Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 33

"Office work or not, though, this job's away ahead of being stuck in the Post. The daily round of a 'straight duty buck' doing prisoners' escort about Barracks is, without doubt, _the_ most demoralizing existence goin'. The monotony's something fierce. And a non-com's isn't much better, either. Sent out on every little rotten job that turns up, hanging around stables and the orderly-room, always expected to be on hand and within call. Taking charge of grousing fatigue parties, etc.

Thank goodness! I never had much of it to do. I was only in the Post a month when I first took on. Been on detachment ever since, barring six weeks I once put in as Acting Provo' in charge of the guardroom, while Hopgood was sick."

He rolled another cigarette and, inhaling and expelling a whiff of smoke, continued reflectively: "This is a good outfit-this Force-no doubt about it. I guess as regards its system, discipline, and results, it's out and away the best Military Police Force in the world-with the exception, p'r'aps, of the Royal Irish Constabulary. Good men take on and serve their time. Some reengage, and some quit. But just as good men take their place and the work goes on. But, as I said before, there's no rest, or future in it for the average non-com, or buck. You never know when your day's work's done.

"No, it's just one continual round of listening to, and settling other people's troubles. Seems nonsense, I know, to get talking like this for, after all, it's only what we're paid for. Somebody's got to do it. But there it is-trouble, trouble, trouble, the whole time. All my life, with the exception of the time I deliberately struck into the fighting game, I've wanted to live peaceably; but it seems to have been my luck, somehow, to always get the reverse. Especially on this job. No matter how quiet and easy-going you try to rub along there are always some nasty, bullying, ignorant, cunning beggars who, just because you're a bit decent to them, take it for granted you're easy and try to impose on you. Anyway, that was _my_ experience on the first two or three detachments I struck. Not on _this_ one, though! Didn't give 'em a chance. Fellow that was before me, corporal named Williamson-decent head, all right-but he tried that 'live, and let live' stunt and it didn't work a bit. No, _sir_! They just took advantage of him every turn and corner. Oh, I tell you, Miss O'Malley, it sure was some tough district-this-when I took it over."

His brows contracted loweringly, and a menacing light gleamed in his deep-set eyes.

"I soaked it to 'em, though, the dirty dogs!" he muttered, with a savage snap of his strong white teeth. "They wanted to be _shown_.... I've sure _shown_ some of 'em, all right. The inside of a 'Pen',' at that. Kept 'em on the high jump ever since. It's the only way _to_ deal with that cla.s.s. Treat 'em like the sc.u.m they are, and they'll be good then and eat out of your hand. They're too ignorant and cunning to appreciate any civility or kindness."

He smoked thoughtfully on awhile after this slight outburst of bitterness, amidst a silence that was presently broken by Mary.

"You're fond of reading, aren't you?" she inquired. "And music?"

His moody face cleared instantly, like the sun coming from behind a cloud.

"Aye! you just bet I am!" he said fervently. "I've read, and played, and sung every chance I've got-wherever I've been. Fond!-well, I should say I am. I fancy if it hadn't been for _that_, I'd have gone to the devil long ago."

He was sitting up on the gra.s.s, with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. Neither of them spoke for a time and he, still gazing across at the distant "Rockies," muttered, half unconsciously, to himself:

"No, just _peace_-that's all I feel I want now. To have some steady job to work at, with a future, and a home ahead of it. Neither molesting, or being molested by any one."

The girl leaned forward, listening wonderingly, as she watched the hard, clean-cut profile of his faraway, moody face, surprised to hear him ramble on so. He appeared to be entirely oblivious of her presence. He made a very long pause and then, when she thought he was thinking of something quite different, he suddenly said:

"I'm getting older now, and I've got more patience than I used to have but, all the same-I'll take no abuse, back-lip, or stand for being imposed upon by any man. It's been a word and a blow with me all my life, and I guess that's the reason why I'm only a poor man today. For many's the jackpot it's landed me into. Aye! and many's the good job I've had to quit through the same thing.

"Just _peace_!" he repeated again, dreamily. "You realize it in some of George Eliot's tales of old-fashioned English country life, in Gray's 'Elegy,' in Marie Corelli's song of 'The Lotus Lily.' Ah, yes! she felt it when she wrote that beautiful thing in her Egyptian tale of 'Ziska':

"'Oh, for the pa.s.sionless peace of the Lotus-Lily!

It floats in a waking dream on the waters chilly, With its leaves unfurled To the wondering world, Knowing naught of the sorrow and restless pain That burns and tortures the human brain; Oh, for the pa.s.sionless peace of the Lotus-Lily!'"

He ceased, and sunk his face in his hands again. The breeze stirred the grizzled-brown hair on his temples, and he remained still for so long that she thought he had fallen asleep; but presently he seemed to rouse himself a little, and said idly, in a low voice:

"Men like me don't _have_ to care what people say, or think, about us.

Ever since Mother died, I've been practically alone in the world, and steered my course as I saw fit-just gone ahead and done what I thought was right. Am I the worse man for being poor, I wonder? I've never crawled to hold a job-or for money, anyway! Badly though I've always wanted it. For it makes all the difference in the world-money. I've kept my self-respect as far as _that_ goes-poor consolation though it may be now-just when I need it most."

The girl flicked him with her quirt.

"Don't you think we'd better be going?" she said gently. "It's getting late. The sun's gone down a long time now."

At the touch, and the sound of her voice, he roused himself with a start and regarded her absently.

"By George!" he muttered. "I must have been dreaming. Sorry, Miss O'Malley." He pulled out his watch. "Sure _is_ late," he said. "Why didn't you give me a good slap and wake me up before? Letting me go to sleep like that. Well, I guess we'll toddle on down to the horses."

"You _haven't_ been asleep," she said, with a faint smile. "But you've been sitting there talking away to yourself like a man in a dream."

He flushed, and laughed a little, shamefacedly.

"Have I?" he answered. "I sure must be getting as 'nutty' as a sheep herder! What was I talking about?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," she said evasively. "I'll tell you sometime."

He laughed again and, after eyeing her incredulously for an instant, turned and strode down the declivity to where the patient horses still waited. The girl gazed wistfully for a moment or two after his retreating form, with its slim waist and square, splendidly-drilled shoulders; then, with a little weary sigh, she arose and, mechanically putting on her hat and dusting her dress, followed him.

Catching up Johnny, who nickered at her approach and picked up his forefoot for sugar, she mounted with the lithe agility of the expert horsewoman. Ellis swung up on Billy, and in silence they set out at a brisk lope for home.

CHAPTER XIX

For, immune from scoff of bachelor chum, Into his kingdom he had come; A rose-strewn path he would henceforth tread Through the generous will of the kindly dead.

-_The Legatee_

"Go on! you're only fooling! Is that straight now, Hop? What pipe-dream's all this?"

Dr. Musgrave's incredulous remarks were addressed to Provost-Sergeant Hopgood, the non-com. in charge of the guardroom, who, reclining in an easy chair in the former's combined study and consulting-room on this September evening, was regarding his host somewhat lugubriously through a blue haze of cigar smoke.

"No pipe-dream at all ... kind of wish it was," he answered, with a slight trace of bitterness in his tones. "'Twas Churchill wised _me_ up.

He was in from Sabbano today. Appears Ben's been rushing this girl-or woman, I should say-she's near thirty, I understand-for quite a time, now."

Musgrave's air of surprise was slowly succeeded by one of unwilling conviction.

"Well, I'll be--!" he muttered. "I might have tumbled, too!"

"Why, what's up?" said Hopgood eagerly, staring at him now with wide-eyed wonder. "You knew about it all the time, eh? Did Ben tell you?

Have you seen her? What's she like?"

Musgrave knocked the ash off his cigar and gazed reflectively out of the open window.

"Think I have," he said. "I was walking down Eighth Avenue with him-day he was in town, last month. 'h.e.l.lo!' he says, pulling up suddenly.

'Here's somebody I know from my district!' And, in that happy, casual, easy way he's got, he introduced me to a female acquaintance of his, who'd just come out of Black's jewelry store. She was a great big tall dark girl-finest figure of a woman I think I've ever seen. Regular whopper-not fat with it, either. Made you think of Boadicea, or Brittania, somehow, to look at her. She didn't strike me as being a beauty, exactly, but she'd got a nice kind face. Lots of fun in her, too, and a lady, unmistakably. I rather liked her. We stood there chatting a few minutes, and I remember she told me she was in town for a day or two, shopping. Never a peep from that old fox, Ben, though. You'd never have dreamt there was anything doing from the way he acted then.

Everything was as casual as you please. Begad! I'll soak it to him for putting it over on me like this! That's if it _is_ right," he added, with a dubious smile. "Somehow, I can't credit it, though. Why, he's the very last man I'd have expected to go dangling after a woman!"

"Bet he don't do much dangling," remarked the Provost sagely. "Not if I know him. He ain't that kind. More'n likely it's the other way round.

I've known quite a few women get struck on him. Queer beggar! he's never aloof, rude, or cold, but somehow-he just doesn't seem to _notice_ 'em at all. P'r'aps that's what gets 'em. Besides, he's a proper man to look at, and when he's penned in a corner with a woman with no chance of escape, he talks in that kind, simple way of his-you know his way, Charley."

Musgrave nodded.

There was a long silence, the two men puffing thoughtfully at their cigars and gazing with owlish abstraction at each other.

"Didn't you tell me once that he was engaged to some girl in Jo'burg?

When he was with the Chartered Company?" pursued Hopgood.

"Yes," answered Musgrave moodily, "he was." He paused, and an unfathomable, far-away look crept into his eyes as he gazed absently across at a window in the opposite block that the last rays of the dying sun transformed into a flaming shield of fire. "Beautiful Irish girl named Eileen Regan. She'd a face like a Madonna, I remember. She was a Roman Catholic, and a very devout one at that. They _might_ have been happy together.... I don't know. It's hard to predict how these mixed religions'll turn out. Poor things never got the chance to see, anyway.

For she died-died of enteric, just before the war started."