Target Practice (Stout, Rex), Page 6

  Then, suddenly, the lieutenant commander became aware of the fact that he felt exceedingly comfortable. Only his poncho, coat, and boots had been removed, he was covered only by a coarse cotton cloth, and there was a dull, aching pain in the injured arm from wrist to shoulder; still he felt unaccountably easy and contented.

  The room, which he now noticed for the first time, though uncarpeted and with bare walls, had an indefinable air of coziness, even of refinement. The light entered with a soft glow at the window opposite, which he surmised to be toward the west; over the other window a green shade was drawn, to exclude the tropical sun.

  Two or three wicker chairs, an American sewing machine, and a table or two were all the room contained; yet such was its effect that the lieutenant commander, who had never noticed a mere room before in all his life, found himself studying it with interest and appreciation.

  He was roused by the sound of approaching footsteps, and looked up to see the girl coming up the path toward the open door. In her arms was a huge bunch of rose orchids.

  She entered the room silently and placing the flowers on a table, tiptoed to the side of the couch. Then seeing that the lieutenant commander’s eyes were wide open, she smiled brightly.

  “Ah! The señor is awake.”

  “Yes.” In spite of himself, he smiled back at her.

  “Well! But you have slept a very long time. And the arm—does it pain you greatly?”

  She carefully drew back the coverlet, and the lieutenant commander perceived for the first time that the sleeve of his shirt had been slit to the shoulder and his arm encased in rude splints and bandages.

  “Why—I didn’t know—” he said, “thanks to you, it is really comfortable.”

  “That is well. We did the best we could. Oh, but I was so frightened when the señor tumbled in at the door! I thought you were dead. And Tota—Mr. Hurley—that is, my husband—he thought you would never—but oh!” She stopped short, and a look of real horror appeared on her face.

  “What is it?” the lieutenant commander asked in alarm.

  “Why, the señor must be starved!” she cried. “And here I stand and talk like an old woman.”

  She turned without another word and fled into the kitchen.

  From thence, for the following fifteen minutes, there issued a series of most tantalizing sounds and smells. The lieutenant commander had not realized it before, but he was hungry—incredibly so.

  “Will the señor use the goat’s milk?” Rita called from the kitchen.

  “No; make it black, please,” he replied.

  He was served on the bamboo table, drawn up close to the couch. Rita, saying that she had work in the next room, instructed him to call if he needed anything. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she bent over the table and cut his meat into little squares, broke the hard bread into small pieces, and separated the sections of grapefruit, saying:

  “I forgot about the señor’s arm. Of course, you are helpless—like a baby.”

  Despite the difficulty of eating with one hand, he found the meal incredibly good. There were alligator pears, broiled ham, a spiced omelet, black steaming coffee, and several kinds of fruit.

  When he had finished Rita appeared and, after asking if he smoked, cut off the end of a cigar and lighted it for him! He lay back on the couch and puffed away in glorious content, thinking of nothing.

  The morning passed. Rita tripped in and out, lightly, her little sandaled feet gliding noiselessly over the bare floor, stopping now and then to inquire if the señor was comfortable.

  She arranged the rose orchids in a red jar and placed them near him, on the bamboo table. Once she appeared in the doorway to say that her husband had found the señor’s pony, unharmed, in the grove of tillandsias over near the trail. She had forgotten to tell the señor before.

  “Ah!” said the lieutenant commander. He ought to have been pleased by this information, and perhaps he was. But he made no comment.

  Early in the afternoon Rita, having completed her household tasks, sat down in the wicker rocking chair and began to talk. She had brought in a pitcher of pineapple juice and offered a glass of it to the señor, who leaned back against a heap of cushions and sipped luxuriously.

  “The señor was going to San Juan?” said Rita abruptly.

  The lieutenant commander nodded.

  “Ah! It is a wonderful city—San Juan. I used to live there.” She sighed, and clasped her hands back of her head. Her form, small and wonderfully graceful, was outlined against the back of the chair like the “Sibyl” of Velasquez.

  “It was very gay. The music at night, and the promenade, and the little chairs that used to fall under the weight of the big Americans. And how we would scowl when we were forced to stand while they played the—what you call it?—the ‘Star Spangle Banner’!”

  The lieutenant commander sipped away in silence, watching her.

  Rita sighed again.

  “Oh, it all seems so very long ago! And yet it is only a few months. And perhaps, some day I shall see it again.”

  “Are you lonely—out here?”

  The lieutenant commander realized with surprise that he was really interested to know her answer.

  He read it in her eyes. They grew large, and glowed with eloquent negation.

  “No, no! How could I be, with Tota?” Involuntarily, as she pronounced the name, her voice softened with tenderness. “That is my husband,” she continued proudly.

  “You have not seen him. He is an American, too. And one thing is hard—it is that I never can talk about him. Even my mother—she was angry when Tota took me away. I suppose that is why,” she threw at the señor a glance at once ingenuous and reserved, “I want to talk to you.”

  The lieutenant commander felt uncomfortable.

  “So you are married,” he observed foolishly.

  Rita frowned. Then the frown gave way to a little, amused, happy laugh.

  “Why, what does the señor think? But then, you Americans are all alike. That is, all except Tota. He will be here soon; he wants to see you. He is a very wonderful man, and so good, señor.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” the lieutenant commander said dryly.

  “Yes. We came here but nine, ten months ago, and already we have many acres of coffee trees. There were some—that was in May—already in bloom. Have you ever seen them, señor? The little white blossoms that look like tiny stars, they are so very white? Tota says he prefers them brown, like my face,” and she laughed delightedly at her Tota’s stupid joke.

  Of this chatter the lieutenant commander was hearing very little; but he was looking at Rita—her soft brown, slender arms, her lithe form, full of nervous grace, her dark, glowing, ever-changing eyes. I have not attempted to describe her, and I shall not; you must use your imagination. You may judge a little of her charm by the fact that, as he sat and looked at her and listened to her voice, Lieutenant Commander Reed, for the first time in his life, had emotions.

  For an hour she rattled on, mostly of Tota, and the señor sat and sipped pineapple, now and then interposing a nod or a word. He became utterly unconscious of everything in the world but her presence and his delight in it, and he felt a distinct and disagreeable shock when the door was suddenly opened and a man appeared in the room.

  It was Hurley.

  Rita sprang from her chair and ran to him.

  “Tota!” she cried.

  Hurley folded her in his arms and kissed her.

  “Well, little one, I kept my promise.” Then he turned to the señor, “You must excuse us,” he smiled, utterly unabashed.

  Rita had an arm about his neck and was clinging to the lapel of his jacket with the other hand.

  The lieutenant commander was experiencing a curious and hitherto undreamed-of sensation. A lump in his throat was choking him, and he felt a tight gripping in his chest. But his mind was working rapidly; and he made his decision almost without hesitation.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said
to Hurley. “I understand you found my pony. Bring him up.”

  At the tone of command the man started and glanced keenly at the lieutenant commander, who remembered too late that he should have attempted to disguise his voice. He thought of his broken arm, and braced himself for whatever might come.

  Hurley walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him in silence. The expression in his eyes was distinctly unpleasant; but the lieutenant commander perceived that it was alloyed with doubt.

  “Have I ever seen you before?” Hurley said finally.

  The lieutenant commander achieved a smile of surprise.

  “What makes you think so?” he asked.

  “Why did you speak to me—like that?”

  The lieutenant commander, being rather clever, did not make the mistake of apologizing. Instead, his tone was one of irritation as he said: “How do I know? Do you expect a man with a broken arm to get up and bow?”

  For another minute Hurley stood above him, eyeing him keenly. Then he turned.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’ll bring up your pony. Come, Rita; you come with me.”

  They returned shortly with the pony, saddled and bridled. Hurley, sending Rita to another room, helped the lieutenant commander put on his coat and boots, placed the injured arm in a sling, and strapped his poncho back of the saddle. Then he steadied him with both hands, carefully, while he mounted.

  “You ought to be in San Juan by seven,” said Hurley, standing in the doorway. “That’s a good hour and a half before dark. The trail runs over there,” pointing to the west, “by that first blue cliff. You can’t miss it. And I guess I made a mistake in there,” he continued, a little awkwardly. “I meant no offense, sir.”

  For more reasons than one the lieutenant commander made no reply. He started the pony as gently as possible out of respect for the broken arm, and nodded a farewell. As he met the trail under the cliff he turned and looked back. Hurley and Rita were standing together in the doorway.

  Lieutenant Commander Reed was a man of decision. Whenever he met a problem he liked to face it squarely, analyze it thoroughly, and decide it quickly. This he had always done.

  But the problem which was now before him defied analysis. It seemed somehow intangible, fleeting, un-graspable. He tried one after another of his cherished rules, and found that none of them fitted.

  For the first three hours of the last stage of his journey to San Juan his mind was in an uncomfortable and entirely unique condition of flexibility. As might have been expected, the weight of habit preponderated and he decided in favor of duty.

  Owing to the broken arm, the four hours’ ride was slow and painful, but he suffered no further mishap. As Hurley had predicted, exactly at seven o’clock he climbed from the naval station wharf at San Juan into the commandant’s gig.

  On board the Helena all was confusion and despair. They had not expected their commanding officer for another four days, and they were having the time of their lives.

  The first luff, who was an easygoing, good-natured fellow, who possessed a hearty dislike for his skipper, had taken advantage of his absence.

  There had been no inspections or drills of any kind, the brasswork had not been touched, the decks had received merely a gentle flushing with the hose, and every classed man on the ship had been granted shore liberty.

  You may imagine the effect of this state of affairs on Lieutenant Commander Reed. Within two hours after his arrival every man and officer on board was ready for insubordination or mutiny, or worse, and the first luff heard his skipper’s voice in his dreams.

  At eleven o’clock the following morning Lieutenant Commander Reed sat in his cabin, holding a pen in his hand and gazing thoughtfully at a pad of official memorandum paper on the desk before him.

  He had got his disordered ship and crew in something like a presentable and tractable condition, and was preparing to put into effect his decision of the afternoon before.

  He frowned and sighed at intervals, and finally rose, walked over to a porthole and stood for some time gazing out on El Morro and the rocky coast.

  Finally, with a gesture of decision, he returned to the desk, arranged the pad of paper, and wrote as follows:

  Ensign G. J. Rowley, U.S.N.,

  U.S.S. Helena.

  Sir:

  You will take four men and proceed at once to the village of Rio, twenty miles from San Juan on the Caguas road.

  Two miles beyond Rio, in a cottage three hundred yards to the left of the trail, you will find James Moser, Chief Yeoman, a deserter from the U.S.S. Helena.

  He has assumed the name of Hurley. You will arrest him and deliver him on shipboard. You are advised to proceed with caution.

  Respectfully,

  Brinsley Reed,

  Lt. Comd’r., U.S.N.,

  Commanding.

  He read the order through slowly, and pushed a button on the desk for his orderly. Then removing the order from the pad, he reread it more slowly still, while a deep frown gathered on his forehead.

  The decision had been made.

  Suddenly he opened a drawer at the side of his desk and took from it—a rose orchid!

  I have no idea where he got it; possibly he had taken advantage of Rita’s absence while she had gone with Tota to fetch the pony.

  But then that is scarcely possible, since the lieutenant commander was the last man in the world to be swayed by any weak sentiment.

  “Did you ring, sir?”

  The orderly’s voice sounded from the doorway, and his commanding officer actually blushed as he hastily slipped the orchid back into the drawer.

  Then he turned to the orderly:

  “Learn to stand at attention till you’re spoken to!” he roared. “No, I didn’t ring! Get out of here!”

  It is little wonder that Ensign Rowley failed to carry out the order, since it was no part of his duty to go searching about in his skipper’s wastebasket for torn bits of paper.

  The Inevitable Third

  I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE to account for Jimmie’s success—in a particular way—except on the theory that a Divine Providence protects the weak. How many of us, after getting what we want, are able to hold onto it? It is not an unusual thing to see even a strong man knocked on the head by a detached chunk of what he had taken to be his astral glory, when his stars begin going sideways instead of pursuing their proper and natural courses.

  Now and then we find an Avier or a Prometheus, able to stand unmoved and hurl defiance at Fate, but the best that most of us can do is to shut our eyes and dodge—quick.

  That is what Jimmie did.

  Jimmie was one of those disquieting creatures who are able to extract an astonishing amount of happiness out of a clerkship in Wall Street, a Harlem flat, and a wife. They make us wonder if we are not very silly indeed to worry about lost tribes and the ruins of Philæ and the value of post-impressionism.

  Jimmie was abnormally happy. He took an immense pride in filling the flat with all sorts of horrible things known as modern furniture, for of course he was entirely without taste. He spent just a little more than he should on presents for his wife, and he fitted up the little room on the left of the kitchen as a den for himself.

  Once, in a moment of unguarded optimism, he purchased a small white-enameled crib. It stood unused in a corner of the second bedroom, as a constant reminder to him of the only blank in Jimmie’s life.

  Jimmie liked his job at the office, and it showed in his work, so that his salary was raised regularly every six months. He came to have a room of his own, with a rolltop desk and a stenographer.

  Certainly, Jimmie thought, he was getting on, and he began to be a little proud of himself. This lasted three years.

  Still the little white-enameled crib remained unoccupied; and this, if only Jimmie had known it, was dangerous. A vacuum is as abhorrent to a woman as it is to Nature. Jimmie should have taken care to fill it up himself—at least with sympathy—instead of leaving it to the first one wh
o should perceive it.

  But Jimmie was undeniably a fool. He was not aware of the peculiar shades imparted to a word by the flicker of an eyelash, the moistening of lips, the tremulous closing of a hand. He knew merely that he loved his wife, and saw no reason why she should be otherwise than perfectly happy, since he always came directly home from the office and found pleasure in nothing without her.

  He did not perceive the necessity of finding a new interest to take the place of the natural one, which had been denied her. In short, he was not versed in the workings of a woman’s mind, as was the inevitable third.

  The name of the inevitable third was Mason.

  He came from somewhere across the Atlantic, and his chief business in life—though neither Jimmie nor Nell knew this—was picking up one or another of the Ten Commandments that had been shattered by somebody else, and amusing himself by fitting together the broken pieces in bizarre patterns of his own.

  Nell met him at an afternoon recital in the tea-belt, and described him to Jimmie at the dinner table that evening as “the most interesting man she had ever met.” Jimmie nodded absently and helped himself to another piece of steak.

  He was in the middle of an intricate mental calculation which had to do with his wife’s approaching birthday.

  Nell grew quite eloquent in her eulogy of Mason, ending with, “What do you think of that?”

  “Eh? What?” said Jimmie.

  “You weren’t listening at all!”

  “Right,” Jimmie admitted, laughing. “I was thinking of—er—an important matter. What were you saying?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come now! I was thinking of you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand, anyway. All you know is your dirty old office.”

  Jimmie whistled.

  “What the deuce—” he began, but his wife promptly burst into tears, and he spent the next thirty minutes trying to comfort her.