“And that same is good advice,” said Callaghan. “It will hurt to move, sir, and you beaten to a pulp first and then stiffening for the three days you’re after lying here; ’tis all I wish I could rub you, with a good bottle of Elliman’s to do it with. But if them Huns move you ’twill hurt a mighty lot more than if you move yourself. Themselves is the boys for that; they think they’ve got a feather in their caps if they get an extra yelp out of annywan. So do the best you can, sir.”
“I will,” said Jim—and did his best, for long hours every day. It was weary work, with each movement torture, and for a time very little encouragement came in the shape of improvement: then, slowly, with rubbing and exercise, the stiffened muscles began to relax. Callaghan cheered him on, forgetting his own aching leg in his sympathy for the boy in his silent torment. In the intervals of “physical jerks,” Jim talked to his little neighbour, whose delight knew no bounds when he heard that Jim knew and cared for his country. He himself was a Cork man, with a wife and two sons; Jim gathered that their equal was not to be found in any town in Ireland. Callaghan occasionally lamented the “foolishness” that had kept him in the Army, when he had a right to be home looking after Hughie and Larry. “’Tis not much the Army gives you, and you giving it the best years of your life,” he said. “I’d be better out of it, and home with me boys.”
“Then you wouldn’t let them go to the war, if they were old enough?” Jim asked.
“If they were old enough ’twould not be asking my liberty they’d be,” rejoined Mr. Callaghan proudly. “Is it my sons that ’ud shtand out of a fight like this?” He glared at Jim, loftily unconscious of any inconsistency in his remarks.
“Well, there’s plenty of your fellow-countrymen that won’t go and fight, Cally!” said the man beyond him—a big Yorkshireman.
“There’s that in all countries,” said Callaghan calmly. “They didn’t all go in your part of the country, did they, till they were made? Faith, I’m towld there’s a few there yet in odd corners—and likely to be till after the war.” The men round roared joyfully, at the expense of the Yorkshireman.
“And ’tis not in Ireland we have that quare baste the con-sci-en-tious objector,” went on Callaghan, rolling the syllables lovingly on his tongue. “That’s an animal a man wouldn’t like to meet, now! Whatever our objectors are in Ireland, they’re surely never con-sci-en-tious!”
Jim gave a crack of laughter that brought the roving grey eye squarely upon him.
“Even in Australia, that’s the Captain’s country,” said the soft Irish voice, “I’ve heard tell there’s a boy or two there out of khaki—maybe they’re holding back for conscription too. But wherever the boys are that don’t go, none of them have a song and dance made about them, barring only the Irish.”
“What about your Sinn Feiners?” some one sang out. Callaghan’s face fell.