Hemming, the adventurer

CHAPTER VII.

AN ELDERLY CHAMPION

While Herbert Hemming tried to ease the bitterness of his heart and forget the injustice that had been done him, in new scenes and amid new companions, Miss Travers suffered at home. Her lover had scarcely left the house before misgivings tore her. Now, alone and shaken with grief, she saw upon what treasonable foundation she had accused an honourable man of—she hardly knew what. Why had he listened to her? Why had he not laughed, and kissed away her awful, hysterical foolishness? Then she remembered how she had repulsed his caress, and there in the narrow, heavily furnished drawing-room she leaned her head upon her arms and prayed.

Half an hour later she was startled by the ringing of the door-bell, and hastened to her own room.

The caller was an elderly bachelor brother of her mother's—a man with a small income, a taste for bridge, and tongue and ears for gossip. His visits were always welcome to Mrs. Travers. Mrs. Travers was a stout lady much given to family prayers, scandal, and disputes with servants. As the widow of a bishop she felt that she filled, in the being of the nation, a somewhat similar position to that occupied by Westminster Abbey. She doted on all those in temporal and spiritual authority, almost to the inclusion of curates and subalterns,—if they had expectations. Once upon a time, seeing nothing larger in sight for her daughter, she had been Herbert Hemming's motherly friend. Then she had heard from Mr. Penthouse (who was poor and dissipated, and might some day become a baronet) that Hemming's fortune was not nearly so large as people supposed. At first she had watched the change in her daughter, under Penthouse's influence, with vague alarm; but a suspicion of more eligible suitors in the offing stilled her fears. The hints which her pleasing nephew brought to her, of Hemming's double life, inflamed her righteous anger against the quiet captain. Had her daughter's lover been the master of five thousand a year she would have admonished Penthouse to keep silence concerning the affairs of his superiors. As it was, she thought her righteous indignation quite genuine, for few people of her kind know the full extent of their respectable wickedness. Then had come news, through her daughter, of Hemming's retirement from the army and entrance into journalism. Molly had mentioned it, very quietly, one morning at breakfast. Then had come Hemming himself, and with vast satisfaction she had heard him leave the house without any bright laughter at the door. And just as she had determined to descend and soothe Molly with words of pious comfort, her brother had arrived.

Mrs. Travers heard Molly go to her room and close the door. She decided that charity would keep better than Mr. Pollin's gossip, so she descended to the drawing-room as fast as her weight would allow. They shook hands cordially; after which Mr. Pollin stood respectfully until his sister got safely deposited in the strongest chair in the room.

Mr. Pollin was a gossip, as I have previously stated, but many of his stories were harmless. He dressed in the height of fashion, and, in spite of his full figure, carried himself jauntily. In his youth (before he had come in for his modest property, and mastered whist) he had studied law, and it was rumoured that he had even tried to write scholarly articles and book reviews for the daily press. At one stage in his career his sister and the late bishop had really trembled for his respectability; but their fears had proved to be unfounded, for, lacking encouragement from the editors, Mr. Pollin had settled down to unbroken conventionality. Mr. Pollin's features resembled his sister's, but his mouth was more given to smiling, and his eyes held a twinkle, while hers were dimly lit with a gleam of cold calculation.

To-day Mr. Pollin had quite unexpected news, at first-hand from an Irish acquaintance of his, a Major O'Grady. But he did not blurt it out, as a lesser gossip would have done.

"Have you seen Harry Penthouse lately?" he asked.

"Not for two days," said the lady.

Mr. Pollin crossed his knees with an effort, and tried to look over his waistcoat at his polished boots.

"He returns to his regiment shortly," added Mrs. Travers.

Her brother coughed gently, and scrutinized the ring on his finger with an intensity that seemed quite uncalled for.

"What is the matter?" cried the lady, breathless with the suspense.

"Nothing, my dear, although I hardly envy Harry. I'm afraid he will find his regiment a rather uncomfortable place," replied Pollin.

"Do you mean the regiment, or his quarters, Richard?"

"His quarters are comfortable enough for a better man," replied the elderly dandy, with a slight ring of emotion in his voice.

"Richard," exclaimed the dame, "what are you hinting about your nephew?"

"No nephew of mine," replied the other, "nor even of yours, I think. Poor Charles and old Sir Peter were first cousins, were they not?"

"But they were just like brothers," she urged.

"It's a pity young Penthouse hadn't been spanked more in his early youth," remarked Mr. Pollin.

Mrs. Travers began to feel decidedly uneasy. Could it be that Harry had, in some way, forfeited his chances of the estate and title? Could it be that the invalid brother, the unsociable, close-fisted one, had married? But she did not put the questions.

"What rash thing has the young man done?" she inquired.

"Nothing rash, but something dashed low," answered her brother. "To-day," he continued, "I received a letter from a gentleman whom it appears I've met several times in the country, Major O'Grady, of the Seventy-Third. He has evidently quite forgotten the fact that I am in any way connected with Harry Penthouse, or interested in Herbert Hemming, and after several pages of reference to some exciting rubbers we have had together (I really cannot recall them to mind), he casually tells me the inner history of Hemming's leaving the service."

"Ah, I thought so," sighed Mrs. Travers.

"Thought what, my dear sister?" asked Pollin, shortly.

The good lady was somewhat confused by the abruptness of her brother's manner, and her guard was forgotten.

"That the inner history," she replied, "is that Captain Hemming was requested to resign his commission."

"You have jumped the wrong way, Cordelia," said the gentleman, with a disconcerting smile, "for the regiment, from the colonel to the newest subaltern, and from the sergeant-major to the youngest bugler, are, figuratively speaking, weeping over his departure."

Mrs. Travers seemed to dwindle in her chair. "Then why did he retire?" she asked, in a thin whisper.

"Because Harry Penthouse wolfed all his money. At first he borrowed a hundred or so, and lost it gambling. Hemming got a bit shy, but thought, of course, that some day it would all be paid back. He wanted to help the boy, so, after a good deal of persuasion, endorsed his note for a large sum, and the note was cashed by a Jew who had helped Penthouse before. The Jew was honest, but he came a cropper himself, and could not afford to renew the note. Penthouse had only enough left to carry him stylishly over his two months' leave, so Hemming had to stump up. O'Grady says he didn't get so much as a 'Thank you' from the young bounder."

For several minutes the lady kept a stunned silence. Presently she braced herself, and laughed unmusically.

"I have heard a very different story," she said, "and I believe from a better authority than this Major O'Brady."

"O'Grady," corrected Pollin, "and a very dear friend of mine—cousin to Sir Brian O'Grady."

The good fellow's imagination was getting the bit in its teeth by this time, and his mind was turning toward the quiet of his club, and a nip of something before dinner.

"You have your choice between Major O'Grady's story and Harry Penthouse's," said the lady.

"And I choose O'Grady's," replied the gentleman, "because I know Penthouse and I know Herbert. Herbert is a good soldier and a good sort, and Harry is a damned overgrown, overfed cad."

He stole away without farewell, abashed and surprised at his own heat and breach of etiquette.

After her brother's departure Mrs. Travers sought her daughter. She wanted to know all the particulars of Hemming's visit.

"It is all over between us," sobbed the girl, and beyond that she could learn nothing. Having failed to receive information, she immediately began to impart some, and told what Mr. Pollin had heard from Major O'Grady. Molly, who lay on the bed, kept her face buried in the pillow, and showed no signs of hearing anything. At last her mother left her, after saying that she would send her dinner up to her. The bewildered woman had never felt quite so put about since the death of the lord bishop. Could it be, she wondered, that she had made a mistake in encouraging Harry Penthouse's work tearing down Molly's belief in Hemming? Even her dinner did not altogether reassure her troubled spirit.

Several days later Miss Travers wrote to Hemming. It contained only a line or two. It begged his forgiveness. It called him to return and let her show her love. She sent it to his old address in Dublin, and in the corner wrote "Please forward."

Now it happened that Private Malloy, who had once been Captain Hemming's orderly, was sent one day, by a sergeant, for the officers' mail. He thought himself a sly man, did Mr. Malloy, and when he found a letter addressed to his late beloved master, in a familiar handwriting, he decided that it was from "one of them dunnin' Jews," and carefully separated it from the pile. Later he burned it. "One good turn deserves another," said he, watching the thin paper flame and fade.

Penthouse returned to his regiment without calling again on Molly and Mrs. Travers. Somehow, after the beating he had received, he did not feel like showing his face anywhere in town. Day after day Molly waited for an answer to her letter. By this time she had heard, from Captain Anderson (who had acted nervously during his short call), of Hemming's intention of going immediately to Greece. So for two weeks she waited hopefully. Then the horrible fear that she had hurt him beyond pardoning, perhaps even disgusted him, grew upon her. But for more than a month every brisk footfall on the pavement and every ring at the door-bell set her heart burning and left it throbbing with pain.

When she drove with her mother she scanned the faces of the men in the street, and often and often she changed colour at sight of a thin, alert face or broad, gallant shoulders in the crowd.

Captain Anderson was at Aldershot when he received his friend's letter from Jamaica. He went up to town and called on Miss Travers, and, without so much as "by your leave," read her extracts from the letter. She listened quietly, with downcast eyes and white face. When he was through with it she looked at him kindly; but her eyes were dim.

"Why do you taunt me?" she asked. "Is it because you are his friend?" The smile that followed the question was not a happy one.

The sapper's honest face flamed crimson. "I thought you wanted to know about him," he stammered.

"Of course I am glad to hear that he is so successful—and so happy," she replied, and her mouth took on a hardness strange and new to it. She remembered the passionate appeal in her own letter—the cry of love that had awakened no answering cry—and her pride and anger set to work to tear the dreams from her heart. But a dream built by the Master Workman, of stuffs lighter than the wind, outlasts the heavy walls of kings' monuments.

CHAPTER VIII.

HEMMING UNDERTAKES A DIGNIFIED WORK

Hemming went through the Turko-Grecian campaign from beginning to end, with much credit to himself and profit to the syndicate. He worked hard, and, on occasions, risked life and limb. No word of legitimate news of actions got out of the country ahead of his. When the fighting was over, he wrote a careful article on the uselessness of the sword in modern battles. He described the few occasions in which he had seen a blooded sword in action. He damned them all—the pointed blade of the infantry officer, and the cutting sabre of the cavalry trooper. They would do for hill raids, or charges against savages, but before the steady fire of men on foot, armed with rifles of the latest pattern, they were hopeless. Their day had passed with the passing of the ramrod, he said. After heading it "Cold Steel in Modern Warfare," he decided that it would be a pity to waste it on the New York News Syndicate; for of late he had become dissatisfied with his arrangements with the syndicate. He had found that, out of the dozen or more war-correspondents whom he had met during the campaign, only two were allowed so small a sum as he for expenses, and not one was paid so small a salary. So he mailed his wise story to a big London weekly, and wrote to Dodder for a raise in his salary and expenses. At this time he was living quietly in Athens, with a number of friends,—merry fellows, all,—but he missed O'Rourke's whimsical conversations and kindly comradeship.

The big London weekly published Hemming's article, and commented upon it editorially. It also sent him a modest check—more modest than its size and reputation would lead one to suppose. Mr. Dodder's letter arrived at about the same time. The manager of the syndicate was firm, though gentle. He pointed out that already Hemming drew more money than any other correspondent connected with the concern. He explained that, even now, Mr. Wells frequently grumbled. "And after all," he concluded, "you are a new man, and we are helping you to a reputation."

"We'll see about that," said Hemming, and wrote to say that he would like to take a holiday until more fighting turned up. He sent them his address for the next six months—Maidmill-on-Dee, Cheshire, England. Then he sold his horse, packed his things, and sailed for England.

At Maidmill-on-Dee, in a stone cottage with a slated roof, lived an old couple named Thomson. During the brief married life of Hemming's parents, these two good folk had looked after their bodily welfare—Thomson as gardener and groom, and Mrs. Thomson as cook. Hemming's father, though well connected, had made his livelihood as a country doctor. The people in Maidmill-on-Dee still remembered him as a handsome, generous man with the manner of a lord lieutenant of the county, and with always a good horse in his stables. Hemming's mother had been the daughter of a scholarly, though poor, country vicar. She had been a beauty in a frail, white way, and a lover of her husband, her home, and good literature. When the doctor had died of blood-poisoning, contracted during a simple operation upon one of his many poor patients, she had tried, for awhile, to take heart again, but had followed him within a year. After the deaths of the parents a wealthy relative had remembered the son, and, finding him a youth of promise, had given him some money.

Hemming drove from the station in the public bus. He passed the house where so much of his earlier years had been spent, and told the driver to take him to Joseph Thomson's. They rattled down the quiet, single street, and drew up at the stone threshold. He helped the driver pile his bags and boxes beside the door. Then he dismissed the conveyance, and paused for awhile before entering the cottage, with a warm, new feeling of homecoming in his heart. The low, wide kitchen was unoccupied, but the door leading to the garden behind stood open. He sat down in a well-worn chair and looked about. The October sunlight lit up the dishes on the dresser. A small table by a window was laid with plates and cups for two. He heard voices in the garden. A woman, stout and gray-haired, entered with a head of Brussels sprouts in her hand, and with her cotton skirt kilted up, displaying a bright, quilted petticoat. Hemming got up from his chair, but she was not looking toward him, and she was evidently hard of hearing. He stepped in front of her and laid his hands on her shoulders.

"Susan," he said, beaming.

"Lor', Master Bert," she exclaimed, "you're still at your tricks."

In a flutter of delight she smacked him squarely on the mouth, and then, blushing and trembling, begged his pardon.

"I can't think you're a grown-up man," she explained. She surveyed him at arm's length.

"You're not overly big," she said, "an' that's a fact. But you're surprising thick through the chest and wide i' the shoulders. An' who'd ever have looked for Master Bert, all so suddent, i' Maidmill-on-Dee."

By this time she was in a fair way to burst into tears, so fast were the old memories crowding upon her. Hemming feared tears more than the devil, and, patting her violently on the back, forced her into a chair.

"There, Susan, there. Now keep cool and fire low, and tell me what you are going to have for lunch?" he urged.

"Thomson," she called, "there is a gentleman here as wants to see you."

"Bes there, now?" said Thomson, and rubbed his hands on his smock.

"Never mind your hands," she called.

Thomson scraped his heavy way into the kitchen, and blinked at the visitor.

"Howde, sir," he remarked, affably.

"How are you, Thomson? Glad to see you again," said Hemming, extending his hand.

The old gardener gave back a step, with a slight cry and an uptossing of gnarled hands.

He recovered himself with an effort.

"God bless me, it's Master Herbert," he exclaimed. "Do you know, missus, I thought it was the doctor askin' how I was," he continued, turning to his wife, "but the master was a more sizable man,—yes, an' redder i' the face."

"Ay," replied Mrs. Thomson, "but hansome is as hansome does—meanin' nothin' disrespectful about the old master, God bless his memory, dear man,—and Master Bert is a fine appearin' young gentleman."

The gaffer nodded. "The lasses wud believe you, missus," he said.

"What lasses do you mean?" inquired the old woman, sharply. "Where's the lass i' this village fit to believe anything about one o' the queen's officers—tell me that."

"Ay, I was sayin' nothin'," replied Thomson.

The woman looked quizzically at Hemming.

"Like enough there's a young lady in Lunnon," she suggested.

"There is no young lady—anywhere," said Hemming, "and I'm no longer in the army. I'm at another trade now."

"Trade?" exclaimed Thomson.

"Well, hardly that," laughed Hemming. "I write for a living."

Mrs. Thomson nodded with satisfaction.

"The queen's son-in-law wrote a book," she said.

"I hardly do that kind," said Hemming, uneasily.

"I vum you don't, sir," cried the man, whacking the table, "not if the missus means the book she read to me out of, oncet."

Hemming was pleased with the old man's shrewdness, though Mrs. Thomson was shocked at his insinuations.

Hemming settled down in the cottage, much to the delight of the old couple. A fair-sized room on the ground floor was given over to him, for bedroom and study. The success of his last article had suggested to him the writing of a book about what he knew, and had seen, of the last brief campaign—something more lasting than his syndicate work, and more carefully done. This work would have colour, not too heavily splashed on; style, not too aggressive; and dignity befitting the subject. He decided that he must prune his newspaper style considerably for the book. So he settled down to his work, and after three days' honest labour, all that stood of it was the title, "Where Might Is Right." Strange to say, this seeming failure did not discourage him. He knew what he had to say, and felt that as soon as the right note for the expression of it was struck, it would be easy to go on. The pages he so ruthlessly destroyed were splendid newspaper copy, but he knew the objection thinking men have to finding newspaper work between the covers of a book. But at last the opening chapter was done to his taste; and after that the work was easy and pleasant. It soon became his habit to get out of bed in time to breakfast with Thomson, who was a thrifty market-gardener on a small scale. After his breakfast he smoked a cigar in the garden, and sometimes told stories of his adventures to his host. By eight o'clock he was at his table, writing rapidly, but not steadily, until twelve o'clock. After the simple midday dinner he walked for several hours, and seldom went back to his work until candle-time. In this way, with books and magazines sent down every week from London, he managed to put in his time without letting himself think too often of Molly Travers. Nothing in the village reminded him of her, and his healthy days brought him, for the most part, dreamless nights.

The old people were immensely interested in Hemming and his work. They even persuaded him to read some of the chapters of his book aloud to them. It was plain to Hemming that Mrs. Thomson's signs of appreciation were matters more of the heart than the head; but not so with Thomson. He would applaud a convincing argument or a well-turned sentence by slapping his hand on his knee, and for hours after a reading would sit by the chimney and mumble curses on the heads of the Turks. One morning, while Hemming was watching him at his work, he turned from the bonfire he had been tending and, without preamble, grasped his lodger's hand.

"You've a power of brains inside your head, sir," he said, with vehemence. Hemming felt that, even from O'Rourke, he had never received a more pleasing compliment. He rewarded the gaffer with a cigar from his own case.

By Christmas "Where Might Is Right" was finished, and posted to a London publisher. With this work done, restlessness returned to Hemming. He fought it off for awhile, but at last packed a bag with his best clothes, and, telling Mrs. Thomson to take care of his letters until his return, went up to London. First of all he called on the publishers to whom he had sent his book. The manager was in, and received Hemming cordially. He said that he had not yet looked at Hemming's manuscript, and that at present it was in town, having been taken away to a house-party by their literary adviser. However, he had followed Captain Hemming's career as a war-correspondent and writer of army stories with interest, and felt that it was altogether likely that the firm would want to do business with him. The genial glow of the season must have been in the gentleman's blood, for he cordially invited Hemming to lunch with him at his club. Upon reaching the street Hemming found the fog, which had been scarcely noticeable a short time before, was rapidly thickening.

"Let us walk—it is but a step," said the publisher, "and I've made the trip in every kind of weather for the last twenty years."

On the steps of the club Hemming stumbled against a crouched figure. There was a dull yellow glare from the lamp above, and by it Hemming saw the beggar's bloated, hungry face, bedraggled red beard, and trembling hand. The eyes were cunning and desperate, but pitiful just then. Hemming passed the poor fellow a coin,—a two-shilling piece,—and followed his guide into the warm, imposing hall of the club, wondering where he had seen those unscrupulous eyes before. The club was brightly lighted. The lunch was long and complicated and very good. The publisher was vastly entertaining, and seemed in no hurry to get back to his work. Hemming's thoughts, in spite of the cheer, busied themselves with the beggar on the steps.

"Did you notice the beggar outside?" he asked, at last.

"The chap with the bushy beard?—why, yes, he is new to this quarter," replied the other.

"He was a desperate-looking devil, and I think the beard was false," remarked Hemming. But as his host did not seem interested in either the beggar or his beard, the subject was dropped.

Next day, with an unnamed hope in his heart that something might happen, Hemming passed the Travers house. But the hope died at sight of it, for it was clearly unoccupied! He remained in town a few days longer, seeking familiar faces in familiar haunts, and finding none to his mind. He thought it strange that romance, and everything worth while, should have deserted the great city in so brief a time. But, for that matter, when he came to think of it, the whole world had lost colour. He decided that he was growing old—and perhaps too wise. After standing the genial publisher a dinner, and receiving a promise of a speedy decision on "Where Might Is Right," he returned to Maidmill-on-Dee, to spend weary months awaiting rumour of war. At last the rumour came, closely followed by sailing orders.

CHAPTER IX.

O'ROURKE TELLS A SAD STORY

Upon his arrival in New York, Hemming called immediately upon Mr. Dodder, in the New York News Syndicate Building on Fulton Street. He found the manager even stouter than at the time of their first meeting, and of a redder countenance. His manner was as cordial as before, but his mood was not so jovial.

"I am always worrying about something or other, and just now it is my health," he told Hemming. "You don't know what I'd give, captain, for a life like yours—and a good hard body like yours. But I can't drop this job now. It's the very devil, I can tell you, to have one's brain and nerves jumping and twanging all the time, while one's carcass lolls about and puts on fat. I'm sorry I was so smart when I was a kid. Otherwise the old man would not have sent me to college, and I'd never have hustled myself into this slavery. My father was a lumberman, and so was my grandfather. They had big bodies, just like mine, but they lived the right kind of lives for their bodies."

Hemming felt sorry for him. He saw that the gigantic body was at strife with the manner of life to which it was held, and that the same physique that had proved itself a blessing to the lumberman, was a menace to the desk-worker.

"Better take a few months in the woods," he suggested.

Dodder laughed bitterly. "You might just as well advise me to take a few months in heaven," he said.

Hemming asked for news of O'Rourke.

The manager's face lighted.

"O'Rourke," he exclaimed, "is a man wise in his generation. Shackles of gold couldn't hold that chap from his birthright of freedom. He did us some fine work for a time,—rode with Gomez and got his news out somehow or other,—but went under with enteric and left Cuba. We kept him on, of course, but as soon as he could move around again he resigned his position. He said he had some very pressing business affair to see to."

"Is he well again?" asked Hemming, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, he's able to travel," replied Dodder. "He was here only a week ago. He seems to be making a tour of the Eastern cities. I guess he's looking for something."

"An editor, likely, who has lost some of his manuscripts," remarked Hemming.

"Or a girl," said the other.

"Why a girl?" asked the Englishman.

Dodder smiled pensively. "I like to think so," he said, "for though I am nothing but a corpulent business slave myself, I've a fine active brain for romance, and the heart of a Lochinvar."

Hemming nodded gravely. Dodder laughed at him. "You are thinking what a devilish big horse I need," he said.

They dined together that evening at the Reform Club, and Hemming was amazed at the quantity of food the big man consumed. He had seen O'Rourke, the long, lean, and broad, sit up to some hearty meals after a day in the saddle, but never had he met with an appetite like Dodder's. It was the appetite of his ancestral lumbermen, changed a little in taste, perhaps, but the same in vigour.

War was in order between the United States of America and Spain. General Shafter's army was massing in Tampa, Florida, and Hemming, with letters from the syndicate, started for Washington to procure a pass from the War Office. But on the night before his departure from New York came news from London of his book, and the first batch of proof-sheets for correction. He worked until far into the morning, and mailed the proofs, together with a letter, before breakfast. Arriving in Washington, he went immediately to the War Department building, and handed in his letters. The clerk returned and asked him to follow to an inner room. There he found a pale young man, with an imposing, closely printed document in his hand.

"Captain Hemming?" inquired the gentleman.

Hemming bowed.

"Your credentials are correct," continued the official, "and the Secretary of War has signed your passport. Please put your name here."

Hemming signed his name on the margin of the document, folded it, and stowed it in a waterproof pocketbook, and bowed himself out. He was about to close the door behind him when the official called him back.

"You forgot something, captain," said the young man, holding a packet made up of about half a dozen letters toward him.

"Not I," replied Hemming. He glanced at the letters, and read on the top one "Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke, Esq."

"O'Rourke," he exclaimed.

"How stupid of me," cried the young man.

"Where is he? When was he here?" inquired Hemming. "He is a particular friend of mine," he added.

The official considered for a second or two.

"Tall chap with a yellow face and a silk hat, isn't he?" he asked.

"Tall enough," replied Hemming, "but he had neither a yellow face nor a silk hat when I saw him last—that was in Jamaica, about a year ago."

At that moment the door opened and O'Rourke entered. Without noticing Hemming he gave a folded paper to the clerk.

"You'll find that right enough," he said—and then his eye lighted upon his old comrade. He grasped the Englishman by the shoulders and shook him backward and forward, grinning all the while a wide, yellow grin.

"My dear chap," protested Hemming, "where have you been to acquire this demonstrative nature?"

"Lots of places. Come and have a drink," exclaimed O'Rourke.

"I'll mail that to your hotel," called the pale young man after them, as they hurried out.

"What are you up to now, my son?" inquired Hemming, critically surveying the other's faultless attire. "You look no end of a toff, in spite of your yellow face."

"Thanks, and I feel it," replied his friend, "but my release is at hand, for to-night I shall hie me to mine uncle's and there deposit these polite and costly garments. Already my riding-breeches and khaki tunic are airing over the end of my bed."

"But why this grandeur, and this wandering about from town to town?" asked Hemming. He caught the quick look of inquiry on his friend's face. "Dodder told me you'd been aimlessly touring through the Eastern States," he added.

"Here we are—come in and I'll tell you about it," replied O'Rourke. They entered the Army and Navy Club, and O'Rourke, with a very-much-at-home air, led the way to a quiet inner room.

"I suppose we'll split the soda the same old way—as we did before sorrow and wisdom came to us," sighed O'Rourke. He gave a familiar order to the attentive waiter. Hemming looked closely at his companion, and decided that the lightness was only a disguise.

"Tell me the yarn, old boy—I know it's of more than fighting and fever," he said, settling himself comfortably in his chair.

O'Rourke waited until the servant had deposited the glasses and retired. Then he selected two cigars from his case with commendable care, and, rolling one across the table, lit the other. He inhaled the first draught lazily.

"These are deuced fine cigars," remarked Hemming. O'Rourke nodded his head, and, with his gaze upon the blue drift of smoke, began his story.

"I was in a very bad way when I got out of that infernal island last time. I had a dose of fever that quite eclipsed any of my former experiences in that line—also a bullet-hole in the calf of my left leg. Maybe you noticed my limp, and thought I was feigning gout. A tug brought me back to this country, landing me at Port Tampa. Some patriotic Cubans were waiting for me, and I made the run up to Tampa in a car decorated with flags. I wore my Cuban uniform, you know, and must have looked more heroic than I felt."

Hemming raised his eyebrows at that.

"I'm a major in the Cuban army—the devil take it," explained O'Rourke.

"The patriots escorted me to a hotel," he continued, "but the manager looked at my banana-hued face and refused to have anything to do with me at any price. Failing in this, my tumultuous friends rushed me to a wooden hospital, at the end of a river of brown sand which the inhabitants of that town call an avenue. I was put to bed in the best room in the place, and then my friends hurried away, each one to find his own doctor to offer me. I was glad of the quiet, for I felt about as beastly as a man can feel without flickering out entirely. I don't think my insides just then would have been worth more than two cents to any one but a medical student. The matron—at least that's what they called her—came in to have a look at me, and ask me questions. She was young, and she was pretty, and her impersonal manner grieved me even then. I might have been a dashed pacifico for all the interest she showed in me, beyond taking my temperature and ordering the fumigation of my clothes. I wouldn't have felt so badly about it if she had not been a lady—but she was, sure enough, and her off-hand treatment very nearly made me forget my cramps and visions of advancing land-crabs. During the next few days I didn't know much of anything. When my head felt a little clearer, the youthful matron brought me a couple of telegrams. I asked her to open them, and read them to me. Evidently my Cuban friends had reported the state of my health, and other things, for both telegrams were tender inquiries after my condition.

"'You seem to be a person of some importance,' she said, regarding me as if I were a specimen in a jar.

"'My name is O'Rourke,' I murmured. For awhile she stared at me in a puzzled sort of way. Suddenly she blushed.

"'I beg your pardon, Mr. O'Rourke,' she said, and sounded as if she meant it. I felt more comfortable, and sucked my ration of milk and lime-water with relish. Next day the black orderly told me that the matron was Miss Hudson, from somewhere up North. He didn't know just where. I gave him a verbal order on the hospital for a dollar.

"Presently Miss Hudson came in and greeted me cheerfully. 'Why do you want Harley to have a dollar?' she asked.

"'Just for a tip,' I replied, wearily.

"'He is paid to do his work, and if some patients fee him, the poorer ones will suffer,' she said.

"'But I want him to have it, please. He told me your name,' I said.

"She paid no more attention to this foolish remark than if I had sneezed. Indeed, even less, for if I had sneezed she would have taken my pulse or my temperature. I watched her as she moved about the room seeing that all was clean and in order.

"'Miss Hudson,' I said, gaining courage, 'will you tell me what is going on in the world? Have you a New York paper?'

"'Yes, some papers have come for you,' she answered, 'and I will read to you for a little while, if you feel strong enough to listen. There is a letter, too. Shall I open it for you?'

"She drew a chair between my bed and the window, and, first of all, examined the letter.

"'From the New York News Syndicate,' she said.

"'Then it's only a check,' I sighed.

"'I shall put it away with the money you had when you came,' she said. She opened a paper, glanced at it, and wrinkled her white brow at me.

"'Are you the Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke?" she asked.

"'No, indeed,' I replied. 'He has been dead a long time. He was an admiral in the British navy.'

"'I have never heard of him,' she answered, 'but there is a man with that name who writes charming little stories, and verses, too, I think.'

"'Oh, that duffer,' I exclaimed, faintly.

"She laughed quietly. 'There is an article about him here—at least I suppose it is the same man.' She glanced down the page and then up at me. 'An angel unawares,' she laughed, and chaffed me kindly about my modesty.

"After that we became better friends every day, though she often laughed at the way some of the papers tried to make a hero of me. That hurt me, because really I had gone through some awful messes, and been sniped at a dozen times. The Spaniards had a price on my head. I told her that, but she didn't seem impressed. As soon as I was able to see people, my friends the Cuban cigar manufacturers called upon me, singly and in pairs, each with a gift of cigars. These are out of their offerings. The more they did homage to me, the less seriously did Miss Hudson seem to regard my heroism. But she liked me—yes, we were good friends."

O'Rourke ceased talking and pensively flipped the ash off his cigar. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the ceiling.

"Well?" inquired his friend. O'Rourke returned to the narration of his experience with a visible effort.

"After awhile she read to me, for half an hour or so, every day. One evening she read a ballad of my own; by gad, it was fine. But then, even the Journal sounded like poetry when she got hold of it. From that we got to talking about ourselves to each other, and she told me that she had learned nursing, after her freshman year at Vassar, because of a change in her father's affairs. She had come South with a wealthy patient, and, after his recovery, had accepted the position of matron, or head nurse, of that little hospital. In return, I yarned away about my boyhood, my more recent adventures, my friends, and my ambitions. At last my doctor said I could leave the hospital, but must go North right away. My leg was healed, but otherwise I looked and felt a wreck. I was so horribly weak, and my nights continued so crowded with suffering and delirium, that I feared my constitution was ruined. I tried to keep myself in hand when Miss Hudson was around, but she surely guessed that I loved her."

"What's that?" interrupted Hemming.

"I said that I loved her," retorted O'Rourke, defiantly.

"Go ahead with the story," said the Englishman.

"When the time came for my departure," continued O'Rourke, "and the carriage was waiting at the curb, I just kissed her hand and left without saying a word. I came North and got doctors to examine me. They said that my heart and lungs were right as could be, and that the rest of my gear would straighten up in time. They promised even a return of my complexion with the departure of the malaria from my blood. But I must live a quiet life for awhile, they said; so to begin the quiet life I returned to Tampa, and that hospital. But I did not find the girl."

"Was she hiding?" inquired Hemming. "Perhaps she had heard some stories to your discredit."

"No," said O'Rourke, "she had resigned, and left the town, with her father. Evidently her troubles were ended—just as mine were begun."

"What did you do about it?" asked Hemming, whose interest was thoroughly aroused.

"Oh, I looked for her everywhere—in Boston, and New York, and Baltimore, and Washington, and read all the city directories," replied the disconsolate lover, "but I do not know her father's first name, and you have no idea what a lot of Hudsons there are in the world."

Hemming discarded the butt of his cigar, and eyed his friend contemplatively.

"I suppose you looked in the registers of the Tampa hotels?" he queried. "The old chap's name and perhaps his address would be there."

O'Rourke started from his chair, with dismay and shame written on his face.

"Sit down and have another," said Hemming; "we'll look it up in a few days."

CHAPTER X.

LIEUTENANT ELLIS IS CONCERNED

By the time Hemming and O'Rourke reached Tampa, about thirty thousand men had gone under canvas in the surrounding pine groves and low-lying waste places. There were Westerners and Easterners, regulars and volunteers, and at Port Tampa a regiment of coloured cavalry. Troops were arriving every day. Colonel Wood and Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt, with their splendid command of mounted infantry, had just pitched their shelter-tents in a place of scrub palmetto, behind the big hotel. Taken altogether, it was an army that made Hemming stare.

The friends went to a quiet hotel with wide verandas, cool rooms, open fireplaces, and what proved equally attractive, reasonable rates. They inquired of the clerk about Mr. Hudson. He remembered the gentleman well, though he had spent only two days in the place. "He had a daughter with him," the man informed them, and, turning to the front of the register, looked up the name. "There's the signature, sir, and you're welcome to it," he said. The correspondents examined it intently for some time.

"We know that that means Hudson," remarked O'Rourke, at last, "and I should guess John for the other sprawl."

"Sprawl is good," said Hemming, straightening his monocle, "but any one can see that Robert is the name."

"I've put a lot of study on it," said the clerk, "and so has the boss, and we've about agreed to call it Harold."

"Take your choice," said O'Rourke, "but tell me what you make of the address."

"Boston," cried the clerk.

They stared at him. "You were all ready," said Hemming.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "for I've been thinking it over for some time."

"Why the devil didn't you ask him?" inquired O'Rourke, fretfully.

"Lookee here, colonel," said the hotel man, "if you know Mr. Hudson, you know darn well why I didn't ask him where he came from."

"High and haughty?" queried O'Rourke.

The clerk nodded.

"You had better reconsider your course, old chap," laughed the Englishman.

His friend did not reply. He was again intent on the register.

"I make seven letters in it," he said, "and I'll swear to that for an N."

"N nothing," remarked the clerk; "that's a B."

"Yes, it is a B, I think, and to me the word looks like—well, like Balloon," said Hemming.

O'Rourke sighed. "Of course it is New York; see the break in the middle, and a man is more likely to come from there than from a balloon," he said.

"Some men go away in balloons, sir," suggested the clerk.

Just then the proprietor of the hotel entered and approached the desk. He Was an imposing figure of a man, tall and deep, and suitably dressed in the roomiest of light tweeds. His face was round and clever. He shook hands with the new arrivals.

"Military men, I believe," he said.

"Not just now," replied Hemming.

"Do you know where Mr. Hudson is at present?" asked O'Rourke, in casual tones.

"Mr. Hudson, of Philadelphia? Why, no, sir, I can't say that I do," answered the big man.

"How do you know he's of Philadelphia?" asked the Englishman.

"He wrote it in the register; look for yourself," was the reply.

"No," said O'Rourke, mournfully, "but it is a very dry evening, and if you will honour us with your company as far as the bar, Mr.—"

"Stillman,—delighted, sir," hastily replied the proprietor.

The three straightway sought that cool retreat, leaving the clerk to brood, with wrinkled brow, above the puzzle so unconsciously donated to him by a respectable one-time guest.

The weary delay in that town of sand and disorder at last came to an end, and Hemming and O'Rourke, with their passports countersigned by General Shafter, went aboard the Olivette. Most of the newspaper men were passengers on the same boat. During the rather slow trip, they made many friends and a few enemies. One of the friends was a youth with a camera, sent to take pictures for the same weekly paper which O'Rourke represented. The landing in Cuba of a part of the invading forces and the correspondents was made at Baiquiri, on the southern coast. The woful mismanagement of this landing has been written about often enough. O'Rourke and Hemming, unable to procure horses, set off toward Siboney on foot, and on foot they went through to Santiago with the ragged, hungry, wonderful army. They did their work well enough, and were thankful when it was over. Hemming admired the American army—up to a certain grade. Part of the time they had a merry Toronto journalist for messmate, a peaceful family man, who wore a round straw hat and low shoes throughout the campaign. During the marching (but not the fighting), O'Rourke happened upon several members of his old command. One of the meetings took place at midnight, when the Cuban warrior was in the act of carrying away Hemming's field-glasses and the Toronto man's blanket.

After the surrender of Santiago, Hemming received word to cover Porto Rico. He started at the first opportunity in a gunboat that had once been a harbour tug. O'Rourke, who was anxious to continue his still hunt for the lady who had nursed him, returned to Florida, and from thence to New York.

In Porto Rico Hemming had an easy and pleasant time. He struck up an acquaintance that soon warmed to intimacy with a young volunteer lieutenant of infantry, by name Ellis. Ellis was a quiet, well-informed youth; in civil life a gentleman-at-large with a reputation as a golfer. With his command of sixteen men he was stationed just outside of Ponce, and under the improvised canvas awning before his door he and Hemming exchanged views and confidences. One evening, while the red eyes of their green cigars glowed and dimmed in the darkness, Hemming told of his first meeting with O'Rourke. He described the little boat tossing toward them from the vast beyond, the poncho bellied with the wind, and the lean, undismayed adventurer smoking at the tiller. Ellis sat very quiet, staring toward the white tents of his men.

"Is that the same O'Rourke who was once wounded in Cuba, and later nearly died of fever in Tampa?" he asked, when Hemming was through.

"Yes, the same man," said Hemming, "and as decent a chap as ever put foot in stirrup. Do you know him?"

"No, but I have heard a deal about him," replied the lieutenant. It did not surprise Hemming that a man should hear about O'Rourke. Surely the good old chap had worked hard enough (in his own daring, vagrant way) for his reputation. He brushed a mosquito away from his neck, and smoked on in silence.

"I have heard a—a romance connected with your friend O'Rourke," said Ellis, presently, in a voice that faltered. Hemming pricked up his ears at that.

"So have I. Tell me what you have heard," he said.

"It is not so much what I've heard, as who I heard it from," began the lieutenant, "and it's rather a personal yarn. I met a girl, not long ago, and we seemed to take to each other from the start. I saw her frequently, and I got broken up on her. Then I found out that, though she liked me better than any other fellow in sight, she did not love me one little bit. She admired my form at golf, and considered my conversation edifying, but when it came to love, why, there was some one else. Then she told me about O'Rourke. She had nursed him in Tampa for several months, just before the time old Hudson had recaptured his fortune."

"O'Rourke told me something about it," said Hemming. "He thought, at the time, that he was an invalid for life, so he did not let her know how he felt about her. Afterward the doctors told him he was sound as a bell, and ever since—barring this last Cuban business—he has been looking for her."

"But he does not know that she loves him?" queried Ellis.

"I really couldn't say," replied Hemming.

Ellis shifted his position, and with deft fingers rerolled the leaf of his moist cigar. In a dim sort of way he wondered if he could give up the girl. In time, perhaps, she would love him—if he could keep O'Rourke out of sight. A man in the little encampment began to sing a sentimental negro melody. The clear, sympathetic tenor rang, like a bugle-call, across the stagnant air. A banjo, with its wilful pathos, tinkled and strummed.

"Listen! that is Bolls, my sergeant. He is a member of the Harvard Glee Club," said the lieutenant.

Hemming listened, and the sweet voice awoke the bitter memories. Presently he asked: "What is Miss Hudson's address?"

"She is now in Europe, with her father," replied his companion. "Their home is in Marlow, New York State."

"May I let O'Rourke know?" asked Hemming.

"Certainly," replied Ellis, scarce above a whisper. He wondered what nasty, unsuspected devil had sprung to power within him, keeping him from telling that the home in Marlow was by this time in the hands of strangers, and that the Hudsons intended living in New York after their return from Europe.

O'Rourke had asked Hemming to write to him now and then, to the Army and Navy Club at Washington, where the letters would be sure to find him sooner or later; so Hemming wrote him the glad information from Porto Rico.

CHAPTER XI.

HEMMING DRAWS HIS BACK PAY

Hemming walked down Broadway on the morning of a bright November day. The hurrying crowds on the pavements, however weary at heart, looked glad and eager in the sunlight. The stir of the wide street got into his blood, and he stepped along with the air of one bound upon an errand that promised more than money. He entered a cigar store, and filled his case with Turkish cigarettes. Some newspapers lay on the counter, but he turned away from them, for he was sick of news. Further along, he glanced into the windows of a book-shop. His gaze alighted upon the figure of a Turkish soldier. Across the width of the sheet ran the magic words, "Where Might Is Right. A Book of the Greco-Turkish War. By Herbert Hemming."

As one walks in a dream, Hemming entered the shop. "Give me a copy of that book," he said.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" inquired the shopman.

Hemming recovered his wits.

"I want a copy of 'Where Might Is Right,' by Hemming," he said. He laid aside his gloves and stick, and opened the book with loving hands. His first book. The pride of it must have been very apparent on his tanned face, for the man behind the counter smiled.

"I have read that book myself," ventured the man. "I always read a book that I sell more than twenty copies of in one day."

Hemming glowed, and continued his scrutiny of the volume. On one of the first pages was printed, "Authorized American Edition." The name of the publishers was S——'s Sons.

"Where do S——'s Sons hang out?" he asked, as he paid for the book.

"Just five doors below this," said the man.

"I'll look in there," decided Hemming, "before I call on Dodder."

The war correspondent was cordially received by the head of the great publishing house. He was given a comprehensive account of the arrangements made between his London and New York publishers, and these proved decidedly satisfactory. The business talk over, Hemming prepared to go.

"I hope you will look me up again before you leave town," said the head of the firm, as they shook hands.

Arrived in the outer office of the New York News Syndicate, Hemming inquired for Mr. Dodder. The clerk stared at him with so strange an expression that his temper suffered.

"Well, what the devil is the matter?" he exclaimed.

"Mr. Dodder is dead," replied the youth. Just then Wells came from an inner room, caught sight of the Englishman, and approached.

"So you're back, are you?" he remarked, with his hands in his pockets. Hemming was thinking of the big, kind-hearted manager, and replied by asking the cause of his death. "Apoplexy. Are you ready to sail for the Philippines? Why didn't you wait in Porto Rico for orders?" he snapped.

"Keep cool, my boy," said Hemming's brain to Hemming's heart. Hemming himself said, with painful politeness: "I can be ready in two days, Mr. Wells, but first we must make some new arrangements as to expenses and salary."

"Do you think you are worth more than you get?" sneered Wells. "Has that book that you wrote, when we were paying you to do work for us, given you a swelled head?"

Hemming was about to reply when an overgrown young man, a bookkeeper, who had been listening, nudged his elbow roughly.

"Here's your mail," he said.

Hemming placed the half-dozen letters in his pocket. His face was quite pale, considering the length of time he had been in the tropics. He took the overgrown youth by the front of his jacket and shook him. Then he twirled him deftly and pushed him sprawling against his enraged employer. Both went down, swearing viciously. The other inmates of the great room stared and waited. Most of them looked pleased. An office boy, who had received notice to leave that morning, sprang upon a table. "Soak it to 'em, Dook. Soak it to 'em, you bang-up Chawley. Dey can't stand dat sort o' health food."

Wells got to his feet. The bookkeeper scrambled up and rushed at Hemming. He was received in a grip that made him repent his action.

"Mr. Wells," said Hemming, "I shall hold on to this gentleman, who does not seem to know how to treat his superiors, until he cools off, and in the meantime I'll trouble you for what money is due me, up to date. Please accept my resignation at the same time."

"I'll call a copper," sputtered Wells.

The door opened, and the head of the publishing house of S——'s Sons entered.

"Good Lord, what is the trouble?" he cried.

"I am trying to draw my pay," explained Hemming.

The new arrival looked at the ruffled, confused Wells with eyes of contempt and suspicion.

"I'll wait for you, Mr. Hemming, on condition that you will lunch with me," he cried.

A few minutes later they left the building, and in his pocket Hemming carried a check for the sum of his back pay.

"In a month from now," said his companion, "that concern will not be worth as much as your check is written for. Even poor old Dodder had all he could do to hold it together. He had the brains and decency, and that fellow had the money."

By the time lunch was over, Hemming found himself once more in harness, but harness of so easy a fit that not a buckle galled. The billet was a roving commission from S——'s Sons to do articles of unusual people and unusual places for their illustrated weekly magazine. He spent the afternoon in reading and writing letters. He advised every one with whom he had dealings of his new headquarters. He had a good collection of maps, and sat up until three in the morning pondering over them. Next day he bought himself a camera, and overhauled his outfit. By the dawn of the third day after his separation from the syndicate, he had decided to start northward, despite the season.

The clamour of battle was no longer his guide. Now the Quest of the Little-Known was his. It brought him close to many hearths, and taught him the hearts of all sorts and conditions of men. In the span of a few years, it made him familiar with a hundred villages between Nain in the North and Rio de Janeiro in the South. He found comfort under the white lights of strange cities, and sought peace in various wildernesses. Under the canvas roof and the bark, as under the far-shining shelters of the town, came ever the dream of his old life for bedfellow.

END OF PART I.