“I’ve some books here,” Jameson said, “that I thought you might like to read.”
Deeply ashamed, and no longer the town’s worst drunkard and braggart, John settled down and married a blue-eyed girl and lived in a tiny house on a quiet street. He talked often with Jameson and visited his classes in the college and became an ardent apostle of internationalism and goodwill. He rejoined the church from which war and bitterness had divorced him; taught a group of boys in Sunday school; and became a speaker in demand throughout the countryside. He was again a hero and his heart was in his work. “There is no need,” said those who introduced him, “to tell you who John Benton is. His devotion to peace shows that the last war was not fought in vain. It is with pride.”... And it was with pride that John faced these audiences on Washington’s or Lincoln’s birthday or on Armistice Day and spoke out of his heart. It was with pride that he became Jameson’s closest friend and heard Jameson say: “It’s on the few of us, John, that civilization depends. We must keep our heads when the world goes mad.” John was keeping his head. In the tenth year after his return and in the thirty-second of his life he was elected a trustee of the college. He was a person of power in his community.
“John,” said Cuthwright one day, “we’re proud of you. I knew you’d come to your senses.”
“It took me a long time,” John said.
“Yes, but oaks don’t grow in a season.” Cuthwright laid a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. “I lost a son in France,” he said, his eyes misty. “But now—well, that was the price we paid, John, for a better world.”
No one knew less certainly than John himself how it came or what it meant. There was at first, of course, a crashing of industrial pyramids, and then the depression, but everyone spoke of it lightly and said it would soon pass. It did not soon pass, and there was growing anxiety and unrest. There were farmers who had been earnest citizens; but now, with their taxes unpaid, their homes mortgaged, many of them became bootleggers and drunkards. There were small business men who had gone into bankruptcy; doctors and dentists with unpaid bills piling up on their desks; common laborers who, unable to find work, loafed in the pool halls and became brutal and cynical. Then there was a new President and, for a little while, new hope; but when the chief bank here failed to open its doors there were angry threats and almost a riot. It was learned that Cuthwright and all the chief stockholders had withdrawn their money long ago.
Then matters in Germany came to a crisis; the words of the Italian war lord stood in black type across the newspapers; and Japan was invading China. After a while, some persons here began to talk of the next war and they spoke with such hopeless resignation or with such fierce impatience that John was alarmed. He redoubled his efforts for peace. The audiences were small now and applause often ran into hisses; and then he was no longer asked to speak anywhere. Some of his townsfolk began to look at him with suspicious or hostile eyes.
And the hostility grew. One by one his colleagues fell away and he and Jameson stood alone. The bishop under whom he had labored said a war between the United States and Japan was inevitable and declared that all the Japs ought to be driven out of the Idaho beet fields. He said Japan would conquer China and then come over and conquer the United States, and his talk excited people and made them argue for a large army and navy. He said all aliens should be driven from the nation’s shores. He said the depression had been caused by the millions of foreigners here, most of whom were communists and spies and the scum of earth. He said that any man who talked of peace when his country was surrounded by enemies was a communist and a traitor. “And you,” he said, looking at John with angry eyes, “you’d better watch your step.”
“I believe in peace,” John said. “And so did Jesus.”
“Our Lord, yes. But what did He know of the menace of Japs and communists and Fascists?”