Jim Brent Read online

  “She’s not sure, James, my son – she’s not sure.” The man pulled out his cigarette-case and contemplated him thoughtfully. “And how the deuce are we to make her sure? I want it, and her father wants it, and so does she if she only knew it. They’re the devil, James Henry – they’re the devil.”

  But his hearer did not want philosophy; he wanted his tummy rubbed. He lay with one eye closed, his four paws turned up limply towards the sky, and sighed gently. Never before had the suggestion failed; enthusiastic admirers had always taken the hint gladly, and he had graciously allowed them the pleasure. But this time – horror upon horror – not only was there no result, but in a dreamy, contemplative manner the soldier actually deposited his used and still warm match carefully on the spot where James Henry’s wind had been. Naturally there was only one possible course open to him. He rose quietly and left. It was only when he was thinking the matter over later that it struck him that his exit would have been more dignified if he hadn’t sat down half-way across the lawn to scratch his right ear. It was more than likely that a completely false construction would be put on that simple action by anyone who didn’t know he’d had words with Harriet Emily.

  Thus James Henry – gentleman, at his country seat in England. I have gone out of my way to describe what may be taken as an average day in his life, in order to show him as he was before he went to France to be banished from the country – cashiered in disgrace a few weeks after his arrival. Which only goes to prove the change that war causes in even the most polished and courtly.

  I am told that the alteration for the worse started shortly after his arrival at the front. What did it I don’t know – but he lost one whisker and a portion of an ear, thus giving him a somewhat lopsided appearance; though rakish withal. It may have been a detonator which went off as he ate it – it may have been foolish curiosity over a maxim – it may even have been due to the fact that he found a motor bicycle standing still, what time it made strange provocative noises, and failed to notice that the back wheel was off the ground and rotating at a great pace.

  Whatever it was, it altered James Henry. Not that it soured his temper – not at all; but it made him more reckless, less careful of appearances. He forgot the repose that stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, and a series of incidents occurred which tended to strain relations all round.

  There was the question of the three dead chickens, for instance. Had they disappeared decently and in order much might have been thought but nothing would have been known. But when they were deposited on their owner’s doorstep, with James Henry mounting guard over the corpses himself, it was a little difficult to explain the matter away. That was the trouble – his sense of humour seemed to have become distorted.

  The pastime of hunting for rats in the sewers of Ypres cannot be too highly commended; but having got thoroughly wet in the process, James Henry’s practice of depositing the rat and himself on the adjutant’s bed was open to grave criticism.

  But enough: these two instances were, I am sorry to state, but types of countless other regrettable episodes which caused the popularity of James Henry to wane.

  The final decree of death or banishment came when James had been in the country some seven weeks.

  On the day in question a dreadful shout was heard, followed by a flood of language which I will retain from committing to print. And then the colonel appeared in the door of his dugout.

  “Where is that accursed idiot, Murgatroyd? Pass the word along for the damn’ fool.”

  “’Urry up, Conky. The ole man’s a-twittering for you.” Murgatroyd emerged from a recess.

  “What’s ’e want?”

  “I’d go and find out, cully. I think ’e’s going to mention you in ’is will.” At that moment a fresh outburst floated through the stillness.

  “Great ’eavens!” Murgatroyd reluctantly rose to his feet. “So long, boys. Tell me mother she was in me thoughts up to the end.” He paused outside the dugout and then went manfully in. “You wanted me, sir.”

  “Look at this, you blithering ass, look at this.” The colonel was searching through his Fortnum and Mason packing-case on the floor. “Great heavens! and the caviare too – embedded in the butter. Five defunct rodents in the brawn” – he threw each in turn at his servant, who dodged round the dugout like a pea in a drum – “The marmalade and the pâté de fois gras inseparably mixed together, and the whole covered with a thick layer of disintegrating cigar.”

  “It wasn’t me, sir.” Murgatroyd spoke in an aggrieved tone.

  “I didn’t suppose it was, you fool.” The colonel straightened himself and glared at his hapless minion. “Great heavens! there’s another rat on my hairbrush.”

  “One of the same five, sir. It ricochetted off my face.” With a magnificent nonchalance his servant threw it out of the door. “I think, sir, it must be James ’Enry.”

  “Who the devil is James Henry?”

  “Sir Derek Temple’s little dawg, sir.”

  “Indeed.” The colonel’s tone was ominous. “Go round and ask Sir Derek Temple to be good enough to come and see me at once.”

  What happened exactly at that interview I cannot say; though I understand that James Henry considered an absurd fuss had been made about a trifle. In fact he found it so difficult to lie down with any comfort that night that he missed much of his master’s conversation with him.

  “You’ve topped it, James, you’ve put the brass hat on. The old man threatens to turn out a firing party if he ever sees you again.”

  James feigned sleep: this continual harping on what was over and done with he considered the very worst of form. Even if he had put the caviare in the butter and his foot in the marmalade – well, hang it all – what then? He’d presented the old buster with five dead rats, which was more than he’d do for a lot of people.

  “In fact, James, you are not popular, my boy – and I shudder to think what Monica will do with you when she gets you. She’s come over, you may be pleased to hear, Henry. She is VAD-ing at a charming hospital that overlooks the sea. James, why can’t I go sick – and live for a space at that charming hospital that overlooks the sea? Think of it: here am I, panting to have my face washed by her, panting–” For a moment he rhapsodised in silence. “Breakfast in bed, poached egg in the bed: oh! James, my boy, and she probably never even thinks of me.”

  He took a letter out of his pocket and held it under the light of the candle. “‘Not much to do at present, but delightful weather. The hospital is nearly empty, though there’s one perfect dear who is almost fit – a major in some Highland regiment.’

  “Listen to that, James. Some great raw-boned, red-kneed Scotchman, and she calls him a perfect dear!” His listener blew resignedly and again composed himself to slumber.

  “‘How is James behaving? I’d love to see the sweet pet again.’ Sweet pet: yes – my boy – you look it. ‘Do you remember how annoyed he was when I put him in your arms that afternoon at home?’ Do you hear that, James? – do I remember? Monica, you adorable soul…” He relapsed into moody thought.

  At what moment during that restless night the idea actually came I know not. Possibly a diabolical chuckle on the part of James Henry, who was hunting in his dreams, goaded him to desperation. But it is an undoubted fact that when Sir Derek Temple rose the next morning he had definitely determined to embark on the adventure which culminated in the tragedy of the cat, the general, and James. The latter is reputed to regard the affair as quite trifling and unworthy of the fierce glare of publicity that beat upon it. The cat has, or rather had, different views.

  Now, be it known to those who live in England that it is one thing to say in an airy manner, as Derek had said to Lady Monica, that he would come and see her when she landed in France; it is another to do it. But to a determined and unprincipled man nothing is impossible; and though it would be the height of indiscretion for me to hint even at the methods he used to attain his ends, it is a certain fact that in the afternoon of the second
day following the episode of the five rodents he found himself at a certain seaport town with James Henry as the other mernber of the party. And having had his hair cut, and extricated his companion from a street brawl, he hired a motor and drove into the country.

  Now, Derek Temple’s knowledge of hospitals and their ways was not profound. He had a hazy idea that on arriving at the portals he would send in his name, and that in due course he would consume a tête-à-tête tea with Monica in her private boudoir. He rehearsed the scene in his mind: the quiet, cutting reference to Highlanders who failed to understand the official position of nurses – the certainty that this particular one was a scoundrel: the fact that, on receiving her letter, he had at once rushed off to protect her. And as he got to this point the car turned into the gates of a palatial hotel and stopped by the door. James Henry jumped through the open window, and his master followed him up the steps.

  “Is Lady Monica Travers at home: I mean – er – is she in the hospital?” He addressed an RAMC sergeant in the entrance.

  “No dawgs allowed in the ’ospital, sir.” The scandalised NCO glared at James Henry, who was furiously growling at a hot-air grating in the floor. “You must get ’im out at once, sir: we’re being inspected today.”

  “Heel, James, heel. He’ll be quite all right, Sergeant. Just find out, will you, about Lady Monica Travers?”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but are you a patient?”

  “Patient – of course I’m not a patient. Do I look like a patient?”

  “Well, sir, there ain’t no visiting allowed when the sisters is on duty.”

  “What? But it’s preposterous. Do you mean to say I can’t see her unless I’m a patient? Why, man, I’ve got to go back in an hour.”

  “Very sorry, sir – but no visiting allowed. Very strict ’ere, and as I says we’re full of brass ’ats today.”

  For a moment Derek was nonplussed; this was a complication on which he had not reckoned.

  “But look here, Sergeant, you know…” and even as he spoke he looked upstairs and beheld Lady Monica. Unfortunately she had not seen him, and the situation was desperate. Forcing James Henry into the arms of the outraged NCO, he rushed up the stairs and followed her.

  “Derek!” The girl stopped in amazement. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Monica, my dear, I’ve come to see you. Tell me that you don’t really love that damn Scotchman.”

  An adorable smile spread over her face. “You idiot! I don’t love anyone. My work fills my life.”

  “Rot! You said in your letter you had nothing to do at present. Monica, take me somewhere where I can make love to you.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort. In the first place you aren’t allowed here at all; and in the second I don’t want to be made love to.”

  “And in the third,” said Derek grimly, as the sound of a procession advancing down a corridor came from round the corner, “you’re being inspected today, and that – if I mistake not – is the great pan-jam-drum himself.”

  “Oh! good heavens, Derek, I’d forgotten. Do go, for goodness’ sake. Run – I shall be sacked.”

  “I shall not go. As the great man himself rounds that corner I shall kiss you with a loud trumpeting noise.”

  “You brute! Oh! what shall I do? – there they are. Come in here.” She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into a small deserted sitting-room close by.

  “You darling,” he remarked and promptly kissed her. “Monica, dear, you must listen–”

  “Sit down, you idiot. I’m sure they saw me. You must pretend you’re a patient just come in. I know I shall be sacked. The general is dreadfully particular. Put this thermometer in your mouth. Quick, give me your hand – I must take your pulse.”

  “I think,” said a voice outside the door, “that I saw – er – a patient being brought into one of these rooms.”

  “Surely not, sir. These rooms are all empty.” The door opened and the cavalcade paused. “Er – Lady Monica…really.”

  “A new patient, Colonel,” she remarked. “I am just taking his temperature.” Derek, his eyes partially closed, lay back in a chair, occasionally uttering a slight groan.

  “The case looks most interesting.” The general came and stood beside him. “Most interesting. Have you – er – diagnosed the symptoms, sister?” His lips were twitching suspiciously.

  “Not yet, General. The pulse is normal – and the temperature” she looked at the thermometer – “is – good gracious me! have you kept it properly under your tongue?” She turned to Derek, who nodded feebly. “The temperature is only 93.” She looked at the group in an awestruck manner.

  “Most remarkable,” murmured the general. “One feels compelled to wonder what it would have been if he’d had the right end in his mouth.” Derek emitted a hollow groan. “And where do you feel it worst, my dear boy?” continued the great man, gazing at him through his eyeglass.

  “Dyspepsia, sir,” he whispered feebly. “Dreadful dyspepsia. I can’t sleep, I – er – Good Lord!” His eyes opened, his voice rose, and with a fixed stare of horror he gazed at the door. Through it with due solemnity came James Henry holding in his mouth a furless and very dead cat. He advanced to the centre of the group – laid it at the general’s feet – and having sneezed twice, sat down and contemplated his handiwork: his tail thumping the floor feverishly in anticipation of well-merited applause.

  It was possibly foolish, but, as Derek explained afterwards to Monica, the situation had passed beyond him. He arose and confronted the general, who was surveying the scene coldly, and with a courtly explanation of “Your cat, I believe, sir,” he passed from the room.

  The conclusion of this dreadful drama may be given in three short sentences.

  The first was spoken by the general. “Let it be buried.” And it was so.

  The second was whispered by Lady Monica – later. “Darling, I had to say we were engaged; it looked so peculiar.” And it was even more so.

  The third was snorted by James Henry. “First I’m beaten and then I’m kissed. Damn all cats!”

  A Fire in Billets

  “’Tis a fine body of men that they are,” remarked Sergeant Cassidy to me, as I sat with him one day in the house where he was slowly recovering from the wound in his foot, which had caused his temporary absence from the plains of Flanders. As he spoke, his eyes followed the fire engine, drawn by two grand white horses, disappearing in the distance. The bell was still clanging faintly, as he absent-mindedly felt in his pocket, to find that, as usual, he’d left his cigarettes upstairs.

  “’Tis a fine body of men that they are,” he remarked again, as he took one of mine. “But, by jabers! sir, seeing them going up the street there, brings to my mind the last fire that I was present at, over yonder.” On this occasion he indicated Northumberland with a large hand; but, no matter.

  “You’ll mind,” he went on after a reflective pause, “that those farms over the water are not what you would call the equals of Buckingham Palace for comfort. The majority of them are built in the same manner all over the country, and when you’ve seen one you’ve seen the lot. There’s the farm itself, in which reside the owners and the officers. The officers have a room to themselves, but in these farms all the rooms lead into one another. Mr Tracey – you mind him, sir, the officer with the spectacles, fat he was – he was powerful set on washing, which is not to be encouraged in that trying weather; and he was rendered extremely irritated by the habit of the ladies of the farm, who would walk through the room when he was in his bath.

  “I mind one morning, perishing cold it was, when I came up to the kitchen to see him, and I looked through the door. Two of the old women of the farm were in the room, and they’d left both the doors open, while they had a bit of a set-to about something. Poor Mr Tracey was sitting in his bath, shouting at them to go out of the room and shut the door. He’d lost his spectacles, and his towel had fallen in the bath, and the draught was causing him great uneasiness. �
��Twas a terrible example of the dangers of washing in those parts.”

  Sergeant Cassidy shook his head reflectively.

  “Still,” he continued after a moment, “’twas of the farms I was speaking. They have most of them two barns which run perpendicular to the farmhouse, so that the three buildings enclose a sort of square yard in the middle of them. The barns are full of straw and hay and the like, and there it is that the men sleep, though ’tis well to climb up to the loft, and not to remain on the ground floor. The reason will be clear to you. These folks are very partial to pigs and hens and cows, and they are not particular where the animals go at night. When therefore I was roused from my sleep on one occasion by a fearful yell from below, I was not surprised.

  “‘Mother of heaven! ’tis the Germans,’ says the man next to me, hunting for his gun.

  “‘’Tis nothing of the sort,’ I says, as I looked through the loft. ‘’Tis the pig, going to bed, and she has sat on the face of Angus MacNab.’

  “‘The dirty beast has sat on me face,’ cried MacNab, as he saw me.

  “‘Then ’tis the pig I’m concerned about,’ says I, and I went back to my blankets. I have no patience with them Scotchmen.”

  Sergeant Cassidy again availed himself of my cigarette-case. “But where does the fire come in, Cassidy?” I asked, as he lit up.

  “I am just coming to that, sir. As you can imagine, the soldier will not stop his smoking because he is in the middle of hay and straw. It is too much to ask of any man. There are strict orders about it, of course, but – well, an officer like you will understand, sir. One day – it was about eleven o’clock in the morning – one of the men says to me, ‘Look at the barn.’