Zane Grey - The Day of the Beast

Their hand-clasp was close, almost fierce, and neither spoke at once. But they looked intently into each other's faces. Emotion stormed Lane's heart. He realized that Blair loved him and that he loved Blair—and that between them was a measureless bond, a something only separation could make tangible. But little of what they felt came out in their greetings.

“Dare, why the devil don't you can that uniform,” demanded Blair, cheerfully. “People might recognize you've been 'over there.'”

“Well, Blair, I expected you'd have a cork leg by this time,” said Lane.

“Nothing doing,” returned the other. “I want to be perpetually reminded that I was in the war. This 'forget the war' propaganda we see and hear all over acts kind of queer on a soldier.... Let's find a bench away from these people.”

After they were comfortably seated Blair went on: “Do you know, Dare, I don't miss my leg so much when I'm crutching around. But when I try to sit down or get up! By heck, sometimes I forget it's gone. And sometimes I want to scratch my lost foot. Isn't that hell?”

“I'll say so, Buddy,” returned Lane, with a laugh.

“Read this,” said Blair, taking a paper from his pocket, and indicating a column.

Whereupon Lane read a brief Associated Press dispatch from Washington, D.C., stating that one Payson, disabled soldier of twenty-five, suffering with tuberculosis caused by gassed lungs, had come to Washington to make in person a protest and appeal that had been unanswered in letters. He wanted money from the government to enable him to travel west to a dry climate, where doctors assured him he might get well. He made his statement to several clerks and officials, and waited all day in the vestibule of the department. Suddenly he was seized with a hemorrhage, and, falling on the floor, died before aid could be summoned.

Without a word Lane handed the paper back to his friend.

“Red was a queer duck,” said Blair, rather hoarsely. “You remember when I 'phoned you last over two weeks ago?... Well, just after that Red got bad on my hands. He wouldn't accept charity, he said. And he wanted to beat it. He got wise to my mother. He wouldn't give up trying to get money from the government—back money owed him, he swore—and the idea of being turned down at home seemed to obsess him. I talked and cussed myself weak. No good! Red beat it soon after that—beat it from Middleville on a freight train. And I never heard a word from him.... Not a word....”

“Blair, can't you see it Red's way?” queried Lane, sadly.

“Yes, I can,” responded Blair, “but hell! he might have gotten well. Doc Bronson said Red had a chance. I could have borrowed enough money to get him out west. Red wouldn't take it.”

“And he ran off—exposed himself to cold and starvation—over-exertion and anger,” added Lane.

“Exactly. Brought on that hemorrhage and croaked. All for nothing!”

“No, Blair. All for a principle,” observed Lane. “Red was fired out of the hospital without a dollar. There was something terribly wrong.”

“Wrong?... God Almighty!” burst out Blair, with hard passion. “Let me read you something in this same paper.” With shaking hands he unfolded it, searched until he found what he wanted, and began to read:

“'If the actual needs of disabled veterans require the expenditure of much money, then unquestionably a majority of the taxpayers of the country will favor spending it. Despite the insistent demand for economy in Washington that is arising from every part of the country, no member of House or Senate will have occasion to fear that he is running counter to popular opinion when eventually he votes to take generous care of disabled soldiers.'”

Blair's trembling voice ceased, and then twisting the newspaper into a rope, he turned to Lane. “Dare, can you understand that?... Red Payson was a bull-headed boy, not over bright. But you and I have some intelligence, I hope. We can allow for the immense confusion at Washington—the senselessness of red tape—the callosity of politicians. But when we remember the eloquent calls to us boys—the wonderfully worded appeals to our patriotism, love of country and home—the painted posters bearing the picture of a beautiful American girl—or a young mother with a baby—remembering these deep, passionate calls to the best in us, can you understand that sort of talk now?”

“Blair, I think I can,” replied Lane. “Then—before and after the draft—the whole country was at a white heat of all that the approach of war rouses. Fear, self-preservation, love of country, hate of the Huns, inspired patriotism, and in most everybody the will to fight and to sacrifice.... The war was a long, hideous, soul-racking, nerve-destroying time. When it ended, and the wild period of joy and relief had its run, then all that pertained to the war sickened and wearied and disgusted the majority of people. It's 'forget the war.' You and Payson and I got home a year too late.”

“Then—it's just—monstrous,” said Blair, heavily.

“That's all, Blair. Just monstrous. But we can't beat our spirits out against this wall. No one can understand us—how alone we are. Let's forget that —this wall—this thing called government. Shall we spend what time we have to live always in a thunderous atmosphere of mind—hating, pondering, bitter?”

“No. I'll make a compact with you,” returned Blair, with flashing eyes. “Never to speak again of that —so long as we live!”

“Never to a living soul,” rejoined Lane, with a ring in his voice.

They shook hands much the same as when they had met half an hour earlier.

“So!” exclaimed Blair, with a deep breath. “And now, Dare, tell me how you made out with Helen. You cut me short over the 'phone.”

“Blair, that day coming into New York on the ship, you didn't put it half strong enough,” replied Lane. Then he told Blair about the call he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio.

Blair did not voice the scorn that his eyes expressed. And, in fact, most of his talking was confined to asking questions. Lane found it easy enough to unburden himself, though he did not mention his calls on Mel Iden, or Colonel Pepper's disclosures.

“Well, I guess it's high time we were meandering up to the hall,” said Blair, consulting his watch. “I'm curious about this Prom. Think we're in for a jolt. It's four years since I went to a Prom. Now, both of us, Dare, have a sister who'll be there, besides all our old friends.... And we're not dancing! But I want to look on. They've got an out-of-town orchestra coming—a jazz orchestra. There'll probably be a hot time in the old town to-night.”

“Lorna did not tell me,” replied Lane, as they got up to go. “But I suppose she'd rather I didn't know. We've clashed a good deal lately.”

“Dare, I hear lots of talk,” said Blair. “Margaret is chummy with me, and some of her friends are always out at the house. I hear Dick Swann is rushing Lorna. Think he's doing it on the q-t.”

“I know he is, Blair, but I can't catch them together,” returned Lane. “Lorna is working now. Swann got her the job.”

“Looks bad to me,” replied Blair, soberly. “Swann is cutting a swath. I hear his old man is sore on him.... I'd take Lorna out of that office quick.”

“Maybe you would,” declared Lane, grimly. “For all the influence or power I have over Lorna I might as well not exist.”

They walked silently along the street for a little while. Lane had to accommodate his step to the slower movement of his crippled friend. Blair's crutch tapped over the stone pavement and clicked over the curbs. They crossed the railroad tracks and turned off the main street to go down a couple of blocks.