  That night members of that motley subway throng shared their beds with their new-found friends. Dave found a place with a young disabled veteran of the battle of Flanders. They slept on a thin pad and were covered by blankets none too thick. The subway was cold and drafty. For two hours Dave lay there thinking. Those were long, long thoughts. Back to the pictured walls of his mind came the peaceful pastures of Ramsey Farm, the racing planes overhead, the falling bombs, and the drifting parachutes. He rode once more with young Lord Applegate in that two-seater. His blood raced again as they played hide-and-seek with an enemy plane in the clouds. Again he heard the thundering crash of a bomb that had exploded, not, he supposed, more than two blocks from where he and Cherry had stood. What if it had been only one block, or no block at all? He tried to think this last question through, and could not quite make it. Nor could he answer to his complete satisfaction, his second and third questions,—why had he come to England? And why did he not go home? There would be a plane for Lisbon the day after tomorrow. Would he take it? He doubted it. And yet it seemed to him a voice whispered, “It is to this or no other. Think it over.” He did not think. Instead, he fell asleep. Cherry had been given a welcome by a bright young lady who sold shoes in a great store. This young lady was wondering whether a bomb had scattered her shoes over a city block, and her job with them. In the midst of her chatter Cherry fell sound asleep. Before they could leave the subway next morning two people were after them. The manager of the radio station, who the night before had given Cherry such a lukewarm reception, came bustling down the stairs. She, he said, had been “Splendid! Splendid! Quite remarkable indeed! How the people had taken to her! There had been wires, phone calls,—everything. Would she come back at nine that night and sing at the studio? She should have a competent accompanist and every courtesy. Would she come?” “No.” Cherry favored him with her brightest smile. “I won’t sing in your studio. I can’t sing in a stuffy little box with no one about except a man in a glass case who waves his arms, pretends to cut his own throat with his fingers, points to the tip of his nose, and goes through all manner of other contortions just to tell me what to do.” All this left the man staring at her, speechless. “But if,”—Cherry burst into a merry laugh—“if you’ll let me sing on my box with my glorious red-headed Irish girl to tickle the ivories, I’ll come back, not tonight, but very soon, and often.” “Oh! My dear child!” the manager exploded. “You are generosity itself. But the subway is cold and drafty.” “No place,” said Cherry, and she did not smile, “can be cold where so many warm hearts are beating as one.” The man stared at her in speechless silence for a moment. Then he murmured, “May God forgive me if this child is not a genius.” But here was her mother. She too had heard the broadcast and thought it marvelous. This was her day off. Her small car was just around the corner. She would take them back to Ramsey Farm in time for scrambled eggs, coffee and scones. And she did. Mrs. Ramsey, David realized at once, was a strong, efficient person, with a will of her own. She directed the affairs of her household as the O. C. directs his squadron. Breakfast over, she called in the entire group to discuss farm affairs. She commended Jock for his fine job of plowing, and the boys for their work in the turnips and Brussels sprout patches. “England is going to need food,” she declared. “We must all do our best. The nights are growing cold. We may get a freeze at any time, so—oo—” “So it’s the potatoes next.” Brand gave vent to a good-natured groan. He hated picking up potatoes. Stooping over made his back ache. But theirs was a fine crop, and it must be gathered in. Jock got out the potato plow. Soon they were all hard at work. David joined in. So too did Alice. Even the “enfants terrible”, Tillie and Peggy, helped a little. They were, however, at their best throwing clods, so in the end they were banished. The place where the potatoes were stored held for Dave a real fascination. “We call it the Hideout,” Alice explained, dropping down on a sack of potatoes for a short rest. “It’s as old as the hills. Did you note the moss on the roof?” “Six inches thick,” Dave agreed. “And look at the walls! Solid masonry!” “We believe it goes back to Feudal days.” Alice’s eyes took in the one large room, its broad stone fireplace, two narrow windows, and massive beams. “In those days it was a real hideout, I shouldn’t wonder,” she murmured. “And might be again,” Dave suggested. “Yes, if the Huns really come,” she agreed. “But they’ll never get this far—England will beat them back even if they swarm in on the shore like the waves of the sea.” All that day Cherry sat curled up in a great chair before the fire in the farmhouse kitchen. She sometimes slept, sometimes thought soberly, and sometimes dreamed. To this her wise mother offered no objections. Cherry, she realized for the first time, had a great gift. She might, it seemed, be of extraordinary service to all England. She could bring them the spirit of youth, buoy them up, give them courage for the great ordeal that lay ahead. The potatoes were stored in a narrow, dark underground tunnel that one entered through a door at the back of the Hideout. “A grand air raid shelter,” suggested Dave. “Hope we never need it,” Alice replied soberly, “but you never can tell.” Her brow wrinkled. She was thinking of the hole in the ground where an ancient playhouse had once stood. “How about a tramp to the village?” she suggested. “O. K. by me,” said Dave. “I’ll see if my boots are finished.” The boots were not finished. But then, boots at the cobbler’s never are—at least, not the first time you call. “You’ll have to pardon the delay,” the old man apologized. “So many boys from the airdrome have brought in their boots. “But things will go faster now.” His face brightened. “You see I have a helper.” For the first time Dave noticed a short, sturdy young man sitting in the corner. He was sewing on a sole and never once looked up. Dave thought with a start, “He has a vaguely familiar look. But I’ve never seen him before, that’s certain.” “He does very fine work.” The old man rubbed his hands together. “Very fine indeed.” Appearing a little disturbed by Dave’s lingering look at the stranger, old John followed him out of the shop to close the door behind him. “He’s quite proper,” he said, jerking a thumb backward toward the shop. “He looks like a German, but he’s a refugee, a Hollander. You understand?” “Yes,—I” “His papers are in perfect order. I saw to that you may well believe.” The old man laughed a trifle uncertainly. “Our local magistrate looked over those papers for me,” he went on. “We can’t take chances. But this, you see, is a rare opportunity. I’ve never made any real money, not in all my long life. And now, with all these fliers coming in—” “Gives you a break,” said Dave. “I wish you lots of luck.” As it turned out, the old man was to need it,—lots and lots of luck. When the cobbler opened the door to retrace his steps, Flash, the collie, who had come up as a sort of vanguard to Alice, put his nose in at the cobbler’s door, gave a long sniff, then uttered a low growl. “Well now, I wonder what he means by that?” Dave thought as he hurried away to join Alice. That night, after the others had retired, Mrs. Ramsey, Dave and Brand sat for a long time silently watching the fading glow of the wood fire. “Mother,” Brand said suddenly, “I’d like to join the Royal Air Force.” “Oh! No!” The mother’s words came short and quick. “You are needed here. Besides, there’s little enough for our aviators to do now. After the beating up we gave them, the Jerries, as you call them, are only coming over at night. You can’t find them at night. That’s work for the anti-aircraft batteries.” “I’m not so sure of that,” Brand murmured beneath his breath. “But mother,” his voice rose, “the Huns may come over, a million of them, by air and sea, perhaps tomorrow. We must be prepared!” “And we must be fed,” his mother replied quietly. “Perhaps later—” She did not finish. She knew a great deal about war, did the brave-hearted English mother. “Wars,” said David, speaking before he thought, “are wrong. There should be no wars.” Instantly the woman’s slow, steady gaze was upon him. “She’s angry with me,” he thought. His lips were parted for the words, “I’m sorry.” But she spoke first. “You are exactly right, David. Wars are terrible. I should know. Wars have cost me those I loved far more than life. Now another war may cost me my son, and perhaps my daughters. “Some of us,” she went on, “did what we could to prevent this war. We failed. Why? Perhaps none of us will ever know for sure. “However,” her voice was steady and sure, “we have a war. We have no choice but to fight it. We must fight or be enslaved. Our enemy has left no room for doubt there. England has always been free.” After that for some time, save for the slow, steady tick—tock—tick—tock of the dependable old English clock in the corner, there was silence in the great room. Later, as they stood outside beneath the stars, Brand told Dave that for more than a year the Young Lord had been training him, teaching him how to become a fighter. “And he’s a real fighter himself, you may be sure of that.” His voice was low and strong. “He’s no braggart like some of those flying Huns. He has a real record all the same. He flew in France during the Blitzkrieg. Sometimes it was ten Messerschmitts to his one Hurricane. He got two of them. That was just one time. There were many others. You just wait!” His voice rose sharply. “I’ll be right up there beside him in a Tomahawk one of these days!” Would he? Dave wondered. |
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