HIS PEOPLE.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 15, 25 June 1920, Page 2

HIS PEOPLE.

BY FREDERICK SLEATH.

We sat in the squadron mess' together Evan Jones and I. Jones is not his real aame, but it is as good as any other. He was heing demohilised next morning. I was not. LLe was smiling. I was glum. Yet I was glad to see him smiling, for Evan was the t-ype of man who deserved much of life, and he "had not always received it. "Jove, Charlie. It's great to think of it," he said to me, suddenly, with a great, glad ring in his voice.' "The old life finished to-morrow. No more climbing into your bus at dawn, and" sliding away up to meet the rising sun with the thought in your heart that you might never see it set. No coming home with the price o' the sunset lying smashed behind you in No Man's Land. God ! It's great, Charlie." I nodded. I knew what he meant. Though that old life had finished months ago with the armistice, real comprehension of its end was impossible until the last railway warrant that the Government would issue had been tucked away in one's pocket. Evan had shown me his warrant a moment or two before. It still lay lightly hetween his fingers as he finished speaking. I watched him replace it carefully ' in his note-case, and wondered. I could remember the day when • he had dreaded its coming, when he h;.d even hoped that he would not live to receive it, He had been a queer littles figure then, dressed in the poorest of uniforms, shunning the company of his fellows, ana bein.g shunned hy them in turn when they found his reserve unbreakable. As our friendship developed I learned more. His father had been wealthy, but had died, leaving him almost penniless and without a friend. He had spent his resources in developing some invention, which no one would take up. Then he had starved.

Books had given me some idea of the life of an underdog, but I never imagined it to he h'alf so dreadful as what Evan told me. Yet it was his friendless state that affected him most of all. "I tell you what it is," he said to me. "There's a mighty big difference hetween a friend arid a frrendly social acquaintance. Give your all to the one, if need be. He's worth it. But the other is no use to you, unless you can really spare the money that pays for his entertainment. ' ' This was the . philosophy which he had been following. Poor little devil ! His learning- fee had been heavy 'enough to justify him putting his lessons into practice. What I liked. best about him, however, was his independence. He hluntly refused hospitality that he could not see his way to return. Money was the only thing that could stave off a return of the bitter days ; it alone could force the hand of the vested interest opposing his invention, and money he was trying to save. But he had had little real hope of being successful ; so little, in fact, that soon after our arrival in France I fcrmed the opinion that his method of fighting was much too risky. "Afe you trying to chuck your life away?" I asked him, sharply, after an exploit in which he had foolishly stayed on in the midst of a bunch of Fokkers from whom he could easily have broken clear. He looked rather taken aback at my question, and paused for a moment or two before replyiiig. "Why, no," he then said slowly. "I was under the impression that I was selling my life pretty dearly." Which indeed was true, as ever since his joining the squadron he had been the most successful pilot. It was something of the answer that I erpected from him ; and yet it drove me wild. I tlvink I gave him the biggest telling-off that any man could give to another; or, rather, I thought I gave him it, He quickly took the wind out of my sails. "You overlooked certain thin gs in what you said just now, Charlie," he said. "You think I ought to consider my friends, and my future, do you? Well, saving yourseli, I haven't a friend. And as for a* future, that lies with Fate." "It doesn't. It lies with yourself." I cut in. "That's what most people think who have a balance of luck in their favour," he repliedg with a weary not'e in his voice. "Fortunately for tliemselves, most

people do have that balance. It's only those with the balance the other way who see that individual effort is not the sole, nor the greatest, directing factor in life, Lord, don't I know !" A bullet through my shoulder parted us eventually. After my reeovery I went out to Mesopotamia, and there I lost touch with him. It was his fault in not answering my letters. But I did not forget him. The clear est memory-picture in my mind was of a queer little figure, ill-dressed and solitary, cast up from the depths by the storm of war, and restored to his place among men and the privileges of his class, who yet carried in his manner and person the marks of the depths, and in his soul the fear of them. You can therefore imagine my surprise when on arriving at -the demobilisation squadron, I found a new Evan, happy, companionable, well-dressed, with a pride in his appearance at patent as the disregard of cost which had gone to its making, and above all, with a joy at the coming of peace, where" formerly only a dread hal existed. What had made the cha-nge ? I wondered. Had his invention been successful? That could not have been the sole cause. Money alone would never have wrought such a difference. I longed to question him, yet hesitated. The old Evan I could hector and advise, out of a conviction that he required my advice and hectoring; This man had need of neither. So we sat in the mess together, talking of what we had seen and done since our parting, of how lucky we were to have come through alive; of how jolly it was for the war to be over. And all t-Ke time I was asking myself — why ? "What do you mean to do, Evan?" I said to him, when our mutual experiences had been recounted. Hq looked at me for a bit and smiled his slow smile, as he used to do in the old days, when he knew that I was probing discreetly into his character, "I am going home to my people," he said, quietly. Then he ehuckled gleefully at my astonishment. "Surprises you, doesn't it?" he murmured.

"It does indeed. Whence, how, and what? Where.did you find them?" I said, fiippantly, to concearmy curiosity. "Did you ever hear that I was- missing?" he asked, abruptly, like one anxious to give information who first puts a 4uestion to test his hearer's knowledge. "No," I said. "Not in France, surely? I did not see your casualty. And I- amdit I kepfc a sharp look-out in the lists for it." "No. Not in France. In England." He laughed gleefully again at my surprise. He could ihe the very devil of a tease when in thff mood. I felt a' little irritated. I knew that he had. gauged the full measure of my curiosity. "And over what perioc I-id this desertion of jours extend?" I qu cied, with heavy sarcasm. "But I did not desert, Charlie," he rebuked me. "I was captured. Honest Injun, I was! Held prisoner for nearly three months, too." ."By whom?" "By my people." "I give in, Evan," I said, patiently. "Tell the yarn your own way, but .or goodness' sake tell me ! YAu've got me slightly curious." He settled down to his story then, a.nd I heard him through without saying a word. I can't hope to put it into words as he told it to me. I could never reproduce all the feeling, all the little tendemess of voice and manner with which he transfused it. Besides, half.the time I was thinking hack into past states of mind to which he had given expression, and joining them up to the present, and tracing the evolution. To me it was not so much the tale of the mere finding . of friends, as of a man finding a soul. He was home in England at the time, taking a joy-flight over some part in Surrey, when the incident occurred which was the beginning of his adventure. What happened he could not say with certainty. He had an idea that one of his cylinders must have blown off. Anyhow, something suddenly crashed into his upper plane ; a splinter struck him on the f orehead. The wing buckled up. He felt himself falling. Then he lost consciousness.

He came to himself with the crackle of j flames in his ears. He was lying on the ground, pinned down by .a. crushed-up wing. What was left of his aeroplane was burning. The fire was creeping slowly -alqng the wing. Presently he would hurn also, for he was helple-ss. Even' if he had heen uninjured, the weight of the wreckage would have held him. But he was injured, and badly; there was not the slightest feeling in the whole of his body. If help did not come in the next minute or two — It was then he saw the girl. She came racing towaxds him from the direction of what seemed a house nearly smothered in trees. Apparently he had come down in its grounds. Behind her an old gentleman was running. Evan described the old gentleman to me in detail, down to the pearly buttons on his vvhite waistcoat and the Flying Corps badge that he wore as a brooch on his lapel. Even at this, their first rneeting, he thought the old fellow looked queer. But of the girl he would only say that she was beautiful and dressed in white. Yet she must have heen a wonderful girl. A gout of fiaming petrol fell on the wreckage above Evan's head the moment of hen arrival. She heat the fire out with her naked hands, then tried to lift the wreckage away. The old gentleman came up and helped her. JBut it was too heavy. They failed to budge it. Another fiaming gout fell, and another. The wreckage round Evan began to Durn. He saw_ the old gentleman wring his hands and run away, as though 'vterrified at the spectacle. The girl ceased her efforts to release him and started fighting the flames. She beat at them with her hands. She poured on earth. She tore fragments from her dress and swabbed the hlazing petrol away. The frayed edges of her clothing began. to smoulder. He yelled at her to desist. But she continued her battle, and kept the flames from reaching him; though all the.while the main conflagration crept steadily down the wing. Evan gave himself up for lost, and clcsed his eyes. He opened them again as the swift, clean blows of an axe sounded close to "his ears. The old gentleman had returned, and was hackmg furiously at the wreckage.

It yielded. They dragged him clear. At the moment the paifi of his injuries dart- , ed through his body. He - yelled and syrooned. Yet ere his senses left him he fancied that he heard the old gentleman shout out excitedly. As in a dream the words came to him: "It's the boy ! It's the boy !" ; As in a dream he heard those words repeated many times during the weeks of semi-consciousness that followed, while he lay and fought for his life against the deadly weakness that sought to overwhelm him. They comforted him strangely. Somehow he felt that the bitter years since his father's death were only a hideous nightmare, that his father still lived, that his father's were the hands which stroked his brow and eased his bandages when the agony of his wounds made him call out feebly. But there were other hands as well for which he could not account; hands which he learned to distinguish by the greater gentleness of their movements and the softer caress of their fingers, which he came to associate dimly with a low rich voice and a presence that thrilled him in spite of his weakness; Yet it was all a topsy-turvy, where fancy succeeded fancy, sweet for the most part and comforting only for those times when his reason waked fitfully and the vague fear of his forgotten past murmrred its promptings across his mental stage. He had forgotten his accident, the old gentleman and the girl who had saved him. Yet the form of a girl had im-p-rinted itself on his subsciousness, for when he awoke in possession of all his senses he looked for her— looked for her j even before he rememhered his accident. • I But when he did remember he knew who she was, and gazed eagerly^ round the room in seach of her, and felt disappointed because she was not there— that girl who had beaten out the flames, who was very beautiful, and dressed in white. The old gentleman was there, however, sitting dozing in a ehair. He looked very weary, as though from long hours of watching. Hours of watching by his bedside, Evan guessed, for he now realised clearly what had happened. ! After dragging hira away from the burning aeroplane, the girl and her father — as Evan surmised the old gentleman to be — had carried him into their home and cared for him. This was the man wfiom he had imagined to he his father, whose hands had eased his bandages when they hart him. He gazed at his rescuer gratefully. The old gentleman awoke and saw him looking. "You are better, Jack?" he exclaimed, joyfully, starting up from his chair and coming eagerly to the bedside. i Evan stared at him wonderiDgly. Why | did tho old fellow call him Jack?

"My boy! My boy!" the old ^ murmured. "After all these „ , be hom© at last!" t« His eyes were full of tears. He Evan's hand at it lay outside the ^ Evan's hand as it lay outside theT^ only stare in surprise. Vet^ The old fellow had seemed queer ata begmnmg. Now he looked even que, - Not only was he still wearing the Rp0' badge as a lapel-brooch ; he was smoth»5 in flying emblems. * The pearly buttons of his white w • | coat were embossed with tiny g0!d planee. A larger one formed his tie^ 3 A bunch of miniature hadges and planes hung from his watch-chain. & g°" | wore a f ob with yet another bunch. m-i' his fingers were almost concealed y\l badge-mounted rings, shell-metrj ., most of them, such as soldiers make, ^ j the ba/dge put on in addition. .4 "Plumb dotty," Evan mentally ']CS(^ | ed him, and a sudden action on the of the old man confirmed his opinion, - The drone of an aeroplane had sounded' faintly in the distance. At once an ei i pression of fear leaped into his face. "They shall not get you, Jack. T)J shall not get you," he muttered. He listened intently to the sound. soon as the louder drone of the engii( made it clear that the plane was approaching, he darted to the door and locked itthen he stole to the windows and stealthjj' drew the curtains, completely flarkeniJ tlie room. "Don't be afraid, Jack! They shall mj get you," he said, coming back ^ Evan, and speaking as though to * him. In spite of his wonderment, Evan id : asleep in the darkness. The day had gone when he awoke againi The room was dimly lit, and warm «iu shaded glow lamp-s. The girl was then. She was seated near the end of tlie k her eyes closed, as weary -looking asl father. She, too, had heen watching ^ him. Evan wished that she would ->/a her eyes so that he might thank liw, //j felt that he could thank people now, i,e was stronger ; and he owed it to this gitjj even more than to that f unny old gentljl man, her father.

The father was there also.. Eva.nli6.itj him reading softly almost at his « He had only to turn his head to see !* But he did not turn. He was too kd on watching the girl, hoping thall would open her eyes, and see him Iookinj at her, and come to speak to him. Even the words that her father wai reading at first failed to pehetr&e his ■ consciousness. Then something strange about them began to press on his atto tion. He turned his head. A yard away the old gentleman wis sitting on his knees an open Bible, Irotn which he was reading one sentence, ww and over again. Evan listened in astomsoJ ment. " 'For this my son was dead, and is alive again ; he was lost, and is found, ■ read the old man. "So that's why he calls me Jack. Evan thought. "Poor old chap! He is dotty, "'j But he looked at the reader very tenderly; the voice had such an eanrest ringiaj it. And for all his queer ways and not ions, this old man had helped to save lii life. "Father." j Evan recognised the rich low toael that voice. ti "Father," the girl repeated, softJ,| the old man stared up uncomprehendial from his Bible, "I think Jack is arfj "So she thinks me Jack also,' tbofj Evan, looking at her inquiringly- j ■ Her eyes dropped before his .gaJ- ' [' I she doesn't," he corrected himseJf- J father had risen and was feeling li:- . I "You are better, Jack, I "Norah, why do you keep si 1 ■ there?" he called to the gir> , | ■ impatiently. "Jack," he a ( > M ly^ "you reccgnise Norah, J I Norah, your sister." ,'.J ■ The girl rcse and came over ; " ■ side. Evan looked at her f e^e jj ■ again. She met his ga^e th 1 ■ her eyes held an appeal to 1IC ' j! ■ "Norah; Yes, Norah," be JM I and the girl flashed a gratetul r j ■ him. xrask1^ I How suitable the name was a with such a voice. „mido,"4 ■ ! "There, -there. Of c°"rse - 1 ■ I the old gentleman, tnmnp i> I | shall soon have you ^ettC mnia„ded,| I I Don't talk any more, ^ 16 c , jnI1ing 1 ■ ; Evan was on the point o I( i thank bim. "You wuU » . .|t8i I ! morrow. Norah, my ear' \ were in bed." , I He moved to the door an^ ■ for her with stately oou1' "Come, come, my def^ted tired," he urged, as s ^ "Father, you canno ^ again," she Pr°test e git upfcfW out already. Let JM ^ Please." , " he "Come, come, patient firmness. 1 j sit with Jack to-mght - !

he stumbled over the quotation ; then continued with dignity, as his befogged brain repro'duced the words : " 'For this my son was dead, and is alive again ; he was lost, and is found.' " "Very well, father," said the girl, resignedly. She moved up to the head of the bed and bent over Evan. "Pm sorryj but I must kiss you, " she whispered. Her lips lightly brushed his forehead. "Good night, Jack," she said aloud. "Good night, Norah," he murmured. He failed to catch her glance, but saw the blush that mantled her cheeks at the mention of her name. He followed her to the door with his eyes, hopin.g that she would turn -to look at him. But she kept her face averted. Her father went out of the room. with her. Presently he returned, and began to prepare to dress Evan's wounds. Obviously he was a surgeon ; his air was so professional. And a clever one, for he unrolled the handages with such certainty and lightness of movement as hardly to cause the slightest pain. Whai impressed Evan most, however, was his gentleness, far transcending, as it did, mere professional manner, and more akin to the tender solicitude of a father for a child. He began to understand the situation a little better. The old gentleman really believed him •to be his son. He was mad, of course. But probably he ,had once had an airman son, whose death had unhinged his brain. His precaution at the approach of the aeroplane, and his evident failure to report Evan's mishap to the authorities, were not so understandable. But the girl was not mad. She would explain. Evan deqided to ask her at his first opportunity. The girl was alone with him when he awoke next morning. She came quickly towards him as she saw the inquiry in his eyes. "You must not speak, Mr Jones," she commanded. "You see, I know your name. . I will try to tell you what you want to know." His surmises were correct. Her brother had been killed as a pilot, and her father a famous surgeon, had been mentally deranged aver since, his chief delusion being that his son was not really dead, but hidden away from him by the authorities. Evan bore a strong resemblance to the dead airman; and under the impression that he was his son, her father was trying to conceal his presence in the house, lest the authorities might take him away again. He even kept his daughter a prisoner, locking her in her room at night, while three faithful old servants watched her movements during the day, and the wreckage of the aeroplane in the grounds had been covered up with evergreen shrubs that it might not be discovered from above. She was very troubled about the suspense that his disappearance must have caused to his people; he felt imclined to laugh outright at this. But what worried her more, Evan saw, was the effect on her father when he discovered that his son had not returned to him after all. The fight for Evan's life had taxed his strength very sorely. "No other doctor could have saved you, I know. I seryed two years as a V.A.D. before coming home to' look after father," she said to him, earnestly. He felt the appeal in her voice, and made his decision instantly. This father and daughter had saved his life. He owed it to them to do something in return. He would stay and acquiesce in the deception, at least till the old man grew stronger. Afterwards he could easily square the authorities. And even if he could not, what did It matter ? But he had to convince the girl first that he really was friendless before she would agree. Thereafter he noticed that the part of sister seemed to come easily to her. Evan stopped his story at this point, and took an unnecessarily long time in cleaning and filling his pipe. The mess had emptied without my noticing it; he had got me so interested in his tale ; and he was well aware of it. I knew that the mischievous little devil was only trying to tantalise me. But though I wanted to hear the conclusion very badly, I waited patiently and managed to loeat him at his own game. Possibly that is why I remember this part _of the story so well. "Do you know, Charlie," he said at length, "I got to like that old fellow. Though absolutely mad about me, he was a real man, with no finicky middle-age ways aboat him ; and he soon dropped wearing his ridiculous rings and brooches. And he was kind. He simply slaved for me. Sat up with me most of the night and ran my errands during the day. "I tried to get him to slack ofi a bit, but it was no use. He simply worked hrmself done. And just as I was beginning to move about, he went under with brain fever. It almosfc seemed as if he had

held out until I was well enough to fend for myself." "We sent for a doctor," he continued. "/And I sent for my squadron commander as well, before the doctor should do that for me. You remember old Bannerman, of the — th ?" I nodded. Major Bannerman's name was an honoured one of the Corps. "He was a good sort. Actually seemed too glad to see me alive to worry much about what had caused my absence. He squared things handsomely, and got me permission to remain where I was. The doctor would have seen to that in any case. I was a bit too necessary for this patient. The old chap simply would not let me out of his rot>m. "Do you know," Evan said, seriously, "I think it was my presence that pulled him through. He still thought that I was his son, and he lived for me. He was a fine old fellow. I would have sat pjght and day with him if the doctor had let me. It may strike you as rather an ungererous thought to confess to, Charlie, but I actually got a little afraid, when he began to improve, that he would wake up sane, and realise that I was not his son." "I can understand, Evan," I said, as he looked at me to see how I took this statement. And remembering what a battered little child of fate Evan had been, it was not difficult for me to comprehend such a feeling on his part. "I need not have worried," he continued. "He did wake up sane, but it made no difference. He remembered things, and liked me. He has, treated me as his son. ever since. My inyention is a success through his influence and money. But that's nothing in comparison to the thought that I have people now, and a home to go to. I am going there tomorrow. God! It's great, Charlie! Simply too great for anything!" "And the girl, Evan?" I inquired. Without saying a T/ord he drew out a photograph from his note-case and handed it to me. It was the portrait of a girl in white who was very beautiful. Without a word I handed it back to him. "Will yoii leave me your address, old man?" he asked me. "Certainly," I said, looking at him expectantly. "I want to keep in touch with you," he murmured, and went on steadily with his puffing. * Yet my eyes still questioned him. "The fact of the matter is, old man," he said, diffidently, "I will be wanting your services soon. Will you?" I nearly wrung his hand off as I promised — I, who had solemnly vowed "Never 9,gain!" after Anderton's marriage. But, th,eij., I could not let anyone else be best man to Evan. The End.