So with renewed hope in his heart he took his way through the town of Edam. The lamps were just being lighted, and Hugh John lounged along through the early dusk with his hands in his pockets, looking out for a cause of offence. Presently he came upon a brilliantly lighted building, into which young men and women were entering singly and in pairs.
A hanging lamp shone down upon a noticeboard. He had nothing better to do. He stopped and read—
Edam Mutual Improvement Society.
SEASON 18—
Hon. President.—Rev. Mr. Burnham.
Hon. Vice-President.—Mr. N. Donnan.
Hon. Sec. and Treasurer.—Mr. Nathaniel Cuthbertson.
DEBATE TO-NIGHT.
Subject.—"Is the Pen mightier than the Sword?"
Affirmative.—Mr. N. Donnan.
Negative.—Mr. Burnham.
All are Cordially Invited.
Bring your Hymn-books.
Hugh John did not accept the invitation, perhaps because he had no hymn-book. He only waited outside to hear Mr. N. Donnan's opening sentence. It ran thus: "All ages of the world's history have borne testimony to the fact that peace is preferable to war, right to might, and the sweet still voice of Reason to the savage compulsions of brutal Force."
"Oh, hang!" ejaculated Hugh John, doubling his fist; "did you ever hear such rot? I wish I could jolly well fetch Nipper Donnan one on the nob!"
And he sauntered on till he came to the burying-ground of Edam's ancient abbey. He wandered aimlessly up the short avenue, stood at the gate a while, then kicked it open and went in. He clambered about among the graves, stumbling over the grassy mounds till he came to the tombs of his ancestors. At least they were not quite his ancestors, but the principle was the same. "There's nothing exclusive about me. I'll adopt them," said Hugh John to himself, as many another distinguished person had done before him. They were in fact the tombs of the Lorraines, the ancient possessors and original architects of the Castle of Windy Standard, which he had spilt his best blood to defend. Well, it was to attack. But no matter.
He sat down and looked at the defaced and battered tombs in silence. Mighty thoughts coursed through his brain. His heart was filled full to the brim with the sadness of mortality. Tears of hopeless resignation stood in his eyes. It was the end, the solemn end of all. Soon he, too, like them, would be lying low and quiet. He began to be conscious of a general fatal weakness of the system, a hollowness of the chest (or stomach), which showed that the end was near.
Ah, they would be sorry then—she would be sorry! And after morning service in church, they would come and stand by his grave and say—she would say, "He was young, but he lived nobly, though, alas! there was none to appreciate him. Ah, would that he were again alive!" Then they (she) would weep, yes, weep bitterly, and fling themselves (herself) upon the cold, cold ground. But all in vain. He (Hugh John Picton Smith, late hero) would lie still in death under that green sod and never say a word. No, not even if he could. Like Brer Fox, he would lie low. At this point Hugh John was so moved that he put his face down into his hands and sobbed.
A heavy clod of earth whizzed through the air and impacted itself with a thud upon the mourner's cheek, filling his ear with mud and sand, and informing him at the same instant that it carried a stone concealed somewhere about its person.
For though Nipper Donnan was now Vice-President of a Mutual Improvement Association, and at that moment spreading himself in a peroration upon the advantages of universal goody-goodiness, he had, happily for society and Hugh John, left exceedingly capable successors. The eternal Smoutchy was still very much alive, and still an amateur of clods in the town of Edam.