appearing efficient--but remember that the British Navy is the most thorough organization in the world. I have often thought that England's success in colonization was largely due to her utter inability to understand the temperament of the people she governed. Look at Canada. There was never an Englishman who really appreciated the restless independence of the Canadian; yet, when the Old Land goes to war, Canada sends and maintains a mighty fine army corps to help her. Listen, my boy. I want you to go to England with your pores open; receive impressions and make a note of them. I want a series of articles explaining England to America--not as it is being done by those polished gentlemen who visit us from London, but by an American for Americans. Don't send me a description of the Strand, or Westminster Abbey, or your thoughts on first seeing the Thames. Go deep. I want a series of articles that rise above journalism. I want the psychology of England written up in a light satirical vein by a clever man with red blood in his veins. You will be there for some time, I suppose?”

”Very likely, as we are the first of the vanguard.”

A half-hour later the young officer rose to go, with a contract that promised him generous remuneration, in return for which he had agreed to write ten articles on England. He stood, facing the older man, and smiled slightly. He had removed his cap, and his black hair, struggling into an unruly curl, combined with his dark, brilliant eyes in an appearance of arresting virility.

”You are very encouraging, Mr. Townsend,” he said. ”I had no idea that an editor could be so--so nearly human.”

”My son,” said the older man, ”we are literature's midwives, toiling year in and year out in the hope that some day we shall a.s.sist at the birth of a masterpiece.”

”But how is it that you don't write yourself?”

The editor shrugged his shoulders. ”Why does a hangman never commit a murder?” he said.

II

Three weeks later a great ocean liner, known since the war as H.M.

Transport, No. --, dropped gracefully down the river towards the open sea. Craighouse, from the hurricane-deck, watched the amazing silhouette of New York, as her mighty buildings stood outlined against the darkening skyline. From the wharf came the strains of ”The Star-Spangled Banner,” and hundreds of handkerchiefs fluttered in farewell.

A British cruiser was lying at anchor, and a thousand bluejackets roared three mighty British cheers for the new crusaders. A bedlam of shouting from the transport acknowledged the compliment, and one American soldier, whose constant attendance at baseball matches had produced stentorian qualities within him, boomed out the words, ”Good old Roast Beef!”

Every one laughed. Why not? Men always laugh readily when their emotions are playing leapfrog with each other.

The strains of ”The Star-Spangled Banner” sounded fainter; the handkerchiefs were blurred into a fluttering white cloud. A French battles.h.i.+p lay a quarter of a mile from them. As they pa.s.sed it a bugle sounded on board, followed by a salvo of cheers from the crew.

Craighouse noticed that the French cheers were a full third higher in pitch than the British.

Another roar came from the transport, and all eyes were turned towards the stentorian private. He took a deep breath.

”Good old Froggy!” he bellowed, and two or three soldiers laughed. To America, France is the martyr of the ages, and there is a strange sense of the feminine in the affection which the Old World republic inspires in the New. Truly, the ways of an extempore humorist are unhappy.

They pa.s.sed the Battery, and, nearing the open sea, received the blessing of the Statue of Liberty extending her welcome to all that are weary and discouraged.

Craighouse experienced a thrill of patriotism, and, feeling that he must express it in language, turned to his nearest neighbor, who happened to be a British officer. ”That's an inspiring sight,” he said.

”Which?” said the Englishman briefly.