  Private John Farren of Seattle, glanced listlessly out of the barracks’ window and sighed. It was not a very cheerful view. The snow drove past his vision in fine, slanting lines that veiled and softened the raw outlines of the building across the cantonment street. It had been falling steadily all night, and Farren was tired of the soft, monotonous brush of icy particles against the glass. It took very little today to tire him. A month in the contagious ward of a camp hospital is apt to weaken nerves as well as body, and Farren had come out only the afternoon before. A laugh from the other end of the room, loud, hearty, a little strident, brought a frown to his face and made him lift languidly on one elbow to glance across the rows of neat cots to where a group of men in khaki was gathered intimately in the further corner. There were six or eight of them, bright-eyed, alert, pleasant looking chaps. Their uniforms were still a trifle new, perhaps, but already there was a touch of the soldierly in carriage and bearing in spite of the brief tenure of their training. Yet Farren, after a single glance, dropped back on his cot, a pang of bitterness in his heart. That was the very corner where he had been wont to gather with his chum, Dick Harley, with chuckling, smiling Bruce Ballard, with lank, taciturn MacComber, and a dozen other of those men whom six months of close association had transformed from strangers into the most intimate of friends. Where were they now, these men who had come to mean so much to him? In France, no doubt. He could not tell. He only knew that while he lay helpless in the hospital his regiment had gone, bag and baggage, leaving him behind. The nature of his illness made it impossible for them to even come and say good-by. He had returned yesterday to the barracks which had been his home for months to find it full of strangers—strangers who had already acquired an air of permanent possession, which made him feel, curiously, as if he were the rookie and they the old established veterans. The newcomers had not been deliberately indifferent. It was simply that they had already formed their little cliques and friendships. And with Christmas day at hand, there was the exciting lottery of leave to occupy them, the interest of Christmas letters and Christmas parcels to fill their minds. An added obstacle, too, was Farren’s lassitude and weakness, which made the mere act of friendly overture an effort he could not bring himself to tackle. So he simply slipped back into his place, silent, reserved, desperately lonely. He did not even try for leave. Of what use would that be to him when he knew no one in the East and had no place to go? Once, to be sure, he thought of the Boy Scouts he had come to know so pleasantly. They were mighty nice chaps, and he felt they liked him. But at this season they were probably too full of Christmas fun and excitement to give him even a thought. A lump rose in Farren’s throat, his lids drooped defendingly. And out of the sheltering darkness, the soft swish of snow sounding in his ears, there rose a picture of—Home! There were dear, familiar faces in that picture, shadowy familiar objects in its background. And because Farren was young and rather weak and very lonely, he clung desperately to the illusion, quite failing to hear the click of a door opening or the rapid thud of feet across the bare boards. The footsteps ceased abruptly and there came a momentary pause. Then a low, eager voice broke through his reverie. “Jack! Are you asleep?” Farren’s lids flashed up and he blinked dazedly. Beside the cot a boy of fifteen looked down on him—a red-cheeked, dark-eyed boy with snow powdering his mackinaw and clinging to hair and lashes. Farren’s eyes widened, his lips parted in a smile. “Why, Micky!” he cried, struggling to a sitting posture. “When did you blow in?” “This minute. I’ve just come from the hospital.” He caught the man’s thin, white fingers and squeezed them tightly. “Gee! but I’m glad to see you out, Jack!” he exclaimed. “It’s been perfect ages.” Farren smiled wrily. “It has that,” he agreed. “I began to think they were going to keep me there forever.” “How are you feeling?” asked McBride, sitting down on the side of the cot. “A little rocky yet?” “Sort of,” nodded Farren. “I’ll pick up, though, in a day or so. It—it just seems a little queer getting back and finding—” A roar of laughter came from the far corner of the room and he broke off, wincing unconsciously. The boy, following the direction of his glance, nodded comprehendingly. “I know,” he said in a low tone. “It’s beastly! But maybe they’ll send you after them. We—we saw them off at the station. It was great, but it made me feel—sort of queer. They gave us all sorts of messages for you—Dick and Mac and Bruce, and all the others. They said—” He paused. Farren had turned abruptly and was staring out at the driving snow. For a moment the boy hesitated. Then one hand reached out and gently touched the other’s sleeve. A moment later, his voice, elaborately casual, broke the silence. “Can you get leave this afternoon, Jack?” “Leave? What for? What would I do with it?” Farren’s tone was dull and listless, but his face softened a little as he looked into Micky’s eager, smiling eyes. “Don’t you worry about that,” the boy answered. “We’ll see you have enough to do. I’ll bet the old man would let you off now if you asked him. You’ve been sick and all that, and I don’t believe you’re fit to do any work yet. Come ahead and try. We want you for all day. Cavvy’s waiting outside with a sleigh. I don’t believe you ever had a sleigh ride before. They don’t have any snow in Seattle, do they?” “Not often,” admitted Farren. He hesitated a moment longer and then stood up slowly. His curiosity was roused, and unconsciously his load of depression was lightening. “What the deuce have you boys got up your sleeves?” he asked doubtfully. Micky’s eyes danced. “That’s a secret,” he grinned. “You just go and get off for all day and leave the rest to us.” Farren smiled back at the boy, a pleasant glow stealing over him. After all there were some who seemed to care whether or not he spent Christmas day lying around the barracks. His glance strayed to McBride’s legs, neatly encased in khaki. “You’re all dolled up in your scout clothes,” he remarked, reaching for his overcoat. “Sure! This is a scout stunt—sort of. Here let’s hold that for you. Where’s your hat? Oh, I see. There! Now, let’s get going. We’ve got a lot of things to do yet, and it’s getting later every minute.” He slipped an arm through Farren’s, and together they walked the length of the barracks and out into the storm. As the door closed behind them the man was conscious of a sense of relief, as if in that act he had shut behind him, also, a host of memories and regrets and unattainable longings. For a time, at least, he was free from the bitterness of the past and the uncertainty of the future. His eyes brightened and a faint color came into his face. Life wasn’t such an entirely hopeless business, after all, he thought as he tilted his hat against the driving snow. There proved to be no difficulty in getting leave for the day, and almost before he realized it they had reached the cantonment entrance and found Jim Cavanaugh driving a sleigh slowly up and down the road. His greeting was quite as eager and enthusiastic as McBride’s had been; and presently, tucked between the two, thick furs drawn up to his chin, Farren relaxed with a contented sigh. The snow drove against his face, bringing the blood tingling responsive to his cheeks. The merry jingle of the bells sounded in his ears. On either hand the white countryside swept by, veiled, mysterious, pleasantly unfamiliar behind that curtain of flying particles. Pleasantly mysterious, too, was their destination. Farren tried to wheedle something out of the boys, but both refused to give him any satisfaction. They were full of news, having quantities of things to tell him of what had happened during his illness. Chief among them was the exciting incident of the hidden wireless and how the captured men had proved to be German spies of the most flagrant type. Seeing that his curiosity must remain ungratified, Farren resigned himself to the inevitable and listened with much interest to the tale, which culminated in the arrival of Government Secret Service agents, who heartily congratulated the scouts and carried off the plotters to, as Cavvy put it—“Goodness knows where.” After all, there was a distinct pleasure in just sitting there, warm, comfortable, relaxed, taking part in the boys’ gay chatter, conscious of their friendly interest with back of it all that intangible sense of a surprise party looming in the future. In the town they made several stops where bulky, mysterious looking parcels were tucked into the back of the sleigh, adding to the feeling of festivity. Farren rather expected that they would then head for one of the boys’ homes, where he would probably be invited to take part in the family Christmas dinner. But to his surprise Cavanaugh drove straight down the main street and on out into the country again. “Look here, son,” he said with mock severity, “you’re not going to try any kidnapping stunt, I hope. Don’t forget I’ve got to report back at camp before nine o’clock, or it’ll be the guard house for mine.” Cavvy grinned. “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “We’ll return you before that in first class shape, charges paid and all the rest of it.” “Only the parcel will be a few pounds heavier than when it was posted,” chuckled McBride. Farren smiled, but inwardly was puzzled. So it was a Christmas dinner, then—but where? He knew most of the Wharton scouts well; a few of them intimately. Not one, so far as he could recall, lived as far out as this. His bewilderment increased when the cutter left the main road and turned to the right into a country road that led back into the hills. It curved along, winding through bits of woods, past level white stretches which might have been swamp or meadow land, or between bush-strewn pastures. The storm had lessened a little and presently the red front of a low farm house loomed warmly through the snow. But they passed that, too, and a little later, when Cavanaugh pulled the horse again sharply to the right into a narrow, twisting track, Farren gave up all speculation, and settled back comfortably to enjoy his outing. The road was steep as well as narrow and the horse took it at a walk. On either side towered great pines and hemlocks, their laden branches sweeping almost to the ground. Yet here and there through little openings one could glimpse the close-set ranks of dark trunks standing out sharply against the snow, which seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Still climbing steadily, they made a turn and presently another. Then the track levelled abruptly, and in another moment they came out into an open space and stopped. “Well, here we are,” said McBride, throwing aside the fur robes. Farren’s eyes swept the clearing interestedly. It seemed to be a bare, rocky shoulder on one of the high hills which looked down on Wharton. From here, on fine days, one could no doubt get a widespread view of hill and dale and open country. But Farren was not thinking of the view just now. His attention was riveted on the structure of logs which stood before him, nestling against a background of pines. It was a log cabin, long, low, with an overhanging roof and a great stone chimney rising at one end. Out of the chimney smoke curled; the small-paned window glowed with the cheery gleam of fire; the tang of burning wood came pleasantly to his senses. And as he stared, heedless for the moment of Cavvy’s question of how he liked it, the door flew open and a horde of boys in scout uniform burst out pell-mell and clustered around the sleigh. “Merry Christmas!” they shouted exuberantly. “Merry Christmas, Jack! How’s the boy? It’s great to see you again. Lay off him, you roughnecks; don’t paw him to pieces. Give him a chance to get his breath.” Farren grinned broadly as he stepped from the sleigh into the throng of dancing, excited youngsters. “I certainly need it,” he laughed, ruffling one boy’s hair and slapping another on the back. “You fellows put one over on me this time, all right. But how did it ever come to be here? You didn’t build it yourselves, did you?” “Alas, no!” returned Cavvy. “Not that we aren’t capable of it if it had been necessary, you understand. But we put some magnificent finishing touches to the interior and furnished it completely. We wanted it to be a surprise for you and Dick and the others. But before we got it quite ready they—they went, so you’re the only one left to take part in the house warming. Come ahead in and look the joint over. Furn, hold the horse a minute, will you?” He took Farren’s arm, and with Micky on the other side, and the remainder of the boys trailing behind, they tramped through the snow to the open door and stepped inside. And there they paused, the man surprised, fascinated. He had been prepared, no matter what he found, to show surprise and approval if for no other reason than to satisfy the boyish pride of his hosts. But as it happened there was no pretense necessary; his emotion was entirely genuine and very keen. |
|
