CHAPTER III
OF LONDON AND OTHER MATTERS
Jim and Wally dropped lightly from the footboard of a swiftmotor-'bus, dodged through the traffic, and swung quickly down a quietside-street. They stopped before a stone house, where, from a windowabove, Norah watched their eager faces as Jim fitted his latchkey andopened the door. She turned back into the room with a little sigh.
"There they are, Dad. And they're passed fit--I know."
David Linton looked up from the elbow-splint he was making.
"Well, it had to come, mate," he said.
"Yes, I know. But I hoped it wouldn't!" said poor Norahinconsistently.
"You wouldn't like them not to go," said her father. And then cheeryfootsteps clattered up the stairs, and the boys burst in.
"Passed!" shouted Jim. "Fit as fiddles!"
"When?" Norah asked.
"This day week. So we'll have nice time to settle you into Homewoodand try those horses, won't we?"
"Yes, rather!" said Norah. "Were they quite satisfied with your arm,Wally?"
"Yes, they say it's a lovely arm," said that gentleman modestly. "Ialways knew it, but it's nice to have other people agreeing with me!And they say our lungs are beautiful too; not a trace of gas left.And--oh, you tell them, Jim!"
"And we're not to go out yet," said Jim, grinning widely. "SpecialLewis-gun course at Aldershot first, and after that a bombing course.So there you are." He broke off, his utterance hindered by the factthat Norah had suddenly hugged him very hard, while David Linton,jumping up, caught Wally's hand.
"Not the Front, my dear boys!"
"Well, not yet," said Wally, pumping the hand, and finding Norah'ssearching for his free one. "It's pretty decent, isn't it? becauseevery one knows there will be plenty of war at the Front yet."
"Plenty indeed," said Mr. Linton.
"I say, buck up, old chap," said Jim, patting Norah's shoulder veryhard. "One would think we were booked for the trenches to-night!"
"I wouldn't have made an ass of myself if you had been," said Norah,shaking back her curls and mopping her eyes defiantly. "I wasprepared for that, and then you struck me all of a heap! Oh, Jimmy, Iam glad! I'd like to hug the War Office!"
"You're the first person I ever heard with such sentiments," returnedher brother. "Most people want to heave bombs at it. However,they've treated us decently, and no mistake. You see, ever since Junewe've kept bothering them to go out, and then getting throat-troubleand having to cave in again; and now that we really are all right Isuppose they think they'll make sure of us. So that's that."
"I would have been awfully wild if they hadn't passed us," Wally said."But since they have, and they'll put us to work, I don't weep a bitat being kept back for awhile. Lots of chaps seem to think being atthe Front is heavenly, but I'm blessed if I can see it that way. Wedidn't have very much time there, certainly, but there were only threeingredients in what we did have--mud, barbed wire, and gas."
"Yes, and it's not much of a mixture," said Jim. "All the same, it'sgot to be taken if necessary. Still, I'm not sorry it's postponed fora bit; there will be heaps of war yet, and meanwhile we're justlearning the trade." He straightened his great shoulders. "I neverfelt so horribly young and ignorant as when I found grown-up men inmy charge in France."
"Poor old Jimmy always did take his responsibilities heavily," saidWally, laughing.
Mr. Linton looked at his big son, remembering a certain letter fromhis commanding officer which had caused him and Norah to glow withpride; remembering, also, how the men on Billabong Station had workedunder "Master Jim." But he knew that soldiering had always been aserious business to his boy. Personal danger had never entered intoJim's mind; but the danger of ignorant handling of his men had been atremendous thing to him. Even without "mud, barbed-wire, and gas" Jimwas never likely to enjoy war in the light-hearted way in which Wallywould certainly take it under more pleasant conditions.
"Well--we've a week then, boys," he said cheerfully, "and no anxietiesimmediately before us except the new cook-ladies."
"Well, goodness knows they are enough," Norah said fervently.
"Anything more settled?" Jim asked.
"I have an ecstatic letter from Allenby." Allenby was theex-sergeant. "He seems in a condition of trembling joy at theprospect of being our butler; and, what is more to the point, he sayshe has a niece whom he can recommend as a housemaid. So I have toldhim to instal her before we get to Homewood on Thursday. Hawkins haswritten a three-volume list of things he will require for the farm,but I haven't had time to study it yet. And Norah has had lettersfrom nineteen registry-offices, all asking for a deposit!"
The boys roared.
"That makes seventy-one, doesn't it, Nor?" Wally asked.
"Something like it," Norah admitted ruefully. "And the beauty of itis, not one of them will guarantee so much as a kitchenmaid. They saysadly that 'in the present crisis' it's difficult to supply servants.They don't seem to think there's any difficulty about paying themdeposit-fees."
"That phrase, 'in the present crisis,' is the backbone of businessto-day," Mr. Linton said. "If a shop can't sell you anything, or ifthey mislay your property, or sell your purchase to some one else, orkeep your repairs six months and then lose them, or send in youraccount with a lot of items you never ordered or received, they simplywave 'the present crisis' at you, and all is well."
"Yes, but they don't regard it as any excuse if you pay too little, ordon't pay at all," Jim said.
"Of course not--that wouldn't be business, my son," said Wally,laughing. "The one department the Crisis doesn't hit is the one thatsends out bills." He turned to Norah. "What about the cook-lady,Nor?"
"She's safe," said Norah, sighing with relief. "There's an awfullyelegant letter from her, saying she'll come."
"Oh, that's good business!" Jim said. For a fortnight Norah had hadthe unforgettable experience of sitting in registry-offices,attempting to engage a staff for Homewood. She had always beenescorted by one or more of her male belongings, and their extremeignorance of how to conduct the business had been plain to the meanestintelligence. The ex-sergeant, whose spirit of meekness in proposinghimself had been in extraordinary contrast to the condescendingtruculence of other candidates, had been thankfully retained. Therehad at times seemed a danger that instead of butler he might awake tofind himself maid-of-all-work, since not one of the applicants came upto even Norah's limited standard. Finally, however, Mr. Linton hadrefused to enter any more registry-offices or to let Norah enter them,describing them, in good set terms as abominable holes; and judiciousadvertising had secured them a housekeeper who seemed promising, and acook who insisted far more on the fact that she was a lady than on anyability to prepare meals. The family, while not enthusiastic, washopeful.
"I hope she's all right," Norah said doubtfully. "I suppose we can'texpect much--they all tell you that nearly every servant in Englandhas 'gone into munitions,' which always sounds as though she'd getfired out of a trench-mortar presently."
"Some of those we saw might be benefited by the process," said Mr.Linton, shuddering at memories of registry-offices.
"Well, what about the rest?--haven't you got to get a kitchenmaid andsome more housemaids or things?" queried Jim vaguely.
"I'm not going to try here," said Mr. Linton firmly. "Life is tooshort; I'd sooner be my own kitchenmaid than let Norah into one ofthose offices again. Allenby's niece will have to double a few partsat first, and I've written to Ireland--to Mrs. Moroney--to see if shecan find us two or three nice country girls. I believe she'll be ableto do it. Meanwhile we'll throw care to the winds. I've told Allenbyto order in all necessary stores, so that we can be sure of gettingsomething to eat when we go down; beyond that, I decline to worry, orlet Norah worry, about anything."
"Then let's go out and play," cried Norah, jumping up.
"Right!" said the boys. "Where?"
"Oh, anywhere--we'll settle as we go!" said Norah ai
rily. She fledfor her hat and coat.
So they went to the Tower of London--a place little known to theEnglish, but of which Australians never tire--and spent a blissfulafternoon in the Armoury, examining every variety of weapons andarmament, from Crusaders' chain-mail to twentieth-century rifles.There is no place so full of old stories and of history--history thatsuddenly becomes quite a different matter from something you learn bythe half-page out of an extremely dull book at school. This ishistory alive, and the dim old Tower becomes peopled with gay andgallant figures clad in shining armour, bent on knightly adventures.There you see mail shirts of woven links that slip like silken meshthrough the fingers, yet could withstand the deadliest thrust of adagger; maces with spiked heads, that only a mighty man could swing;swords such as that with which Coeur-de-Lion could slice through sucha mace as though it were no more than a carrot--sinuous blades thatSaladin loved, that would sever a down cushion flung in the air.Daggers and poignards, too, of every age, needle-pointed yet viciouslystrong, with exquisitely inlaid hilts and fine-lined blades; longrapiers that brought visions of gallants with curls and lace stocksand silken hose, as ready to fight as to dance or to make a poem to afair lady's eyebrow. Helmets of every age, with visors behind whichthe knights of old had looked grimly as they charged down the lists at"gentle and joyous passages of arms." Horse-armour of amazingweight--"I always pictured those old knights prancing out on athirteen-stone hack, but you'd want a Suffolk Punch to carry thatironmongery!" said Wally. So through room after room, each full ofbrave ghosts of the past, looking benevolently at the tallboy-soldiers from the New World; until at length came closing-time,and they went out reluctantly, across the flagged yard where pooryoung Anne Boleyn laid her gentle head on the block; where the ravenshop and caw to-day as their ancestors did in the sixteenth centurywhen she walked across from her grim prison that still bears on itswall a scrawled "Anne." A dull little prison-room, it must have been,after the glitter and pomp of castles and palaces--with only therugged walls of the Tower Yard to look upon from the tiny window.
"And she must have had such a jolly good time at first," said Wally."Old Henry VIII was very keen on her, wasn't he? And then she wasonly his second wife--by the time he'd had six they must have begun tofeel themselves rather two-a-penny!"
They found a 'bus that took them by devious ways through the City; thepart of London that many Londoners never see, since it is anotherworld from the world of Bond Street and Oxford Street, with theirnewness and their glittering shops. But to the queer folk who comefrom overseas, it is the real London, and they wander in its narrowstreets and link fingers with the past. Old names look down from thesmoke-grimed walls: Black Friars and White Friars, Bread Street, St.Martin's Lane, Leadenhall Street, Temple Bar: the hurrying crowd ofto-day fades, and instead come ghosts of armed men and ofleather-jerkined 'prentices, less ready to work than to fight; ofgallants with ruffs, and fierce sailor-men of the days of Queen Bess,home from the Spanish Main with ships laden with gold, swaggering upfrom the Docks to spend their prize-money as quickly as they earnedit. Visions of dark nights, with link-boys running besidechair-bearers, carrying exquisite ladies to routs and masques: offoot-pads, slinking into dark alleys and doorways as the watch comestramping down the street. Visions of the press-gang, hunting stoutlads, into every tavern, whisking them from their hiding-places andoff to the ships: to disappear with never a word of farewell until,years later, bronzed and tarred and strange of speech, they returnedto astounded families who had long mourned them as dead. Visions ofQueen Bess, with her haughty face and her red hair, riding through theCity that adored her, her white palfrey stepping daintily through thecheering crowd: and great gentlemen beside her--Raleigh, Essex,Howard. They all wander together through the grey streets where thecenturies-old buildings tower overhead: all blending together, aformless jumble of the Past, and yet very much alive: and it does notseem to matter in the least that you look down upon them from arattling motor-'bus that leaves pools of oil where perchance lay thepuddle over which Raleigh flung his cloak lest his queen's slippershould be soiled. Very soon we shall look down on the City fromairships while conductors come and stamp our tickets with abell-punch: but the old City will be unchanged, and it will be only wewho look upon it who will pass like shadows from its face.
The Australians left their 'bus in Fleet Street, and dived down anarrow lane to a low doorway with the sign of the _CheshireCheese_--the old inn with sanded floor and bare oak benches andtables, where Dr. Johnson and his followers used to meet, to dine andafterwards to smoke long churchwarden pipes and talk, as Wally said,"such amazing fine language that it made you feel a littlelight-headed." It is to be feared that the Australians had not anygreat enthusiasm for Dr. Johnson. They had paid a visit of inspectionto the room upstairs where the great man used to take his ease, butnot one of them had felt any desire to sit in his big armchair.
"You don't understand what a chance you're scorning," Mr. Linton hadsaid, laughing, as his family turned from the seat of honour. "Why,good Americans die happy if they can only say they have sat in Dr.Johnson's chair!"
"_I_ think he was an ill-mannered old man!" quoth Norah, with her nosetilted. Which seemed to end the matter, so far as they wereconcerned.
But if the Billabong family took no interest in Dr. Johnson, they hada deep affection for the old inn itself. They loved its dim roomswith their blackened oak, and it was a never-ending delight to watchthe medley of people who came there for meals: actors, artists,literary folk, famous and otherwise; Americans, foreigners, Colonials;politicians, fighting men of both Services, busy City men: foreverybody comes, sooner or later, to the old _Cheshire Cheese_. Beingpeople of plain tastes they liked the solid, honest meals--especiallysince increasing War-prices were already inducing hotels andrestaurants everywhere to disguise a tablespoonful of hashed oddmentsunder an elegant French name and sell it for as much money as a dinnerfor a hungry man. Norah used to fight shy of the famous"lark-pudding" until it was whispered to her that what was not goodbeef steaks in the dish was nothing more than pigeon or possibly evensparrow! after which she enjoyed it, and afterwards pilgrimaged to thekitchen to see the great blue bowls, as big as a wash-hand basin, inwhich the puddings have been made since Dr. Johnson's time, and thegreat copper in which they are boiled all night. Legend says that anyone who can eat three helpings of lark-pudding is presented with allthat remains: but no one has ever heard of a hero able to manage histhird plateful!
Best of all the Billabong folk loved the great cellars under the inn,which were once the cloisters of an old monastery: where there areunexpected steps, and dim archways, and winding paths where it is veryeasy to imagine that you see bare-footed friars with brown habits andrope girdles pacing slowly along. There they bought quaint brown jarsand mustard-pots of the kind that are used, and have always been used,on the tables above. But best of all were the great oaken beams abovethem, solid as England itself, but blackened and charred by the GreatFire of 1666. Norah used to touch the burned surface gently,wondering if it was not a dream--if the hand on the broken charcoalwere really her own, more used to Bosun's bridle on the wide plains ofBillabong!
There were not many people in the room as they came in this evening,for it was early; dinner, indeed, was scarcely ready, and a fewcustomers sat about, reading evening papers and discussing the warnews. In one corner were an officer and a lady; and at sight of theformer Jim and Wally saluted and broke into joyful smiles. Theofficer jumped up and greeted them warmly.
"Hullo, boys!" he said. "I'm delighted to see you. Fit again?--youlook it!"
"Dad, this is Major Hunt," Jim said, dragging his father forward."You remember, of our regiment. And my sister, sir. I say, I'mawfully glad to see you!"
"Come and meet my wife," said Major Hunt. "Stella, here are the twoyoung Australians that used to make my life a burden!"
Everybody shook hands indiscriminately, and presently they joinedforces round a big table, while Jim and Wally poured out que
stionsconcerning the regiment and every one in it.
"Most of them are going strong," Major Hunt said--"we have a good fewcasualties, of course, but we haven't lost many officers--most of themhave come back. I think all your immediate chums are still in France.But I've been out of it myself for two months--stopped a bit shrapnelwith my hand, and it won't get better." He indicated a bandaged lefthand as he spoke, and they realized that his face was worn, and deeplylined with pain. "It's stupid," he said, and laughed. "But when areyou coming back? We've plenty of work for you."
They told him, eagerly.
"Well, you might just as well learn all you can before you go out,"Major Hunt said. "The war's not going to finish this winter, or thenext. Indeed, I wouldn't swear that my six-year-old son, who isdrilling hard, won't have time to be in at the finish!" At which Mrs.Hunt shuddered and said, "Don't be so horrible, Douglas!" She was aslight, pretty woman, cheery and pleasant, and she made them all laughby her stories of work in a canteen.
"All the soldiers used to look upon us as just part of the furniture,"she said. "They used to rush in, in a break between parades, and givetheir orders in a terrible hurry. As for saying "Please--well----"
"You ought to have straightened them up," said Major Hunt, with agood-tempered growl.
"Ah, poor boys, they hadn't time! The Irish regiments were better,but then it isn't any trouble for an Irishman to be polite; it comesto him naturally. But those stolid English country lads can't saythings easily." She laughed. "I remember a young lance-corporal whoused often to come to our house to see my maid. He was terribly shy,and if I chanced to go into the kitchen he always bolted like a rabbitinto the scullery. The really terrible thing was that sometimes I hadto go on to the scullery myself, and run him to earth among thesaucepans, when he would positively shake with terror. I used towonder how he ever summoned up courage to speak to Susan, let alone toface the foe when he went to France!"
"That's the sort that gets the V.C. without thinking about it," saidMajor Hunt, laughing.
"I was very busy in the Canteen one morning--it was a cold, wet day,and the men rushed us for hot drinks whenever they had a moment.Presently a warrior dashed up to the counter, banged down his pennyand said 'Coffee!' in a voice of thunder. I looked up and caught hiseye as I was turning to run for the coffee--and it was mylance-corporal!"
"What did you do?"
"We just gibbered at each other across the counter for a moment, Ibelieve--and I never saw a face so horror-stricken! Then he turnedand fled, leaving his penny behind him. Poor boy--I gave it to Susanto return to him."
"Didn't you ever make friends with any of them, Mrs. Hunt?" Norahasked.
"Oh yes! when we had time, or when they had. But often one was on therush for every minute of our four-hour shifts."
"Jolly good of you," said Jim.
"Good gracious, no! It was a very poor sort of war-work, but busymothers with only one maid couldn't manage more. And I loved it,especially in Cork: the Irish boys were dears, and so keen. I had agreat respect for those boys. The lads who enlisted in England hadall their chums doing the same thing, and everybody patted them on theback and said how noble they were, and gave them parties and speechesand presents. But the Irish boys enlisted, very often, dead againstthe wishes of their own people, and against their priest--and you'vegot to live in Ireland to know what _that_ means."
"The wonder to me was, always, the number of Irishmen who did enlist,"said Major Hunt. "And aren't they fighters!"
"They must be great," Jim said. "You should hear our fellows talkabout the Dublins and the Munsters in Gallipoli." His face clouded:it was a grievous matter to Jim that he had not been with those otherAustralian boys who had already made the name of Anzac ring throughthe world.
"Yes, you must be very proud of your country," Mrs. Hunt said, withher charming smile. "I tell my husband that we must emigrate thereafter the war. It must be a great place in which to bring upchildren, judging by all the Australians one sees."
"Possibly--but a man with a damaged hand isn't wanted there," MajorHunt said curtly.
"Oh, you'll be all right long before we want to go out," was hiswife's cheerful response. But there was a shadow in her eyes.
Wally did not notice any shadow. He had hero-worshipped Major Hunt inhis first days of soldiering, when that much-enduring officer, a Monsveteran with the D.S.O. to his credit, had been chiefly responsiblefor the training of newly-joined subalterns: and Major Hunt, in histurn, had liked the two Australian boys, who, whatever their faults ofcarelessness or ignorance, were never anything but keen. Now, in hisdelight at meeting his senior officer again, Wally chattered away likea magpie, asking questions, telling Irish fishing-stories, and otherstories of adventures in Ireland, hazarding wild opinions about thewar, and generally manifesting a cheerful disregard of the fact thatthe tired man opposite him was not a subaltern as irresponsible ashimself. Somehow, the weariness died out of Major Hunt's eyes. Hebegan to joke in his turn, and to tell queer yarns of the trenches:and presently, indeed, the whole party seemed to be infected by thesame spirit, so that the old walls of the _Cheshire Cheese_ echoedlaughter that must have been exceedingly discouraging to the ghost ofDr. Johnson, if, as is said, that unamiable maker of dictionarieshaunts his ancient tavern.
"Well, you've made us awfully cheerful," said Major Hunt, when dinnerwas over, and they were dawdling over coffee. "Stella and I werefeeling rather down on our luck, I believe, when you appeared, and nowwe've forgotten all about it. Do you always behave like this, MissLinton?"
"No, I have to be very sedate, or I'd never keep my big family inorder," said Norah, laughing. "You've no idea what a responsibilitythey are."
"Haven't I?" said he. "You forget I have a houseful of my own."
"Tell me about them," Norah asked. "Do you keep them in order?"
"We say we do, for the sake of discipline, but I'm not too sure aboutit," said Mrs. Hunt. "As a matter of fact, I am very strict, butDouglas undoes all my good work. Is it really true that he is strictin the regiment, Mr. Jim?"
Jim and Wally shuddered.
"I'd find it easier to tell you if he wasn't here," Jim said. "Thereare awful memories, aren't there, Wal?"
"Rather!" said Wally feelingly. "Do you remember the day I didn'tsalute on parade?"
"I believe your mangled remains were carried off the barrack-square,"said Jim, with a twinkle. "I expect I should have been one of thefatigue-part, only that was the day I was improperly dressed!"
"What, you didn't come on parade in a bath-towel, did you?" his fatherasked.
"No, but I had a shoulder-strap undone--it's nearly as bad, isn't it,sir?" Jim grinned at Major Hunt.
"If I could remember the barrack-square frown, at the moment, I wouldassume it," said that officer, laughing. "Never mind, I'll deal withyou both when we all get back."
"You haven't told me about the family," Norah persisted. "The familyyou are strict with, I mean," she added kindly.
"You have no more respect for a field-officer than your brother has,"said he.
"Whisper!" said Mrs. Hunt. "He was only a subaltern himself beforethe war!"
Her husband eyed her severely.
"You'll get put under arrest if you make statements liable to exciteindiscipline among the troops!" he said. "Don't listen to her, MissLinton, and I'll tell you about the family she spoils. There'sGeoffrey, who is six, and Alison, who's five--at least I think she'sfive, isn't she, Stella?"
"Much you know of your babies!" said his wife, with a fine scorn."Alison won't be five for two months."
"Hasn't she a passion for detail!" said her husband admiringly."Well, five-ish, Miss Linton. And finally there's a two-year-oldnamed Michael. And when they all get going together they make rathermore noise than a regiment. But they're rather jolly, and I hopeyou'll come and see them."
"Oh, do," said Mrs. Hunt. "Geoff would just love to hear aboutAustralia. He told me the other day that when he grow
s up he means togo out there and be a kangaroo!"
"I suppose you know you must never check a child's natural ambitions!"Mr. Linton told her gravely.
"Was that your plan?" she laughed.
"Oh, my pair hadn't any ambitions beyond sitting on horses perpetuallyand pursuing cattle!" said Mr. Linton. "That was very useful to me,so I certainly didn't check it."
"H'm!" said Jim, regarding him inquiringly. "I wonder how your theorywould have lasted, Dad, if I'd grown my hair long and taken topainting?"
"That wouldn't have been a natural ambition at all, so I should havebeen able to deal with it with a clear conscience," said his father,laughing. "In any case, the matter could safely have been left toNorah--she would have been more than equal to it."
"I trust so," said Norah pleasantly. "_You_ with long hair, Jimmy!"
"It's amazing--and painful--to see the number of fellows who take longhair into khaki with them," said Major Hunt. "The old Army custom wasto get your hair cut over the comb for home service and under the combfor active service. Jolly good rule, too. But the subaltern of theNew Army goes into the trenches with locks like a musician's. Atleast, too many of him does."
"Never could understand any one caring for the bother of long hair,"said Jim, running his hand over his dark, close-cropped poll. "I say,isn't it time we made a move, if we're going to a show?" He lookedhalf-shyly at Mrs. Hunt. "Won't you and the Major come with us? It'sbeen so jolly meeting you."
"Good idea!" said Mr. Linton, cutting across Mrs. Hunt's protest. "Docome--I know Norah is longing to be asked to meet the family, and thatwill give you time to fix it up." He over-ruled any furtherobjections by the simple process of ignoring them, whereupon the Huntswisely gave up manufacturing any more: and presently they haddiscovered two taxis, Norah and her father taking Mrs. Hunt in thefirst, leaving the three soldiers to follow in the second. They slidoff through the traffic of Fleet Street.
"We really shouldn't let you take possession of us like this," saidMrs. Hunt a little helplessly. "But it has been so lovely to seeDouglas cheerful again. He has not laughed so much for months."
"You are anxious about his hand?" David Linton asked.
"Yes, very. He has had several kinds of treatment for it, but itdoesn't seem to get better; and the pain is wearing. The doctors sayhis best chance is a thorough change, as well as treatment, but wecan't manage it--the three babies are expensive atoms. Now there is aprobability of another operation to his hand, and he has been sodepressed about it, that I dragged him out to dinner in the hope ofcheering him up. But I don't think I should have succeeded if wehadn't met you."
"It was great luck for us," Norah said. "The boys have always told usso much of Major Hunt. He was ever so good to them."
"He told me about them, too," said Mrs. Hunt. "He liked them becausehe said he never succeeded in boring them!"
"Why, you couldn't bore Jim and Wally!" said Norah, laughing. Then agreat idea fell upon her, and she grew silent, leaving theconversation to her companions as the taxi whirred on its swift waythrough the crowded streets until they drew up before the theatre.
In the vestibule she found her father close to her and endeavoured toconvey many things to him by squeezing his arm very hard among thecrowd, succeeding in so much that Mr. Linton knew perfectly well thatNorah was the victim of a new idea--and was quite content to wait tobe told what it was. But there was no chance of that until theevening was over, and they had bade farewell to the Hunts, arrangingto have tea with them next day: after which a taxi bore them to theKensington flat, and they gathered in the sitting-room while Norahbrewed coffee over a spirit-lamp.
"I'm jolly glad we met the Hunts," Jim said. "But isn't it cruel luckfor a man like that to be kept back by a damaged hand!"
"Rough on Mrs. Hunt, too," Wally remarked. "She looked about as seedyas he did."
"Daddy----!" said Norah eagerly.
David Linton laughed.
"Yes, I knew you had one," he said, "Out with it--I'll listen."
"They're Tired People," said Norah: and waited.
"Yes, they're certainly tired enough," said her father. "But thechildren, Norah? I don't think we could possibly take in littlechildren, considering the other weary inmates."
"No, I thought that too," Norah answered eagerly. "But don't youremember the cottage, Daddy? Why shouldn't they have it?"
"By Jove!" said Jim. "That jolly little thatched place?"
"Yes--it has several rooms. They could let their own house, and thenthey'd save heaps of money. It would get them right out of London;and Mrs. Hunt told me that London is the very worst place for him--thedoctors said so."
"That is certainly an idea," Mr. Linton said. "It's near enough toLondon for Hunt to run up for his treatment. We could see that theywere comfortable." He smiled at Norah, whose flushed face was dimlyvisible through the steam of the coffee. "I think it would be rathera good way to begin our job, Norah."
"It would be so nice that it doesn't feel like any sort of work!" saidNorah.
"I think you may find a chance of work; they have three smallchildren, and not much money," said her father prophetically.
"I say, I hope the Major would agree," Jim put in. "I know he'shorribly proud."
"We'll kidnap the babies, and then they'll just have to come," Norahlaughed.
"Picture Mr. Linton," said Wally happily, "carrying on the good workby stalking through London with three kids sticking out of hispockets--followed by Norah, armed with feeding-bottles!"
"Wounded officer and wife hard in pursuit armed with shot guns!"supplemented Jim. "I like your pacifist ideas of running a home forTired People, I must say!"
"Why, they would forget that they had ever been tired!" said Norah."I think it's rather a brilliant notion--there certainly wouldn't beanother convalescent home in England run on the same lines. Butyou're not good on matters of detail--people don't havefeeding-bottles for babies of that age."
"I'm not well up in babies," said Wally. "Nice people, but I likesomebody else to manage 'em. I thought bottles were pretty safe untilthey were about seven!"
"Well, we'll talk it over with the Hunts to-morrow--the cottage, notthe bottles," Mr. Linton said. "Meanwhile, it's bed-time, sogood-night, everybody." He dispersed the assembly by the simpleprocess of switching off the electric light--smiling to himself as Jimand Norah two-stepped, singing, down the tiny corridor in thedarkness.
But the mid-day post brought a worried little note from Mrs. Hunt,putting off the party. Her husband had had a bad report on his handthat morning, and was going into hospital for an immediate operation.She hoped to fix a day later on--the note was a little incoherent.Norah had a sudden vision of the three small Hunts "who made rathermore noise than a regiment" rampaging round the harassed mother as shetried to write.
"Perhaps it's as well--we'll study the cottage, and make sure thatit's all right for them," said her father. "Then we'll kidnap them.Meanwhile we'll go and send them a big hamper of fruit, and put somesweets in for the babies." A plan which was so completely afterNorah's heart that she quite forgot her disappointment.
Captain Jim Page 3
