Delphi complete works of.., p.289
Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 289
“My boy,” the sweet old lady said, “I hate to see you go. I’ve knowed you since when you was but a kid, But if the question you should ask, I’ll tell the whole world so — It’s the only decent thing you ever did.”
A tear she brushed aside, And then she sadly cried:
CHORUS
“I’m proud my boy’s a sailor man what sails upon the sea. I’ve always liked him pretty well although he is so dumb. For years he’s stuck around the house and disappointed me. I thought that he was going to be a bum.”
He took her gently by the hand and kissed her on the bean And said, “When I’m about to fight the Hun You shouldn’t talk to me that way; I think it’s awfully mean — I ain’t agoin’ to have a lot of fun.”
“I know, my child,” the mother said. “The parting makes me sad, But go you must away and fight the war. At least you will not live to drink as much as did your dad — So here’s your lid, my lad, and there’s the door.”
Then as he turned away He heard her softly say:
CHORUS
“The sailors I have ever loved. I’m glad my lad’s a gob, Although it seems to me he’s much too dumb. But after all perhaps he isn’t such an awful slob — I always knew that Kaiser was a bum!”
Aug. 9th. The best way to make a deserter of a man is to give him too much liberty. For the past week I have been getting my dog Fogerty on numerous liberty lists when he shouldn’t have been there, but not contented with that he has taken to going around with a couple of yeomen, and the first thing I know he will be getting on a special detail where the liberty is soft. I put nothing past that dog since he lost his head to some flop-eared huzzy with a black and tan reputation.
Aug. 10th. All day long and a little longer I have been carrying sacks of flour. The next time I see a stalk of wheat I am going to snarl at it. This new occupation is a sort of special penance for not having my hammock lashed in time. It seems that I have been in the service long enough to know how to do the thing right by now, but the seventh hitch is a sly little devil and always gets me. I need a longer line or a shorter hammock, but the only way out of it that I can see is to get a commission and rate a bed.
“I carried all the flour to-day that was raised last year in the southern section of the state of montana”
I carried all the flour to-day that was raised last year in the southern section of the State of Montana, and I was carrying it well and cheerfully until one of my pet finger nails (the one that the manicure girls in the Biltmore used to rave about) thrust itself through the sack and precipitated its contents upon myself and the floor. A commissary steward when thoroughly aroused is a poisonous member of society. One would have thought that I had sunk the great fleet the way this bird went on about one little sack of flour.
“Here Mr. Hoover works hard night and day all winter,” he sobs at me, “and you go spreading it around as if you were Marie Antoinette.”
I wondered what new scandal he had about Marie Antoinette, but I held my peace. My horror was so great that the real color of my face made the flour look like a coat of sunburn in comparison.
“There’s enough flour there,” he continued reproachfully, pointing to the huge mound of stuff in which I stood like a lost explorer on a snow-capped mountain peak and wishing heartily that I was one, “there’s enough flour,” he continued, “to keep a chief petty officer in pie for twenty-four hours.”
“Just about,” thought I to myself.
“Well,” he cried irritably, “pick it up. Be quick. Pick it up — all of it!”
“Pick it up,” I replied through a cloud of mist, “you can’t pick up flour. You can pick up apples and pears and cabbages and cigarette butts for that matter, but you can’t pick up flour.”
The commissary steward suddenly handed me a piece of paper upon which he had been writing frantically.
“Take this to your P.O.,” he said shrilly, “and take yourself along with it.
“A defect in the sack,” I gasped, departing.
“And there’s a defect in you,” he shouted after me, “your brain is exempted.”
“Take this man and kill him if you can find any slight technical excuse for it,” the note ran, “and if you can’t kill him, give him an inaptitude discharge with my compliments, and if you are unable to do either of these two things, at least keep him away from my outfit. We don’t want to see his silly face around here any more at all.”
The P.O. read it to me with great delight.
“I guess we’ll have to send you to Siberia after all,” he said thoughtfully, “only that country is in far too delicate a condition for you to meddle with at present. Go away to somewhere where I can’t see you,” he continued bitterly, “for I feel inclined to do you an injury, something permanent and serious.” I went right away.
Aug. 11th. Mother has just paid one of her belligerent visits to the camp, and as a consequence I am on the point of having a flock of brainstorms. Some misguided person had been telling her about the Officer Training School up here, and she arrived fired with the ambition to enter me in to that institution without further delay. True to form, she bounded headlong into the matter without consulting my feelings by accosting the very first commissioned officer she met. He happened to be an Ensign, but he might as well have been a Vice-Admiral for all Mother cared.
“Tell me, young man,” she said to this Ensign, going directly to the point, “do you see any reason why my boy Oswald should not go to that place where they make all the Ensigns?”
“Yes,” said the officer firmly, “I do.”
“Oh, you do,” snapped Mother angrily, “and pray tell me what that reason might be?”
“Your son Oswald,” replied the Ensign laconically.
“What!” exclaimed Mother, “you mean to say that my Oswald is not good enough to go to your silly old school?”
“No,” replied the Ensign, weakening pitifully before the withering fury of an aroused mother, “but you see, my dear madam, he has not a first class rating.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Mother.
“Crossed anchors,” replied the Ensign.
“I didn’t mean that,” continued Mother, “I think the whole thing is very mysterious and silly, and I’m not going to let it stop here. You can trust me, Oswald,” she went on soothingly. “I am going to see the Commander of the station myself. I am going this very instant.”
“But, Mother,” I cried in desperation, tossing all consequences to the wind, “the ‘skipper’ isn’t on the station to-day. He got a 43-hour liberty. I saw him check out of the gate myself.”
For a moment the Ensign’s jaw dropped. I watched him anxiously. Then with perfect composure he turned to Mother and came through like a little gentleman.
“Yes, madam,” he stated, “your son is right. I heard his name read out with the liberty party only a moment ago. He has shoved off by now.”
I could have kissed that Ensign.
“Well, I’m sure,” said Mother, “it’s very funny that I can never get to the Captain. I shall write him, however.”
“He must have an interesting collection of your letters already,” I suggested. “They would be interesting to publish in book form.”
“Anyway,” continued Mother, apparently not attending to my remark, “I think you would look just as well as this young man in one of those nice white suits.”
“No doubt, madam,” replied the Ensign propitiatingly, “no doubt.”
“Come, Mother,” said I, “let’s go to the Y.M.C.A. I need something cool to steady my nerves.”
“How about your underwear?” said Mother, coming back to her mania, in a voice that invited all within earshot who were interested in my underwear to draw nigh and attend.
“Here, eat this ice cream,” I put in quickly, almost feeding her. “It’s melting.”
But Mother was not to be decoyed away from her favorite topic.
“I must look it over,” she continued firmly.
It seemed to me that every eye in the room was calmly penetrating my whites and carefully looking over the underwear in which Mother took such an exaggerated interest. “Socks!” suddenly exploded Mother. “How are you off for socks?”
“Splendidly,” I said in a hoarse voice. A girl behind me snickered.
“And have you that liniment to rub on your stomach when you have cramps?” she went on ruggedly.
“Enough to last through the Fall season,” I replied in a moody voice. I didn’t tell her that Tim the barkeep had tried to drink it.
“Polly!” suddenly exclaimed Mother. “Polly! Why, I forgot to tell you that she said that she would be up this afternoon. She must be here now.”
The world swam around me. Polly was my favorite sweetie.
“Oh, Mother!” I cried reproachfully, “how could you have forgotten?”
At that moment I heard a familiar voice issuing from the corner, and turning around, I caught sight of the staff reporter of the camp paper, a notoriously unscrupulous sailor with predatory proclivities. He had gotten Polly in a corner and was chinning the ear off of her. As I drew near I heard him saying:
“Really it’s an awful pity, but I distinctly remember him saying that he was going away on liberty to-day. He mentioned some girl’s name, but it didn’t sound anything at all like yours.”
Polly looked at him trustfully.
“Are you sure, Mr. — —”
“Savanrola,” the lying wretch supplied without turning a hair.
“Are you sure, Mr. Savanrola, that he has left the station?”
“Saw him check out with my own eyes,” he said calmly.
I moved nearer, my hands twitching.
“Now with an honest old seafaring man like myself,” he continued, in a confidential voice, “it’s different. Why, if I should wear all the hash marks I rate I’d look like a zebra. So I just don’t wear any. You know how it is. But when I like a girl I stick to her. Now from the very first moment I laid eyes on you—”
Human endurance could stand no more. I threw myself between them.
“Why, here’s Oswald hisself,” exclaimed the reporter with masterfully feigned surprise. “However did you get back so soon?”
“I have never been away anywhere to get back from, and you know it,” I replied coldly.
“Strange!” he said, “I could have sworn that I saw you checking out. Can I get you some ice cream?” he added smoothly.
“What on?” I replied bitterly, knowing him always to be broke.
“Your mother must have—”
“Come,” said I to Polly, “leave this degraded creature to ply his pernicious trade alone. I have some very important words to say to you.”
“Good-by, Mr. Savanrola,” said Polly.
“Until we meet again,” answered the reporter, with the utmost confidence.
Aug. 12th. It’s all arranged. Those words I had to say to Polly were not spoken in vain. She has promised to be my permanent sweetie. Of course, I have had a number of transit sweeties in the past, but now I’m going to settle down to one steady, day in and day out sweetie. I told Tim, the barkeep, about it last night and all he said was:
“What about all those parties we’d planned to have after we were paid off?”
This sort of set me back for the moment. The spell of Polly’s eyes had made me forget all about Tim.
“Well, Tim,” I replied, “I’ll have to think about that. Come on over to the canteen and I’ll feed you some of those honest, upstanding sandwiches they have over there.”
“Say,” says Tim, the carnal beast, forgetting everything at the prospect of food, “I feel as if I could cover a flock of them without trying.”
So together Tim and I had a bachelor’s dinner over the sandwiches, which were worthy of that auspicious occasion.
Aug. 17th. We were standing on a street corner of a neighboring town. The party consisted of Tim the barkeep, the “Spider,” an individual who modestly acknowledged credit for having brought relief to several over-crowded safes in the good old civilian days; Tony, who delivered ice in my district also in those aforementioned days, and myself. These gentlemen for some time had been allowing me to exist in peace, and I had been showing my gratitude by buying them whatever little dainties they desired, but such a comfortable state of affairs could not long continue with that bunch. Suddenly, without any previous consultation, as if drawn together as it were by some fiendish undercurrent, they decided to make me unhappy — me, the only guy that spoke unbroken English in the crowd. This is the way they accomplished their low ends. When the next civilian came along they all of them shouted at me in tones that could be heard by all passers-by:
“Here comes a ‘ciwilian,’ buddy; he’ll give you a quarter.”
“Do you need some money, my boy?” said the old gentleman to me in a kindly voice.
“No, sir,” I stammered, getting red all over, “thank you very much, but I really don’t need any money.”
Ironical laughter from my friends in the background.
“Oh, no,” cries Tim sarcastically, “he don’t need no money. Just watch him when he sees the color of it.”
“Don’t hesitate, my son,” continued the kind old man, “if you need anything I would be glad to help you out.”
“No, sir,” I replied, turning away to hide my mortification, “everything is all right.”
“Poor but proud,” hisses the “Spider.” The old gentleman passed on, sorely perplexed.
For some time I was a victim of this crude plot. When I tried to move away they followed me around the streets, crying after me:
“Any ‘ciwilian’ will give you a quarter. Go on an’ ask them.”
Several ladies stopped and asked if they could be of any service to me. I assured them that they couldn’t, but all the time these low sailors whom I had been feeding lavishly kept jeering and intimating that I was fooling and would take any amount of money offered me from a dime up. This shower of conflicting statements always left the kindhearted people in a confused frame of mind and broke me up completely. I had to chase one man all the way down the street and hand him back the quarter he had thrust into my hand. My friends never forgave me for this.
At length, tiring of their sport, they desisted and stood gloomily on the curb as sailors do, looking idly at nothing.
“It don’t look like we was ever going to get a hitch,” said the “Spider,” after we had abandonedly offered ourselves to several automobiles.
At that moment a huge machine rolled heavily by.
“There goes a piece of junk,” said Tim. The lady in the machine must have heard him, for the car came to and she motioned for us to get in.
“Going our way?” she asked, smiling at us.
“Thanks, lady,” replies Tim, elbowing me aside as he climbed aboard.
“Dust your feet,” I whispered to Tony as he was about to climb in.
“Whatta you mean, dusta my feet?” shouted Tony wrathfully, “you go head an’ dusta your feet! I look out for my feet all right.”
“What did he want yer to do, Tony?” asked Tim in a loud voice.
“Dusta my feet,” answered Tony, greatly injured.
“What yer doin’, Oswald?” asks Tim sarcastically, “tryin’ to drag us up?”
“I only spoke for the best,” I answered, sick at heart.
“Ha! ha!” grated Tim, “guess you think we ain’t never rode in one of these wealthy wagons before.”
“Arn’t you rather young?” asked the lady soothingly of the “Spider,” who by virtue of his mechanical experience in civil life had been given a first class rating, “Arn’t you rather young to have so many things on your arm?”
“Yes,” answered the “Spider” promptly, “but I kin do a lot of tricks.”
The conversation languished from this point.
“We always take our boys to dinner, don’t we, dear?” said the lady to her husband a little later.
“Yes, dear,” he answered meekly, just like that.
Expectant silence from the four of us.
“Have you boys had dinner?” the lady asked.
“Certainly not,” we cried, with an earnestness that gave the lie to our statement, “no dinner!”
“None at all,” added Tim thoughtfully.
The automobile drew up at a 14k. plate-glass house that fairly made the “Spider” itch.
“Gosh,” he whispered to me, looking at the porch, “that wouldn’t be hard for me.”
During the dinner he kept sort of lifting and weighing the silver and then looking at me and winking in an obvious manner.
“Not many people here to-night,” said Tony from behind his plate.
“Why, there is the usual number,” said the husband in surprise, “my wife and myself live alone.”
“Oh,” said Tony, looking around at the tremendous dining hall, “I thought this was a restaurant.”
“‘Oh,’ said Tony, ‘I thought this was a restaurant’”
Tim started laughing then, and he hasn’t stopped yet. He’s so proud he didn’t make the mistake himself.
The “Spider” didn’t open his mouth save for the purpose of eating. He told me he was afraid his teeth would chatter.
Aug. 20th. Got a letter from Polly to-day. She says that her finger is just itching for the ring. I told the “Spider” about it and he said that he had several unset stones he’d let me have for next to nothing. A good burglar is one of the most valuable friends a man can possess.
Sept. 3d. I had such a set-back to-day. Never was I more confounded. This morning I received a notice to report before the examining board for a first class rating. Of course I had been expecting some slight recognition of my real worth for a long time, but when the blow fell I was hardly prepared for it. Hurrying to “My Blue Jacket’s Manual,” I succeeded by the aid of a picture in getting firmly in my mind the port and starboard side of a ship and then I presented myself before the examiners — three doughty and unsmiling officers. There were about twelve of us up for examination. Seating ourselves before the three gentlemen, we gazed upon them with ill-concealed trepidation. One of them called the roll in a languid manner, and then without further preliminaries the battle began, and I received the first shock of the assault. I don’t quite remember the question that man asked me, it was all too ghastly at the time, but I think it was something like this:
