“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.
