"You thought I was in Flanders," he said. "In Flanders—me! So you don't know about me, Mr. Starkley? Peter didn't tell you about me? That—that's impossible. Don't you know—and every one else?"
"I don't know what you are talking about," replied Mr. Starkley, as he pushed Jim into an armchair. "I can see that you are tired, however, and in distress of some sort. Why are you here, Jim—and why are you not in uniform? Tell me—and if I can help you in any way you may be sure that I will. Rest here and I'll get you something to eat. I did not notice at first how bad you look, Jim."
"Never mind the food!" muttered young Hammond. "I'm not hungry, sir—not to matter, that is. But I'm dog-tired. I've been hiding about in the woods and in people's barns for a long time—and walking miles and miles. I—you say you don't know—I am a deserter—and worse."
"You didn't go to France with your regiment? You deserted?"
"I didn't go anywhere with it. Why didn't Peter tell you? I came home on pass—and gave them the slip. I—Peter was sent here to fetch me back. And he didn't tell you! And you thought I was in France! I came here because I was ashamed to go home."
He suddenly leaned forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. John Starkley continued to gaze at him in silence for a minute or two, far too amazed and upset and bewildered to know what to say or do. He felt a great pity for the young man, whom he had always known as a prosperous and self-confident person. To see him thus—shabby, weary, ashamed and reduced to tears—was a most pitiful thing. A deserter! A coward! But even so, who was he to judge? Might not his sons have been like this, except for the mercy of God? Even now any one of his boys, or all three of them, might be in great need of help and kindness. He went over and laid a hand gently on his visitor's shoulder.
"I don't know what you have done, exactly, or anything at all of your reason for doing it, but you are the son of a friend of mine and have been a comrade of one of my sons," he said. "Look upon me as a friend, Jim. You say you are a deserter. Well, I heard you. It is bad—but here is my hand."
Jim Hammond raised his head and looked at Mr. Starkley with a tear-stained face.
"Do you mean that?" he asked; and at the other's nod he grasped the extended hand.
Mr. Starkley asked him no more questions then, but brought cold ham from the pantry and cider from the cellar and ate and drank with him. The visitor's way with the food and drink told its own story and sharpened the farmer's pity. They went upstairs on tiptoe.