III
The country was going into its own war, which it considered of
importance, and it called upon Jimmie Higgins and the rest of his
associates to register for military service. In the month of June
ten million men came forward in obedience to this call--but Jimmie,
needless to say, was not among them. Jimmie and his crowd thought it
was the greatest joke of the age. If the country wanted them, let it
come and get them. And sure enough, the country came--a sheriff, and
some thirty farmers and turpentine-workers sworn in as deputies and
armed with shot-guns and rifles. Should their sons go overseas to be
killed in battle, while these desperadoes continued to camp out on
the country, living on hogs and chickens which honest men had worked
to raise? They had wanted to break up this "jungle" for some time;
now they could do it in the name of patriotism. They surrounded the
camp, and shot one man who tried to slip out in the darkness, and
searched the rest for weapons, and then loaded them into half a
dozen automobiles and took them to the nearest lock-up.
So here was Jimmie, confronting a village draft-board. How old was
he? The truth was that Jimmie did not know definitely, but his guess
was about twenty-six. The draft-limit being thirty, he swore that
he was thirty-two. And what were they going to do about it? They
didn't know where he had been born, and they couldn't make him
tell--because he didn't know it himself! His face was lined with
many cares, and he had a few grey hairs from that night of horror
when his loved ones had been wiped out of existence.
These farmers knew how to tell the age of a horse, but not how to
tell the age of a man!
"We'll draft ye anyhow!" vowed the chairman of the board, who was
the local justice of the peace, an old fellow with a beard like a
billy-goat.
"All right," said Jimmie, "but you'll get nothin' out o' me."
"What d'ye mean?"
"I mean I wouldn't fight; I'm a conscientious objector to war."
"They'll shoot ye!"
"Shoot away!"
"They'll send you to jail for life."
"What the hell do I care?"
It was difficult to know what to do with a person like that. If they
did put him in jail, they would only be feeding him at the expense
of the community, and that would not help to beat the Germans. They
could see from the flash in his eyes that he would not be an easy
man to break. Local interest asserted itself, and the old fellow
with the wagging beard demanded: "If we let ye go, will ye get out
o' this county?"
"What the hell do I care about your old county?" replied Jimmie.
So they turned him loose, and "Wild Bill" also, because it was
evident at a glance that he was not long for this world and its
wars. The two of them broke into an empty freight-car, and went
thundering over the rails all night; and lying in the darkness,
Jimmie was awakened by a terrified cry from his companion, and put
out his hand and laid it in a mess that was hot and wet.
"Oh, my God!" gasped Bill. "I'm done for!"
"What is it?"
"Haemorrhage."
The terrified Jimmie did not even know what that was. There was
nothing he could do but sit there, holding his friend's trembling
hand and listening to his moans. When the train stopped, Jimmie
sprang out and rushed to one of the brakemen, who came with his
lantern, and saw "Wild Bill" lying in a pool of blood, already so
far gone that he could not lift his head. "Jesus!" exclaimed the
brakeman. "He's a goner, all right."
The "goner" was trying to say something, and Jimmie leaned his ear
down to him. "Good-bye, old pal," whispered Bill. That was all, but
it caused Jimmie to burst out sobbing.
The engine whistled. "What the hell you stiffs doin' on this train?"
demanded the brakeman--but not so harshly as the words would
indicate. He lifted the dying man--no very serious burden--and laid
him on the platform of the station. "Sorry," he said, "but we're
behind schedule." He waved his lantern, and the creaking cars began
to move, and the train drew away, leaving Jimmie sitting by the
corpse of his pal. The world seemed a lonely place that long night.
In the morning the station-agent came, and notified the nearest
authorities, and in the course of the day came a wagon to fetch the
body. What was the use of Jimmie's waiting? One "Potter's field" was
the same as another, and there would be nothing inspiring about the
funeral. The man who drove the wagon looked at Jimmie suspiciously
and asked his age; they were scarce of labour in that country, he
said-the rule was "Work or fight". Jimmie foresaw another session
with a draft-board, so he leaped on to another freight train, taking
with him as a legacy "Wild Bill's" diary of the unemployed army.
