“Great news, Cammie! We’ve got a new captain! And, oh boy! He’s a peach! He sat on our louie first off! You oughtta have seen poor old Wainwright’s face when he shut him up at the headquarters. Boy, you’d a croaked! It was rich!”
Cameron finished the last precious bite of his third hot doughnut with a gulp of joy:
“What’s become of Wurtz?” he asked anxiously.
“Canned, I guess,” hazarded the private. “I did hear they took him to a sanitarium, nervous breakdown, they said. I’ll tell the world he’d have had one for fair if he’d stayed with this outfit much longer. I only wish they’d have taken his little pet along with him. This is no place for little Harold and he’ll find it out now he’s got a real captain. Good-night! How d’you ’spose he ever got his commission, anyway? Well, how are you, old top? Feelin’ better? I knew they’d fix you up here. They’re reg’ler guys! Well, I guess we better hit the hay. Come on, I’ll show you where your billet is. I looked out for a place with a good water-tight roof. What d’ye think of the orchestra Jerry is playing out there on the front? Some noise, eh, what? Say, this little old hut is some good place to tie up to, eh, pard! I’ve seen ’em before, that’s how I knew.”
During the days that followed Cameron spent most of his leisure time in the Salvation Army Hut.
He did not hover around the victrola as he would probably have done several months before, nor yet often join his voice in the ragtime song that was almost continuous at the piano, regardless of nearby shells, and usually accompanied by another tune on the victrola. He did not hover around the cooks and seek to make himself needful to them there, placing himself at the seat of supplies and handy when he was hungry—as did many. He sat at one of the far tables, often writing letters or reading his little book, or more often looking off into space, seeing those last days at camp, and the faces of his mother and Ruth.
There was more than one reason why he spent much of his time here. The hut was not frequented much by officers, although they did come sometimes, and were always welcomed, but never deferred to. Wainwright would not be likely to be about and it was always a relief to feel free from the presence of his enemy. But gradually a third reason came to play a prominent part in bringing him here, and that was the atmosphere. He somehow felt as if he were among real people who were living life earnestly, as if the present were not all there was.
There came a day when they were to move on up to the actual front. Cameron wrote letters, such as he had not dared to write before, for he had found out that these women could get them to his people in case anything should happen to him, and so he left a little letter for Ruth and one for his mother, and asked the woman with the gray eyes to get them back home somehow.
There was not much of moment in the letters. Even thus he dared not speak his heart for the iron of Wainwright’s poison had entered into his soul. He had begun to think that perhaps, in spite of all her friendliness, Ruth really belonged to another world, not his world. Yet just her friendliness meant much to him in his great straight of loneliness. He would take that much of her, at least, even if it could never be more. He would leave a last word for her. If behind his written words there was breaking heart and tender love, she would never dream it. If his soul was really taking another farewell of her, what harm, since he said no sad word. Yet it did him good to write these letters and feel a reasonable assurance that they would sometime reach their destination.
There was a meeting held that night in the hut. He had never happened to attend one before, although he had heard the boys say they enjoyed them. One of his comrades asked him to stay, and a quick glance told him the fellow needed him, had chosen him for moral support.