Captain Jim

by Mary Grant Bruce

  Produced by Wendy Verbruggen

  CAPTAIN JIM

  By

  MARY GRANT BRUCE

  WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

  LONDON AND MELBOURNE

  1919

  MADE IN ENGLAND

  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

  BY EBENEZER BAYLIS AND SON, LTD., THE

  TRINITY PRESS, WORCESTER, AND LONDON

  CONTENTS

  CHAP.

  I John O'Neill's Legacy II The Home for Tired People III Of London and Other Matters IV Settling In V How the Cook-Lady Found her Level VI Kidnapping VII The Thatched Cottage VIII Assorted Guests IX Homewood Gets Busy X Australia in Surrey XI Cheero! XII Of Labour and Promotion XIII The End of a Perfect Day XIV Carrying On XV Prisoners and Captives XVI Through the Darkness XVII Lights Out XVIII The Watch on the Rhine XIX Reveille XX All Clear

  CAPTAIN JIM

  CHAPTER I

  JOHN O'NEILL'S LEGACY

  "Queer, isn't it?" Jim said.

  "Rather!" said Wally.

  They were sitting on little green chairs in Hyde Park. Not far offswirled the traffic of Piccadilly; glancing across to Hyde ParkCorner, they could see the great red motor-'buses, meeting, halting,and then rocking away in different directions, hooting as they fled.The roar of London was in their ears.

  It was a sunny morning in September. The Park was dotted in everydirection with shining perambulators, propelled by smart nurses inuniform, and tenanted by proud little people, fair-haired and rosy,and extremely cheerful. Wally liked the Park babies. He referred tothem collectively as "young dukes."

  "They all look so jolly well tubbed, don't they?" he remarked,straying from the subject in hand. "Might be soap advertisements.Look, there's a jolly little duke in that gorgeous white pram, and abigger sized duke trotting alongside, with a Teddy-bear as big ashimself. Awful nice kids." He smiled at the babies in the way thatmade it seem ridiculous that he should be grown-up and in uniform.

  "They can't both be dukes," said Jim literally. "Can't grow more thanone in a family; at least not at the same time, I believe."

  "Oh, well, it doesn't matter--and anyhow, the one in the pram's aduchess," returned Wally. "I say, the duke's fallen in love with you,Jim."

  "The duke," a curly-haired person in a white coat, hesitated on thefootpath near the two subalterns, then mustering his courage, cameclose to Jim and gravely presented him with his Teddy-bear. Jimreceived the gift as gravely, and shook hands with the small boy, tohis great delight.

  "Thanks, awfully," he said. "It's a splendid Teddy, isn't it?"

  The nurse, greatly scandalized, swooped down upon her charge,exhorting him to be ashamed, now, and not worry the gentleman. Butthe "duke" showed such distress when Jim attempted to return theTeddy-bear that the matter had to be adjusted by distracting hisattention in the direction of some drilling soldiers, while Wallyconcealed the toy under the embroidered rug which protected the plumplegs of the "duchess"--who submitted with delighted gurgles to beingtickled under the chin. They withdrew reluctantly, urged by the stillhorrified nurse.

  "See what it is to be beautiful and have the glad eye!" jeered Wally."Dukes never give _me_ Teddy-bears!"

  "It's my look of benevolent age," Jim said, grinning. "Anyhow, youngWally, if you'll stop beguiling the infant peerage, and attend tobusiness, I'll be glad. We'll have Norah and Dad here presently."

  "I'm all attention," said his friend. "But there's nothing more to besaid than that it _is_ rum, is there? And we said that."

  "Norah gave me a letter from poor old O'Neill to show you," Jim said."I'll read it, if you like."

  The merriment that was never very far from Wally Meadows' eyes diedout as his chum unfolded a sheet of paper, closely written.

  "He wrote it in the hotel in Carrignarone, I suppose?" he askedgently.

  "Yes; just after dinner on the night of the fight. You see, he wascertain he wasn't coming back. Anyhow, this is what he says:

  *****

  "My Dear Norah,--

  "If I am alive after to-night you will not get this letter: it isonly to come to you if I shall have 'gone West.' And please don'tworry if I do go West. You see, between you all you have managedalmost to make me forget that I am just an apology for a man. I didnot think it could be done, but you have done it. Still, now and thenI remember, and I know that there will be long years after you haveall gone back to that beloved Australia of yours when there will benothing 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 thetraditions of O'Neills who were fighting men; so if, by good luck, Imanage to wing a German or two, and then get in the way of an oddbullet myself, you mustn't grudge my finishing so much more pleasantlythan I had ever hoped to do.

  "If I do fall, I am leaving you that place of mine in Surrey. I havehardly any one belonging to me, and they have all more money than isgood for them. The family estates are entailed, but this is mine todo as I please with. I know you don't need it, but it will be a homefor you and your father while Jim and Wally are fighting, if you carefor it. And perhaps you will make some use of it that will interestyou. I liked the place, as well as I could like any place outsideIreland; and if I can look back--and I am very sure that I shall beable to look back--I shall like to see you all there--you people whobrought the sun and light and laughter of Australia into the greyshadows of my life--who never seemed to see that I was different fromother men.

  "Well, good-bye--and God keep you happy, little mate.

  "Your friend, "John O'Neill."

  *****

  Jim folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, and there was along silence. Each boy was seeing again a strip of Irish beach wherea brave man had died proudly.

  "Different!" Wall said, at last, with a catch in his voice. "Hewasn't different--at least, only in being a jolly sight better thanmost fellows."

  Jim nodded.

  "Well, he had his fight, and he did his bit, and, seeing how he feltabout things, I'm glad for his sake that he went out," he said. "OnlyI'm sorry for us, because it was a pretty big thing to be friends witha man like that. Anyhow, we won't forget him. We wouldn't evenwithout this astonishing 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; hemust have posted them himself that evening in Carrignarone. Dad's wasonly 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 legalbother 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 soawfully, and now this has brought it all back."

  "Yes, it's rough on Norah," Wally said. "I expect she hates takingthe place."

  "She can't bear the idea of it. Dad and I don't much care about iteither."

  Wally pondered.

  "May I see that letter again?" he asked presently.

  Jim Linton took out the letter and handed it to his friend. He filledhis pipe leisurely and lit it, while Wally knitted his brows over thesheet of cheap hotel paper. Presently he looked up, a flash ofeagerness in his keen brown eyes.

  "Well, I think O'Neill left that place to Norah with a purpose," hesaid. "I don't believe it's just an ordinary legacy. Of course, it'shers, all right; but don't you think he wanted something done withit?"

  "Done with it?"

  "Yes. Look here," Wally put a thin forefinger on the letter. "Lookwhat he says--'Perhaps you will make some use of it that may interestyou.' 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 alwaysplanning 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 wonderhe 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 aboutit to Dad. It's been let for a year, and the lease expires thismonth--they said O'Neill had refused to renew it. That rather looksas if he had meant to do something with it, doesn't it?"

  Wally nodded vigorously.

  "I'll bet he did. Now he's left it to Norah to carry on. You see,they told us his own relations weren't up to much. I expect he knewthey wouldn't make any use of it except for themselves. Why, it's asclear as mud, Jim! O'Neill knew that Norah didn't actually need theplace, and that she and your father wanted to be near you and stillhelp the war themselves. They didn't like working in London--Norah'stoo much of a kid, and your father says himself he's not trained. Nowthey've got a perfectly ripping chance!"

  "Oh, bless you, Wally!" said a thankful voice behind them.

  The boys sprang to their feet. Behind them stood a tall girl with asun-tanned face and straight grey eyes--eyes that bore marks of tears,of which Norah for once was unashamed. Her brown curls were tied backwith a broad black ribbon. She was very slender--"skinny," Norahwould have said--but, despite that she was at what is known as "theawkward age," no movement of Norah Linton's was ever awkward. Shemoved with something of the unconcerned grace of a deer. In her blueserge coat and skirt she presented the well-groomed look that was partand parcel of her. She smiled at the two boys, a little tremulously.

  "Hallo!" said her brother. "We didn't hear you--where did you springfrom?"

  "Dad dropped me at the Corner--he had to go on to Harrods," Norahanswered. "I came across the grass, and you two were so busy talkingyou didn't know I was there. I couldn't help hearing what you said,Wally."

  "Well, I'm glad you did," Wally answered, "But what do you thinkyourself, Nor?"

  "I was just miserable until I heard you," Norah said. "It seemed tooawful to take Sir John's house--to profit by his death. I couldn'tbear it. But of course you're right. I do think I was stupid--I readhis letter a dozen times, but I never saw it that way."

  "But you agree with Wally, now?" Jim asked.

  "Why, of course--don't you? I suppose I might have had the sense tosee his meaning in time, but I could only think of seeming to benefitby his death. However, as long as one member of the family has seenit, it's all right." She flashed a smile at Wally. "I'm just ever somuch happier. It makes it all--different. We were such--" her voicetrembled--"such good chums, and now it seems as if he had reallytrusted us to carry on for him."

  "Of course he did," Wally said. "He knew jolly well you would makegood use of it, and it would help you, too, when Jim was away."

  "Jim?" said that gentleman. "Jim? What are you leaving yourself outfor? Aren't you coming? Got a Staff job at home?"

  "I'm ashamed of you, Wally," said Norah severely. "Of course, if youdon't _want_ to belong----!" Whereat Wally Meadows flushed andlaughed, and muttered something unintelligible that nevertheless wasquite sufficient for his friends.

  It was not a thing of yesterday, that friendship. It went back todays of small-boyhood, when Wally, a lonely orphan from Queensland,had been Jim Linton's chum at the Melbourne Grammar School, and hadfallen into a habit of spending his holidays at the Linton's bigstation in the north of Victoria, until it seemed that he was reallyone of the Billabong family. Years had knitted him and Jim and Norahinto a firm triumvirate, mates in the work and play of an Australiancattle-run; watched over by the silent grey man whose existencecentred in his motherless son and daughter--with a warm corner in hisaffections for the lithe, merry Queensland boy, whose loyalty toBillabong and its people had never wavered since his childhood.

  Then, just as Jim had outgrown school and was becoming his father'sright-hand man on the station, came the world-upheaval of the EuropeanWar, which had whisked them all to England. Business had, at themoment, summoned Mr. Linton to London; to leave Norah behind was notto be thought of, and as both the boys were wild to enlist, and Wallywas too young to be accepted in Australia--though not in England--itseemed that the simplest thing to do was to make the pilgrimage ageneral one, and let the chums enlist in London. They had joined afamous British regiment, obtaining commissions without difficulty,thanks to cadet training in Australia. But their first experience ofwar in Flanders had been a short one: they were amongst the first tosuffer from the German poison-gas, and a long furlough had resulted.

  Mr. Linton and Norah had taken them to Ireland as soon as they werefit to travel; and the bogs and moors of Donegal, coupled withtrout-fishing, had gone far to effect a cure. But there, unexpectedadventure had awaited them. They had made friends with Sir JohnO'Neill, the last of an old North of Ireland family: a half-crippledman, eating out his heart against the fate that held him back from anactive part in the war. Together they had managed to stumble on anoil-base for German submarines, concealed on the rocky coast; and,luck and boldness favouring them, to trap a U-boat and her crew. Ithad been a short and triumphant campaign--skilfully engineered byO'Neill; and he alone had paid for the triumph with his life.

  John O'Neill had died happily, rejoicing in for once having played thepart of a fighting man; but to the Australians his death had been ablow that robbed their victory of all its joy. They mourned for himas for one of themselves, cherishing the memory of the high-souled manwhose spirit had outstripped his weak body. Jim and Wally, fromexposure on the night of the fight, had suffered a relapse, andthroat-trouble had caused their sick-leave to be extended severaltimes. Now, once more fit, they were back in London, expecting torejoin their regiment immediately.

  "So now," Jim said, "the only question is, what are you going to dowith it?"

  "I'm going to think hard for a day," said Norah. "So can you two; andwe'll ask Dad, of course."

  "And then Dad will tell you what to do," said Jim, grinning.

  "Yes of course he will. Dad always has splendid ideas," said Norah,laughing. "But we won't have any decision for a day, because it's aterribly big thing to think of. I wish I was grown up--it must beeasier to settle big questions if you haven't got your hair down yourback!"

  "I don't quite see what your old curly mop has to do with it, butanyhow, you needn't be in a hurry to put it up," said her brother."It's awful to be old and responsible, isn't it Wally?" To whichWally responded with feeling, "Beastly!" and endeavoured to look morethan nineteen--failing signally.

  "Let's go and look at the Row," Norah said.

  "Dad will find us all right, I suppose?" Jim hesitated.

  "Why, he couldn't miss you!" said Norah, laughing. "Come on."

  Even when more than a year of War had made uniform a commonplace inLondon streets, you might have turned to look at Jim and Wally. Jimwas immensely tall; his chum little less so; and both were lean andclean-shaven, tanned to a deep bronze, and stamped with a look ofresolute keenness. In their eyes was the deep glint that comes tothose who have habitually looked across great spaces. The type hasbecome familiar enough in London now, but it generally exists under aslouch hat; and these lads were in British uniform, bearing the badgesof a famous marching regiment. At first they had hankered after thecavalry, being much more accustomed to ride than to walk: but as thearmies settled down into the Flanders mud it became increasinglyapparent that this was not to be a horseman's war, and that therefore,as Wally put it, if they wanted to be in the fun, they had better makeup their minds to paddle with the rest. The amount of "fun" had sofar been a negligible quantity which caused them some bitterness ofspirit. They earnestly hoped to increase it as speedily as might be,and to give the Hun as much inconvenience as they could manage in theprocess.

  They strolled across the grass to the railings, and loo
ked up and downthe tan ribbon of Rotten Row. Small boys and girls, on smart poniesand woolly Shetlands, walked or trotted sedately; or occasionallygalloped, followed by elderly grooms torn between pride and anxiety.Jim and Wally thought the famous Row an over-rated concern; failing torealize, from its war aspect, the Row of other days, crammed fromfence to fence with beautiful horses and well-turned-out riders, andwith half the world looking on from the railings. Nowadays the smallboys and girls had it chiefly to themselves, and could stray from sideto side at their own sweet will. A few ladies were riding, and therewas a sprinkling of officers in khaki; obviously on Army horses andout for exercise. Now and then came a wounded man, slowly, on areliable cob or sturdy pony--bandages visible, or one arm in a sling.A few people sat about, or leaned on the fences, watching; but therewas nothing to attract a crowd. Every one looked business-like,purposeful; clothes were plain and useful, with little frippery. Theold glitter and splendour of the Row was gone: the London that used towatch it was a London that had forgotten how to play.

  Beyond the Row, carriages, drawn by beautiful pairs of horses,high-stepping, with harness flashing in the sunlight, drove up anddown. Some contained old ladies and grey-haired men; but nearly allbore a load of wounded soldiers, with sometimes a tired-faced nurse.

  "There's that nice old Lady Ellison--the one that used to take Jim andme out when we were in hospital," Wally said, indicating a carriagewith a magnificent pair of bays. "She was an old dear. My word, I'dlike to have the driving of those horses--in a good light buggy on theBillabong track!"

  "So would I," Jim assented. "But I'd take those beastly bearing-reinsoff before I started."

  "Yes," said Norah eagerly. "Poor darlings, how they must hate them!Jim, I wish we'd struck London when the coaches used to be seen."

  "Rather!" said Jim. "Anstruther used to tell me about them. Coachesbigger than Cobb & Co.'s, and smart as paint, with teams of four somatched you could hardly tell which was which--and educated beyondanything Australians could dream about. There was one man--poor chap,Anstruther said he was drowned in the _Lusitania_--who had a team offour black cobs. I think Anstruther used to dream about them atnight; he got poetical and incoherent when he tried to describe 'em."

  "Fancy seeing a dozen or so of those coaches swinging down Piccadillyon a fine morning!" said Wally. "That would be something to tellblack Billy about, Norah!"

  "He'd only say Plenty!" said Norah, laughing. "Look--there's Dad!"

  They turned to meet a tall grey man who came swinging across the grasswith a step as light as his son's. David Linton greeted them with asmile.

  "I knew I should find you as near as you could get to the horses," hesaid. "This place is almost a rest-cure after Harrod's; I never findmyself in that amazing shop without wishing I had a bell on my neck,so that I couldn't get lost. And I always take the wrong lift andfind myself among garden tools when all I want is collars."

  "Well, they have lifts round every corner: you want a speciallift-sense not to take the wrong one," Norah defended him.

  "Yes, and when you ask your way anywhere in one of these fifty-acreLondon shops they say, 'Through the archway, sir,' and disappear: andyou look round you frantically, and see about seventeen differentarchways, and there you are," Wally stated. "So you plunge into themall in turn, and get hopelessly lost. But it's rather fun."

  "I'd like it better if they didn't call me 'Moddam,'" said Norah."'Shoes, Moddam? Certainly, Moddam; first to the right, second to theleft, lift Number fifteen, fifth floor and the attendant will directyou!' Then you stagger into space, wishing for a wet towel round yourhead!"

  "I could almost believe," said her father, regarding her gravely,"that you would prefer Cunjee, with one street, one general store, oneblacksmith's, and not much else at all."

  "Why, of course I do," Norah laughed. "At least you can't get lostthere, and you haven't got half a day's journey from the oatmeal placeto the ribbon department: they'll sell you both at the same counter,and a frying-pan and a new song too! Think of the economy of time andboot-leather! And Mr. Wilkins knows all about you, and talks to youlike a nice fat uncle while he wraps up your parcels. And if you'reon a young horse you needn't get off at all--all you have to do is tocoo-ee, and Mr. Wilkins comes out prepared to sell you all his shop onthe footpath. If _that_ isn't more convenient than seventeen archwaysand fifty-seven lifts, then I'd like to know what is!"

  "Moddam always had a great turn of eloquence, hadn't she?" murmuredWally, eyeing her with respect. Whereat Norah reddened and laughed,and accused him of sentiments precisely similar to her own.

  "I think we're all much the same," Jim said. "London's all very wellfor a visit. But just imagine what it would be if we didn't know wewere going back to Billabong some day!"

  "What a horrible idea!" Norah said. "But we are--when the old War'sover, and the Kaiser has retired to St. Helena, and the Huns are busybuilding up Belgium and France. And you'll both be captains, if youaren't brigadiers, and all Billabong will expect to see you come backin uniform glittering with medals and things."

  "I like their chance!" said Wally firmly.

  "Anyhow, we'll all go back; and that's all that matters," said Norah.Her eyes dwelt wistfully on the two tall lads.

  "And meanwhile," said Jim, "we'll all go down to Fuller's and havemorning tea. One thing, young Norah, you won't find a Fuller's inCunjee!"

  "Why would I be trying?" Norah asked cheerfully. "Sure isn't thereBrownie at Billabong?"

  "Hear, hear!" agreed Wally. "When I think of Brownie's pikelets----"

  "Or Brownie's scones," added Norah. "Or her sponge-cakes."

  "Or Brownie's tea-pot, as large and as brown as herself," said Mr.Linton--"then London is a desert. But we'll make the best of it forthe present. Come along to Fuller's."