Part 8 (1/2)

Thither Jim turned. 'And now I'll drink,' he said.

'I'll drink and drink--I never did before-- I'll drink and drink until I'm mad or dead, For that's what comes of meddling with a wh.o.r.e.'

He called for liquor at 'The Bull and Boar'; Moody he drank; the woman asked him why: 'Have you had trouble?' 'No,' he said, 'I'm dry.

Dry and burnt up, so give's another drink; That's better, that's much better, that's the sort.'

And then he sang, so that he should not think, His Binger-Bopper song, but cut it short.

His wits were working like a brewer's wort Until among them came the vision gleaming Of Ern with b.l.o.o.d.y nose and Anna screaming.

'That's what I'll do,' he muttered; 'knock him out, And kick his face in with a running jump.

I'll not have dazzled eyes this second bout, And she can wash the fragments under pump.'

It was his ace; but Death had played a trump.

Death the blind beggar chuckled, nodding dumb, 'My game; the shroud is ready, Jimmy--come.'

Meanwhile, the mother, waiting for her child, Had tottered out a dozen times to search.

'Jimmy,' she said, 'you'll drive your mother wild; Your father's name's too good a name to smirch, Come home, my dear, she'll leave you in the lurch; He was so good, my little Jim, so clever; He never stop a night away, not ever.

He never slept a night away till now, Never, not once, in all the time he's been.

It's the Lord's will, they say, and we must bow, But O it's like a knife, it cuts so keen!

He'll work in's Sunday clothes, it'll be seen, And then they'll laugh, and say ”It isn't strange; He slept with her, and so he couldn't change.”

Perhaps,' she thought, 'I'm wrong; perhaps he's dead; Killed himself like; folk do in love, they say.

He never tells what pa.s.ses in his head, And he's been looking late so old and grey.

A railway train has cut his head away, Like the poor hare we found at Maylow's shack.

O G.o.d have pity, bring my darling back!'

All the high stars went sweeping through the sky, The sun made all the orient clean, clear gold, 'O blessed G.o.d,' she prayed, 'do let me die, Or bring my wand'ring lamb back into fold.

The whistle's gone, and all the bacon's cold; I must know somehow if he's on the line, He could have bacon sandwich when he dine.'

She cut the bread, and started, short of breath, Up the ca.n.a.l now draining for the rail; A poor old woman pitted against death, Bringing her pennyworth of love for bail.

Wisdom, beauty, and love may not avail.

She was too late. 'Yes, he was here; oh, yes.

He chucked his job and went.' 'Where?' 'Home, I guess.'

'Home, but he hasn't been home.' 'Well, he went.

Perhaps you missed him, mother.' 'Or perhaps He took the field path yonder through the bent.

He very likely done that, don't he, chaps?'

The speaker tested both his trouser straps And took his pick. 'He's in the town,' he said.

'He'll be all right, after a bit in bed.'

She trembled down the high embankment's ridge Glad, though too late; not yet too late, indeed.

For forty yards away, beyond the bridge, Jimmy still drank, the devil still sowed seed.

'A bit in bed,' she thought, 'is what I need.

I'll go to ”Bull and Boar” and rest a bit, They've got a bench outside they'd let me sit.'

Even as two soldiers on a fortress wall See the bright fire streak of a coming sh.e.l.l.

Catch breath, and wonder 'Which way will it fall?

To you? to me? or will it all be well?'

Ev'n so stood life and death, and could not tell Whether she'd go to th'inn and find her son, Or take the field and let the doom be done.

'No, not the inn,' she thought. 'People would talk.