The clammer and the submarine

by William John Hopkins

In such a man the sense of values must be distorted nearly as much, though in a different way, as that of a man who sits at one of an interminable row of desks, on another floor of the same office building, from eight-thirty in the morning until five in the afternoon, with an hour for luncheon; and knows himself to be but a cog in a huge machine, a cog which can and will be replaced as soon as it gives a sign of running unsmoothly. What a dreadful thought that you are but a cog in a machine! How very dreadful it must be to realize that you are growing old and are still nothing but a cog! How pregnant of rebellions, little futile rebellions! And how it must tear the very soul of that man to know beforehand that his rebellions must be little and futile! I can understand that a man in that state would welcome death; that he would be stood up against a wall and shot rather than go back to that desk of the interminable row—number thirteen, it might be. But there is nobody to stand him up against a wall. They will have none of him. He is too old. Too old to be shot, although he may have fighting instincts stirring fiercely within him. So they take his son, it may be, and he goes back to his desk. There is no escape for him. They will not even let him die as a man should in these times. Life is a series of disappointments, and the last is the most bitter. Hope takes herself away until he can hardly see her through the fog.

I was thinking such thoughts as these, leaning on my hoe. I had come out early to work in my garden, and I would start the planting of a row, and the next thing I knew I would find myself standing—or squatting, in accordance with my most recent activity—and gazing out over the waters of the bay, dreaming and musing of the bitterness of disappointment, or of little souls clothed with authority, or of Old Goodwin, and of men like him—if there are such. Old Goodwin's is not a little soul. The first time that I thought on such things and lost myself in thinking, I was using my wheel hoe on the ground between the rows of corn and peas and beans. A wheel hoe is not a thing to lean on, but it fails you when you most need its support, and gives way under you and brings your thoughts to earth with a thump—and you as well, if you are not used to its vagaries and careful. So I took my hand hoe. It is friendly and will bear me up.

It was the twenty-sixth of May, and I had much planting to do, but I did not do it. I thought upon what had happened in the past few days, and I worked my wheel hoe. Wheel-hoeing does not interfere with my thinking. I believe I could do it in my sleep. I have only to walk along slowly, and to work my arms back and forth at every step, and unless the ground is very hard I can think perfectly. My corn showed as little yellowish-green tubes about an inch and a half long, just poked through a couple of days before, it was so cold early in the month; and it has not come up well. As I ran the hoe along beside the row, it was a rank of soldiers—soldiers of the first line. There were great gaps in the line. There have been many gaps, and there will be many more. It has not chanced to hit any friends of mine yet, but it will.

Then I thought upon the report of ten days before, that seven German submarines had been destroyed at sea on their way over here. It was gratifying to know that they had been destroyed, but the report was strangely disquieting to me. If they had sent a fleet of seven, they might send as many more. There was food for thought in that. I had seen no further mention of the matter in the papers, and most probably the report was untrue, but it set me thinking, and I wondered whether the information would not be considered of value to the enemy. If no report of their destruction had been published, Germany might not have known of it for weeks. Weeks of freedom for us knocked in the head by the newspapers.

And I was through with the corn, and had come to the beans, strange grotesque, misshapen things, pushing out of the ground like toads. Some of them were not through yet, but were raising great clods of earth, leaving holes which looked for all the world like toad-holes. There were two that looked like sinking ships. And I thought upon the report of a great naval battle, with many of our ships sunk. I do not believe it. In fact, I have heard vaguely of a denial by our Navy Department. And my eye was caught by a flash of scarlet near some trees by my wall, and there was a tanager. I stopped my hoeing and stood still and watched. It is some years since I have seen a tanager. He flew about in little short flights, aimlessly it seemed, from one low branch to another, then upon the ground, then back to a tree again, paying no attention to me standing like a scarecrow in my garden. Then he perched high and sang his cheerful song, very like a robin's. If I were not noticing nor thinking about it, I might think it a robin's—if I gave it a thought. I have heard that tanagers have been seen this spring in places where they have never been seen before. I have never seen one here, and I hoped this one would stay.

And then that talking machine of my neighbor's began reciting something in a loud voice—"Cohen at the telephone" or some such thing—and my tanager flew away, and I went savagely to my hoeing again. And I thought again of that obsolescent man who is too old to be shot, but not too old to be condemned to a ball and chain; and whose son they have taken while they have scornfully rejected him. And he would fight if they would let him. How he would fight! For there is nothing left for him but to choose the best death he can get. He may not be free even to do that. The father of Jack Ogilvie may be just such a man. I stopped again, and stood holding the handles of my hoe and looking off to sea, and thought of Ogilvie and Bobby and Jimmy Wales going to and fro upon the waters seeking that which is not.

I grasped my hoe handles more tightly, and turned my head, and looked at the dirt before me, and pushed my hoe savagely. What care I how they go to and fro upon the waters? I wander the shores, and I dig my clams, and I am content. But am I? And as I had got to this point in my meditations, from my neighbor's window came the rich voice of Harry Lauder singing "Breakfast in bed on Sunday morning." I smiled to myself—there was nobody to see me if I chose to smile at an absurdity—and my hoe went more and more slowly, for there was no power behind it. And I listened shamelessly to Harry Lauder's last whisper and his last mellow laugh, so that I did not hear the light steps behind me; but I heard the voice that I loved.

"Adam! Adam!" said the voice, chiding. "Listening to Harry Lauder—and enjoying it! Take shame to yourself."

And I turned, and saw Eve, and Tidda with her. Eve was smiling, and I smiled back at her.

"Surely, Eve," I said, "a man may rest when he is weary. And if my neighbor choose to have a talking machine spouting out of his window, I cannot stop him. I wish I could. Imagine Judson with a talking machine!"