Part 21

“I’ve been lying here for ten year’,” said Tummas, savagely. “An’ I’ve had nowt i’ the world to do an’ nowt to think on but what I could mak’ foak tell me about the village. But nowt happens but this chap gettin’ drunk an’ that chap deein’ or losin’ his place, or wenches gettin’ married or havin’ childer. I know everything that happens, but it’s nowt but a lot o’ women clackin’. If I’d not been a cripple, I’d ha’ been at work for mony a year by now, ’arnin’ money to save by an’ go to ’Meriker.”

“You seem to be sort of stuck on America. How’s that?”

“What dost mean?”

“I mean you seem to like it.”

“I dun not loike it nor yet not loike it, but I’ve heard a bit more about it than I have about the other places on the map. Foak goes there to seek their fortune, an’ it seems loike there’s a good bit doin’.”

“Do you like to read newspapers?” said Tembarom, inspired to his query by a recollection of the vision of things “doin’” in the Sunday “Earth.”

“Wheer’d I get papers from?” the boy asked testily. “Foak like us hasn’t got the brass for ’em.”

“I’ll bring you some New York papers,” promised Tembarom, grinning a little in anticipation. “And we’ll talk about the news that’s in them. The Sunday ‘Earth’ is full of pictures. I used to work on that paper myself.”

“Tha did?” he cried excitedly. “Did tha help to print it, or was it the one tha sold i’ the streets?”

“I wrote some of the stuff in it.”

“Wrote some of the stuff in it? Wrote it thaself? How could tha, a common chap like thee?” he asked, more excited still, his ferret eyes snapping.

“I don’t know how I did it,” Tembarom answered, with increased cheer and interest in the situation. “It wasn’t high-brow sort of work.”

Tummas leaned forward in his incredulous eagerness.

“Does tha mean that they paid thee for writin’ it--paid thee?”

“I guess they wouldn’t have done it if they’d been Lancashire,” Tembarom answered. “But they hadn’t much more sense than I had. They paid me twenty-five dollars a week--that’s five pounds.”

“I dun not believe thee,” said Tummas, and leaned back on his pillow short of breath.

“I didn’t believe it myself till I’d paid my board two weeks and bought a suit of clothes with it,” was Tembarom’s answer, and he chuckled as he made it.

But Tummas did believe it. This, after he had recovered from the shock, became evident. The curiosity in his face intensified itself; his eagerness was even vaguely tinged with something remotely resembling respect. It was not, however, respect for the money which had been earned, but for the store of things “doin’” which must have been acquired. It was impossible that this chap knew things undreamed of.

“Has tha ever been to the Klondike?” he asked after a long pause.

“No. I’ve never been out of New York.”

Tummas seemed fretted and depressed.

“Eh, I’m sorry for that. I wished tha’d been to the Klondike. I want to be towd about it,” he sighed. He pulled the atlas toward him and found a place in it.

“That theer’s Dawson,” he announced. Tembarom saw that the region of the Klondike had been much studied. It was even rather faded with the frequent passage of searching fingers, as though it had been pored over with special curiosity.

“There’s gowd-moines theer,” revealed Tummas. “An’ theer’s welly nowt else but snow an’ ice. A young chap as set out fro’ here to get theer froze to death on the way.”

“How did you get to hear about it?”

“Ann she browt me a paper onct.” He dug under his pillow, and brought out a piece of newspaper, worn and frayed and cut with age and usage. “This heer’s what’s left of it.” Tembarom saw that it was a fragment from an old American sheet and that a column was headed “The Rush for the Klondike.”

“Why didn’t tha go theer?” demanded Tummas. He looked up from his fragment and asked his question with a sudden reflectiveness, as though a new and interesting aspect of things had presented itself to him.

“I had too much to do in New York,” said Tembarom.

Tummas silently regarded him a moment or so.

“It’s a pity tha didn’t,” he said. “Happen tha’d never ha’ coom back.”

Tembarom laughed the outright laugh.

“Thank you,” he answered.

Tummas was still thinking the matter over and was not disturbed.

“I was na thinkin’ o’ thee,” he said in an impersonal tone. “I was thinkin’ o’ t’other chap. If tha’d gone i’stead o’ him, he’d ha’ been here i’stead o’ thee. Eh, but it’s funny.” And he drew a deep breath like a sigh having its birth in profundity of baffled thought.

Both he and his evident point of view were “funny” in the Lancashire sense, which does not imply humor, but strangeness and the unexplainable. Singular as the phrasing was, Tembarom knew what he meant, and that he was thinking of the oddity of chance. Tummas had obviously heard of “poor Jem” and had felt an interest in him.

“You’re talking about Jem Temple Barholm I guess,” he said. Perhaps the interest he himself had felt in the tragic story gave his voice a tone somewhat responsive to Tummas’s own mood, for Tummas, after one more boring glance, let himself go. His interest in this special subject was, it revealed itself, a sort of obsession. The history of Jem Temple Barholm had been the one drama of his short life.

“Aye, I was thinkin’ o’ him,” he said. “I should na ha’ cared for the Klondike so much but for him.”

“But he went away from England when you were a baby.”

“The last toime he coom to Temple Barholm wur when I wur just born. Foak said he coom to ax owd Temple Barholm if he’d help him to pay his debts, an’ the owd chap awmost kicked him out o’ doors. Mother had just had me, an’ she was weak an’ poorly an’ sittin’ at the door wi’ me in her arms, an’ he passed by an’ saw her. He stopped an’ axed her how she was doin’. An when he was goin’ away, he gave her a gold sovereign, an’ he says, ‘Put it in the savin’s-bank for him, an’ keep it theer till he’s a big lad an’ wants it.’ It’s been in the savin’s-bank ever sin’. I’ve got a whole pound o’ ma own out at interest. There’s not many lads ha’ got that.”

“He must have been a good-natured fellow,” commented Tembarom. “It was darned bad luck him going to the Klondike.”

“It was good luck for thee,” said Tummas, with resentment.

“Was it?” was Tembarom’s unbiased reply. “Well, I guess it was, one way or the other. I’m not kicking, anyhow.”

Tummas naturally did not know half he meant. He went on talking about Jem Temple Barholm, and as he talked his cheeks flushed and his eyes lighted.

“I would na spend that sovereign if I was starvin’. I’m going to leave it to Ann Hutchinson in ma will when I dee. I’ve axed questions about him reet and left ever sin’ I can remember, but theer’s nobody knows much. Mother says he was fine an’ handsome, an’ gentry through an’ through. If he’d coom into the property, he’d ha’ coom to see me again. I’ll lay a shillin’, because I’m a cripple an’ I cannot spend his sovereign. If he’d coom back from the Klondike, happen he’d ha’ towd me about it.” He pulled the atlas toward him, and laid his thin finger on the rubbed spot. “He mun ha’ been killed somewheer about here,” he sighed. “Somewheer here. Eh, it’s funny.”

Tembarom watched him. There was something that rather gave you the “Willies” in the way this little cripple seemed to have taken to the dead man and worried along all these years thinking him over and asking questions and studying up the Klondike because he was killed there. It was because he’d made a kind of story of it. He’d enjoyed it in the way people enjoy stories in a newspaper. You always had to give ’em a kind of story; you had to make a story even if you were telling about a milk-wagon running away. In newspaper offices you heard that was the secret of making good with what you wrote. Dish it up as if it was a sort of story.

He not infrequently arrived at astute enough conclusions concerning things. He had arrived at one now. Shut out even from the tame drama of village life, Tummas, born with an abnormal desire for action and a feverish curiosity, had hungered and thirsted for the story in any form whatsoever. He caught at fragments of happenings, and colored and dissected them for the satisfying of unfed cravings. The vanished man had been the one touch of pictorial form and color in his ten years of existence. Young and handsome and of the gentry, unfavored by the owner of the wealth which some day would be his own possession, stopping “gentry-way” at a cottage door to speak good-naturedly to a pale young mother, handing over the magnificence of a whole sovereign to be saved for a new-born child, going away to vaguely understood disgrace, leaving his own country to hide himself in distant lands, meeting death amid snow and ice and surrounded by gold-mines, leaving his empty place to be filled by a boot-black newsboy--true there was enough to lie and think over and to try to follow with the help of maps and excited questions.

“I wish I could ha’ seen him,” said Tummas. “I’d awmost gi’ my sovereign to get a look at that picture in the gallery at Temple Barholm.”

“What picture?” Tembarom asked. “Is there a picture of him there?”

“There is na one o’ him, but there’s one o’ a lad as deed two hundred year’ ago as they say wur the spit an’ image on him when he wur a lad hissen. One o’ the owd servants towel mother it wur theer.”

This was a natural stimulus to interest and curiosity.

“Which one is it? Jinks! I’d like to see it myself. Do you know which one it is? There’s hundreds of them.”

“No, I dun not know,” was Tummas’s dispirited answer, “an’ neither does mother. The woman as knew left when owd Temple Barholm deed.”

“Tummas,” broke in Mrs. Hibblethwaite from the other end of the room, to which she had returned after taking Miss Alicia out to complain about the copper in the “wash-’us’--” “Tummas, tha ’st been talkin’ like a magpie. Tha ’rt a lot too bold an’ ready wi’ tha tongue. The gentry’s noan comin’ to see thee if tha clacks the heads off theer showthers.”

“I’m afraid he always does talk more than is good for him,” said Miss Alicia. “He looks quite feverish.”

“He has been talking to me about Jem Temple Barholm,” explained Tembarom. “We’ve had a regular chin together. He thinks a heap of poor Jem.”

Miss Alicia looked startled, and Mrs. Hibblethwaite was plainly flustered tremendously. She quite lost her temper.

“Eh,” she exclaimed, “tha wants tha young yed knocked off, Tummas Hibblethwaite. He’s fair daft about the young gentleman as--as was killed. He axes questions mony a day till I’d give him the stick if he was na a cripple. He moithers me to death.”

“I’ll bring you some of those New York papers to look at,” Tembarom said to the boy as he went away.

He walked back through the village to Temple Barholm, holding Miss Alicia’s elbow in light, affectionate guidance and support, a little to her embarrassment and also a little to her delight. Until he had taken her into the dining-room the night before she had never seen such a thing done. There was no over-familiarity in the action. It merely seemed somehow to suggest liking and a wish to take care of her.

“That little fellow in the village,” he said after a silence in which it occurred to her that he seemed thoughtful, “what a little freak he is! He’s got an idea that there’s a picture in the gallery that’s said to look like Jem Temple Barholm when he was a boy. Have you ever heard anything about it? He says a servant told his mother it was there.”

“Yes, there is one,” Miss Alicia answered. “I sometimes go and look at it. But it makes me feel very sad. It is the handsome boy who was a page in the court of Charles II. He died in his teens. His name was Miles Hugo Charles James. Jem could see the likeness himself. Sometimes for a little joke I used to call him Miles Hugo.”

“I believe I remember him,” said Tembarom. “I believe I asked Palford his name. I must go and have a look at him again. He hadn’t much better luck than the fellow that looked like him, dying as young as that.”

(To be continued)

[Illustration]

[Illustration: TOPICS OF THE TIME]

WAR AGAINST WAR

TACTICS THAT THE FRIENDS OF PEACE MAY LEARN FROM THE MILITARISTS

Through Matthew Arnold we have been made familiar with one of the figures clearly limned by Clarendon. It is that of Falkland, whose humane spirit and love of peace made the casting of his lot in the time of the civil war in England seem peculiarly tragic. Often in the course of that bitter and bloody conflict he was heard to “ingeminate” the word “peace.”

A similar feeling of grief and frustration in the presence of war is one of the distinguishing marks of our own day. The best and wisest in the world hold peace congresses and conferences on arbitration (as they are to do soon in St. Louis), and seem to gain painful inches only to have all their efforts made apparently vain by some inrush of the war spirit. The Hague Tribunal is founded and The Hague agreement solemnly entered into, but that does not prevent one of the covenanting nations from seizing another’s land by the sword. Projects for universal arbitration are mooted, amid the applause of Christendom, and plans for the judicial settlement of international disputes are ripening, at the very time when tens of thousands of men are about to be killed in battle.

So it is that peace seems to be to the civilized world only an unattainable longing. We think of war to-day, in the Scripture phrase, with groanings that cannot be uttered. Never so hated, it sometimes appears as if it were never so fated.

It is well for peace-lovers now and then to put the case thus strongly, in order that they may face the difficulty at its darkest. The fact that the evil they struggle against is persistent is but one argument more for their own persistence. Pacifists must be as ready and resourceful as the militarists. If ever it is right to learn from an enemy, it surely is in this instance. Something has been gained in this way. The late William James, for example, contended that we must admit that there are some good, human weapons in the hands of the war party, and that the peace men must study, not only how to appreciate them, but how to use them. Professor James would have sought in peaceful pursuits the equivalents of the appeal which war makes to certain manly qualities. Heroism in private life, in scientific pursuits, in exploration, in reform--this is what he urged. The patriotic impulse transmuted into great engineering works, vast plans for sanitation, campaigns against disease and misery--that is what peace can offer to ardent youth. All this is sound, and good as far as it goes; but the question arises to-day whether there is not need of something more positive and aggressive, whether the spirit of militarism cannot be turned against itself; whether, in a word, there should not be war against war.

The conduct of a military campaign calls for an enormous amount of preparation and organization. Let the advocates of peace take this to heart. They cannot win simply by wishing to win. It is for them, too, to be far-sighted, to lay careful plans, to enlist every modern method of working in unison to a definite end. War mobilizes men. Peace must muster ideas, sentiments, influences. In the _Kriegspiel_ the strategist seeks to mass his troops upon the enemy’s weakest point. The tactics of peace should be similar. Argument and persuasion and appeal should be made to converge upon the exposed flank of the militarists. This may be found, at one moment, in the pressure of taxation, which needlessly swollen armaments would make unbearable. At another time, it may appear that the thing to hammer upon is the pressing need of social reforms, even attention to which will be endangered if all the available money and time are squandered upon preparing for a war that may never come. Let peace, too, acquire a General Staff, whose duty it shall be to survey the whole field, to work out fruitful campaigns, to tell us where to strike and how, to lay down the principles of the grand strategy to be followed.

Nor need individual effort be ruled out. Despite the large and coördinated movements of soldiers in a modern battle, there yet remains room for personal initiative and daring. The shining moment comes when some one in the ranks or in command is called upon to risk all with the possibility of gaining all. And there are still “forlorn hopes” to be led. Why should not these methods and appeals of war be imitated by those who are fighting for peace? They can point to many services calling for volunteers. There is ridicule to be faced, unpopular opinion to be stood up for calmly in the teeth of opposition and even scorn, testimony to be borne, questions to be asked, protests to be made. There is, in short, every opportunity to import from war the heroic element and give it scope and effect in the propaganda of peace. The very wrath of man can be made to praise the growth of civilization.

War against war can be made very concrete and practical. Committees can be formed to watch the military authorities and Congress, and to elicit an expression of opinion when it will be most useful. It is a matter of frequent lamenting on the part of peace men in the House of Representatives that their hands are so feebly held up by the opponents of war. The other side is alert and active. When big-navy or big-army bills are pending, the mail of congressmen is loaded with requests--usually, of course, interested requests--to vote for them. The lovers of peace, on the other hand, appear to be smitten with writer’s cramp. They act as if they were indifferent. This state of things should not be permitted to go on. There should be minute-men of the cause all over the land ready to spring into action. That a sound opinion of the country exists, only needing concerted effort to call it forth, has been shown again and again. It was proved at the time when President Taft’s treaties of universal arbitration were pending in the Senate. In those days the desire of the best people of the United States came to Washington like the sound of the voice of many waters. Schools and colleges, chambers of commerce and churches, sent in petition piled on petition, and remonstrance heaped on protest. One of the senators who opposed ratification admitted to the President that he had never had so formidable a pressure from his own State as on this question.

That lesson should not be lost. By organization, by watchfulness, by determination, the peace spirit of the land can be given much more effective expression than it has yet had. The situation is not at all one that justifies discouragement; it simply calls for fresh and more intelligent action, with heightened resolution. If only the genius of a Von Moltke could be devoted to organizing and directing the forces that make against war, we might reasonably hope for a realization of the poet’s vision of peace lying like level shafts of light across the land.

THE GREAT FLOODS IN THE MIDDLE WEST

WITH THE RENEWED SUGGESTION OF A WIDE-REACHING PROJECT OF FLOOD-MITIGATION

One cannot read of the recent disastrous overflow of the rivers of the Ohio Valley watershed without a sinking of the heart, to think how near is happiness to grief. That thousands, apparently through no fault of their own, should be overwhelmed by the relentless powers of nature, takes us back to a pagan conception of the universe, until we begin to sum up the unpagan-like solidarity in the sympathy of mankind, the touch of human nature that makes the whole world kin. Senator Root recently said that “the progress of civilization is marked by the destruction of isolation,” meaning, of course, by the drawing together of men through common ideas, interests, and even sorrows. It is no perfunctory thought that out of such calamities come many of the heroisms, the sacrifices, the lightning-like-flashes of spiritual revelation that ennoble humanity.

With becoming awe at what seems to have been unpreventable, it is sadly appropriate to inquire what might have been done in past years to lessen the recurrent tragedy of the western floods. To be sure, one cannot by a gesture bid the tempest stand, but nothing is more demonstrable than that the greed and neglect of man have greatly contributed to the destructiveness of floods. The devastation of the ax leads direct to the devastation of the waters. The excessive deforesting of Ohio and Indiana for a hundred years is no illusory or negligible factor in the crisis of death and desolation that has fallen upon those States.

In this magazine for August, 1912, in an article entitled “A Duty of the South to Itself,” written apropos of the Mississippi floods of last year, we renewed a suggestion which we first made in 1904 and have since several times repeated, looking toward the mitigation of the annual peril to the Ohio and Mississippi valleys. It presented the urgent necessity of setting on foot a policy of coöperation among the Eastern States to save from destruction the flood-restraining upper reaches of the entire Appalachian range. As a matter of public interest, this article was sent to all senators and members of Congress, to the Southern and other newspapers, and to the governors and Chambers of Commerce in the Ohio and Mississippi valleys. Although the suggestion was in the plainest conformity with scientific opinion, it apparently fell upon deaf ears. The imagination of no governor or legislator has been roused to the point of action. After we have reckoned up the cost of the recent floods in lives and money, shall we lie down again to pleasant dreams, oblivious of the fact that to sow neglect is to reap calamity?

COMMON SENSE IN THE WHITE HOUSE

NON-PARTIZAN QUESTIONS ON WHICH PRESIDENT WILSON BEGINS WELL