Play the Game!

by Ruth Comfort Mitchell

  CHAPTER XIV

  If Stephen Lorimer, far to the north in the safe serenity of the oldhouse of South Figueroa Street, could have envisaged the three of themthat day his chief concern would not have been for their bodily danger.It would have seemed to him that the intangible cloud settling down overthem was a more tragic and sinister thing than the _insurrectos_besieging them, than the thirst which was cracking their lips andswelling and blackening their tongues.

  He was to remember and marvel, long afterward, that his thought on thatdate had tugged uneasily toward them all day and evening. Conditions, sofar as he knew, were favorable; the escort for the personage would be astout one and under his wing the boy and girl would be safe, and JamesKing was waiting for them, spinning out his thread of life until theyshould come to him. Nevertheless, he found himself acutely unhappyregarding them, aware of an urgent and instant need of being with them.

  They had never, in all their blithe young lives, needed him so cruelly.He could not have driven back the bandits, but he could have driven backthe clouds of doubt and misery and misunderstanding; he could not havegiven them water for their parched throats but he could have given themto drink of the waters of understanding; he could have relieved thedrought in their wrung young hearts. He would have seen, as only alooker-on could see, what was happening to them. He would have yearnedover Honor, fronting the bright face of danger so gallantly but stunnedand crushed by the change in Jimsy, over Jimsy himself, setting out todo an incredibly stupid, incredibly noble deed, absolutely convinced bythe sight of her one-word telegram that she loved Carter (and humblyrealizing that she might well love Carter, the brilliant Carter, betterthan his unilluminated self), seeing the thing simply and objectively ashe would be sure to do, deciding on his course and pursuing it asdefinitely as he would take a football over the line for a touchdown. Hewould even have yearned over Carter, at the very moment when the youthfulfilled his ancient distrust of him. He would have understood as evenCarter himself did not, by what gradual and destructive processes he hadarrived at the point of his outbreak to Jimsy; would have realized inhow far his physical suffering--infinitely harder for him than for theothers--had broken down his moral fiber; how utterly his very real lovefor Honor had engulfed every other thought and feeling. And he wouldhave seen, in the last analysis, that Carter was sincere; he had come atlast to believe his own fabrications; he honestly believed that Honor'sbetrothed would go the way of all the "Wild Kings"; that Honor would beruining her life in marrying him.

  But Stephen Lorimer was hundreds and thousands of miles away from themthat day of their bitter need, making tentative notes for a chapter onyoung love for his unborn book, listening to the inevitable mocking-birdin the Japanese garden, waiting for Mildred Lorimer to give him his tea... wearing the latest of his favorites among her gowns....

  Madeline King was spent with her vigil and Honor had coaxed her to liedown for an hour and let her take the chair beside Richard King's bed.

  "Very well, my dear. I'll rest for an hour. I'll do it because I know Imay want my strength more, later on." She seemed to have aged ten yearssince the day Honor had come to _El Pozo_, but she came of fightingblood, this English wife of Jimsy's uncle. "I'm frightfully sorry you'relet in for this, Honor, but it's no end of a comfort, having you. Callme if he rouses. I daresay I shan't really sleep."

  Honor sat on beside him, fanning him until her arm ached, resting ituntil he stirred again, trying to wet her dry lips with her thickenedtongue. She wasn't thinking; she was merely waiting, standing it. It wasa relief not to talk, but she must talk when she was with the boysagain; it helped to keep them up, to keep an air of normality aboutthings.

  Jimsy King had read the message Carter held up to him and gone awaywithout comment, and Carter had stayed on in the _sala_. It was almostan hour before Jimsy came back. Honor's stepfather would have marked andmarveled at the change so brief a little space of time had been able toregister in the bonny boy's face. The flesh seemed to have paled andreceded and the bones seemed more sharply modeled; more insistent; andthe eyes looked very old and at the same time pitifully young. He wasvery quiet and sure of himself.

  "Jimsy," said Carter, "I shouldn't have told you, _now_, but I went offmy head."

  Jimsy nodded. "The time doesn't matter, Cart'. I just want to ask youone thing, straight from the shoulder. I've been thinking and thinking... trying to take it in. Sometimes I seem to get it for a minute, thatSkipper cares for you instead of me, and then it's gone again. All I canseem to hang on to is that telegram." The painful calm of his faceflickered and broke up for an instant and there was an answeringdisturbance in Carter's own. "I keep seeing that ... all the time. Butthere's no use talking about it. What I want to ask you is this,Cart'"--he went on slowly in his hoarse and roughened voice--"youhonestly think Skipper is sticking to me only because she thinks it'sthe thing to do? Because she thinks she must keep her word?"

  Carter swallowed hard and tried to moisten his aching throat, and he didnot look at his friend.

  "Is that what you honestly believe, Cart'?"

  Carter brought his eyes back with an effort and his heart contracted.Jimsy King--_Jimsy King_--the boy he had envied and hated and loved byturns all these years; Jimsy King, idolized, adored in the old safedays--the old story book days--

  King! King! King! K-I-N-G, KING! G-I-N-K, GINK! He's the King Gink! He's the King Gink! He's the King Gink! K-I-N-G, King! KING!

  The Jimsy King, the young prince who had had everything that all thewealth of Ali Baba's cave couldn't compass for Carter Van Meter ...standing here before him now, his face drained of its color and joy,begging him for a hope. There was a long moment when he hesitated, whenthe forces within him fought breathlessly and without quarter, but--longago Stephen Lorimer had said of him--"_there's nothing frail about hisdisposition ... his will doesn't limp._" He wrenched his gaze awaybefore he answered, but he answered steadily.

  "That is what I believe."

  Jimsy was visibly and laboriously working it out. "Then, she's onlysticking to me because she thinks I'm worth saving. If she thought I wasa regular 'Wild King,' if she believed what her mother and a lot ofother people have always believed, she'd let go of me."

  "I believe she would," said Carter.

  "Then," said Jimsy King, "it's really pretty simple. She's only got torealize--to _see_--that I'm not worth hanging on to; that it's too late.That's all."

  "What do you mean?"

  He walked over to the little table and picked up the decanter of whiskyand looked at it, and the scorn and loathing in his ravaged young facewere things to marvel at, but Honor Carmody, coming into the room atthat moment, could not see his expression. His back was toward her andshe saw the decanter in his hand.

  "_Jimsy!_" She said it very low, catching her breath.

  His first motion was to put it down but instead he held it up to thefast fading light at the window and grinned. "It's makin' faces at me,Skipper!"

  "_Jimsy_," she said again, and this time he put it down.

  Honor began hastily to talk. "Do you think Juan will try to come back,or will he wait and come with the soldiers?"

  "He'll come back," said Jimsy with conviction. "He must have found thewires down at the first place he tried, or he'd have been here beforethis. Yes--as soon as he's got his message through, he'll come back tous. I hope to God he brings water."

  "But did he realize about the well? He got away at the very first, youknow, and they weren't holding the well, then."

  "He'll have his own canteen, won't he?" said Jimsy crossly.

  Honor's eyes mothered him. "Mrs. King really slept," she saidcheerfully. "She said she had a good nap, and dreamed!" She sat down ina low chair and made herself relax comfortably; only her eyes weretense. She never did fussy things with her hands, Honor Carmody; no onehad ever seen her with a needle or a crochet hook. She was either doingthings, vital, definite things which required motion, or she was still,and she rested people who were
near her. "Well, he'll be here soonthen," she said contentedly. "And so will the soldiers. Our Big Bosswill have us on his mind, Jimsy. He'll figure out some way to help us.Just think--in another day--perhaps in another hour, this will all beover, like a nightmare, and we'll be back to regular living again. And_won't_ we be glad that we all stood it so decently?" It was a stiff,small smile with her cracked lips but a stout one. "You know, I'm prettyproud of all of us! And won't Stepper be proud of us? And your dad,Jimsy, and your mother, Cartie!" Her kind eyes warmed. "I'm glad shehasn't had to know about it until we're all safe again." She was sohoarse that she had to stop and rest and she looked hopefully from oneto the other, clearly expecting them to take up the burden of talk. Butthey were silent and presently she went on again. "You know, boys, it'slike being in a book or a play, isn't it? We're--_characters_--now, notjust plain people! I suppose I'm the leading lady (though Mrs. King'sthe real _heroine_) and we've got two heroes and no villain. The_insurrectos_ are the villain--the villain in bunches." Suddenly she satforward in her chair, her eyes brightening and a little color floodingher face. "Boys, it's our song come true! Now I know why I always got sothrilled over that second verse,--even the first time Stepper read it tous,--remember how it just bowled me over? And it seemed so remote fromanything that could touch our lives,--yet here we are, in just such atight place." They were listening now. "There isn't any desert orregiment or gatling, and Mr. King isn't dead, only dreadfully hurt, butit fits, just the same! We've got this thirst to stand ... and it's agood deal, isn't it? Those _insurrectos_ down there,--planning we don'tknow what, perhaps to rush the house any moment--

  The River of Death has brimmed his banks; And England's far, and Honor's a name--

  That means to us that L. A. is far, and South Figueroa Street ... allthe safe happy things that didn't seem wonderful then...."

  "'_Honor's a name_,'" said Jimsy under his breath.

  "Oh," said the girl, "I never noticed that before! Isn't that funny?Well--

  The voice of a school boy rallies the ranks!

  That fits! And won't we be thankful all our lives--all our snug, safe,prosy lives--that we were sporting now?-- That we all played thegame?" Her eyes were on Jimsy, reassuring him, staying him. "When thisis all over----"

  He cut roughly into her sentence. "Oh, for God's sake, Skipper, let'snot talk!"

  Again he had to bear the mothering of her understanding eyes. "Allright, Jimsy. We won't talk, then. We'll sit here together"--she changedto the chair nearest his and put her hand on his arm--"and wait for Juanand----"

  He sprang to his feet. "I wish you'd leave me alone!" he said. "I wishyou'd go upstairs and stay with Aunt Maddy and Uncle Rich'. I want to beby myself."

  She did not stir. "I think I'll stay with you, Jimsy."

  His voice was ugly now. "When I don't want you? When I tell you I'drather be alone?"

  Honor was still for a long moment. She rose and went to the door butshe turned to look at him, a steady, intent scrutiny. "All right, Jimsy.I'll go. I'll leave you alone. I'll leave you alone because--I know I_can_ leave you alone." She seemed to have forgotten Carter's presence.She held up the hand which wore the old Italian ring with the hiddenblue stone of constancy. "I'm 'holding hard,' Jimsy."

  Soon after dark Yaqui Juan came. He had been waiting for three hours,trying to get past the sentries; it had been impossible while there wasany light. He was footsore and weary and had only a little water in hiscanteen, but he had found the telephone wires still up at the second_hacienda_, the owner had got the message off for him, and help wasassuredly on the way to them. There was the off chance, of course, thatthe soldiers might be held up by another wing of the _insurrectos_, butthere was every reason to hope for their arrival next day. Jimsy Kingsent the Yaqui up to Honor with the canteen, and the Indian returned tosay that the Senorita had not touched one drop but had given it to themaster.

  Carter dragged himself away to his room and Jimsy and Yaqui Juan talkedlong together in the quiet _sala_. It was a cramped and haltingconversation with the Indian's scant English and the American's haltingSpanish; sometimes they were unable to understand each other, but theycame at last to some sort of agreement, though Juan shook his headmutinously again and again, murmuring--"_No, no! Senor Don Diego! No!_"

  It was almost midnight when Jimsy called them all down into the _sala_.They came, wondering, one by one, Carter, Mrs. King,--Richard King hadfallen asleep after his half dozen swallows of water--and Honor, andJosita, her head muffled in her _rebozo_, her brown fingers busy withher beads.

  Jimsy King was standing in the middle of the room, standing insecurely,his legs far apart, the decanter in his hand, the decanter which hadbeen more than half full when Honor left the room and had now less thanan inch of liquor in it. Yaqui Juan, his face sullen, his eyes black andbitter, crouched on the floor, his arms about his knees.

  Honor did not speak at all. She just stood still, looking at Jimsy untilit seemed as if she were all eyes. _"It comes so suddenly_,"--Carter hadtold her--"like the boa constrictor's hunger ... _and then he wasjust--an appetite_."

  "Ladies'n gem'mum," said Jimsy, thickly, "goin' shing you lil' song!"Then, in his hoarse and baffled voice he sang Stanford's giddy old saga,"The Son of a Gambolier."

  They all stiffened with horror and disgust. Mrs. King wept and Jositamumbled a frightened prayer, and Carter, red and vehement, went to himand tried to take the decanter away from him. Only Honor Carmody made nosign.

  I'm a son of a son of a son of a gun of a son of a Gambolier,

  sang Jimsy King. He looked at every one but Honor.

  Like every honest fellow, I love my lager beer----

  --"And my 'skee!" he patted the decanter.

  Madeline King put her arms about Honor. "Come away, my dear," she said."Come upstairs."

  "No," Jimsy protested. "Don' go 'way. Got somep'n tell you. Shee thisfool Injun here? Know wha' he's goin' do? Goin' slide out'n creep downto ol' well. Says _insur_--_insur-rectos_ all pretty drunk now ...pretty sleepy.... Fool Injun's goin' take three--four--'leven canteens... bring water back for you. Not f' me! _I_ got somep'n better. 'Sides,he'll get killed ... nice'n dead ... _fancy_ dead ... cut ears off ...cut tongue out firs'! Not f' me! _I'm_ goin' sleep pret' soon. Firs'I'll shing you lil' more!" Again the rasping travesty of melody:

  Some die of drinkin' whisky, Some die of drinkin' beer! Some die of diabetes, An' some----

  "Shut up, you drunken fool!" said Carter, furiously.

  "Oh," said Jimsy, blinking his eyes rapidly, bowing deeply. "Ladiespresent. I shee. My mishtake. My mishtake, ladies! Well, guesh I gosleep now. Come on. Yac', put me to bed 'fore you go. Give you lil'treat. All work'n no play makes Yac' a dull boy!" He roared over his ownwit. The Indian, his face impassive, had risen to his feet and now Jimsycast himself into his arms and insisted on kissing him good-night,clinging all the while to the decanter with its half inch of whisky.

  Carter wrenched it away from him. "You'll kill yourself," he said, incold disgust.

  "Well," said his friend, reasonably, "ishn't that the big idea? Wouldn'you razzer drink yourself to death'n die of thirst?"

  They were making for the door now in a zigzag course, and when theypassed Honor, Jimsy stayed their progress. He held out his hand andspoke to her, but he did not meet her eyes. "Gimme ring," he said,crossly.

  "What do you mean?" said Honor.

  "Gimme back ring ... busted word ... busted engagement ... want ring_anyway_ ... maybe nozzer girl ... _you_ can't tell!" His hoarse voicerose querulously. "Gimme ring, I shay!"

  Honor shrank back from him against Mrs. King. "Jimsy," she said, "whenthe boy that gave me this ring comes and asks me for it, he can have it._You_ can't!"

  His legs seemed to give way beneath him, at that, and Yaqui Juan halfled, half dragged him out of the room.

  Mrs. King wept again but Honor's eyes were dry. Carter started to speakto her but she stopped him. "Please, Carter ... I can't ... talk.
Ithink I'd like to be alone."

  "Oh, my dear, please come up with me," Mrs. King begged, "it's so coldhere, and----"

  "I have to be alone," said Honor in her worn voice.

  "Then you must have this," said the older woman, finding comfort inwrapping her in her own _serape_. It was a gay thing, striped in red andwhite and green, the Mexican colors; it looked as if it had been madeto wear in happy days.

  They went away and left her alone in the _sala_. She didn't know howlong she had sat there when she saw a muffled figure crawling across theveranda. She opened the door and stepped out, nodding to the _peon_ onguard there, leaning on his gun. "Juan?" she called softly.

  The crouching, cringing figure hesitated. "Si," came the soft whisper.He kept his head shrouded. She knew that he was sick with shame for thelad he had worshiped; he did not want to meet her gaze. She couldunderstand that. It did not seem to her that she could ever meet anyone's eyes again--kind Mrs. King's, Carter's--her dear Stepper's.Suddenly it came to her with a positive sense of relief and escape thatperhaps there would be no need for facing any one after to-night....Perhaps this was to be the last night of all nights. It might well be,when Jimsy King slept in a drunken stupor and a Yaqui Indian slave wentout with his life in his hands to help them. She crossed the veranda andleaned down and laid her hand on the covered head. Her throat was soswollen now that she could hardly make herself heard. "_Tu es amigoleal, Juan_," she said. "Good friend; good friend!" Then in her carefulSpanish--"Go with God!"

  He had been always an impassive creature, Yaqui Juan, his own personalsufferings added to the native stoicism of his race, but he made an odd,smothered sound now, and caught up the trailing end of her bright_serape_ and pressed his face against it for an instant. Then he creptaway into the soft blackness of the tropic night and Honor went backinto the empty _sala_. She wished that she had seen his face; she wasmournfully sure she would never see it again. It did not seem humanlypossible for any one to go into the very midst of their besiegersencamped about the well, fill the canteens and return alive, but it wasa gallant and splendid try, and she would have liked a memory of hisgrave face. It would have blotted out the look of Jimsy King's face,singing his tipsy song. She thought she would keep on seeing that aslong as she lived, and that made it less terrible to think that shemight not live many more hours.