COBBERS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3495, 8 March 1921, Page 58

COBBERS.

By

W. B. Hosking.

And I’ll roll her in the heather As sure as my name’s Jock, "When I get back again to Bonnie Scotland. So sang the voice on the record; then «tm the sibilant whirr as the cylinder apun unchecked, followed by a click as Jim Lawson’s partner stopped the gramophone to remove the record. Jim Lawson, sitting outside the tent ■moking, was about to make a request for “The Geisha*’ when he heard the sound of the next record being slipped on and the cheery voice of his partner : “See how yon like this one, Dig.’’ But at the opening bars of the air that followed Jim’s teeth suddenly clinched on the pipe stem, and he sat erect with a drumming of pulses in his temples. He sat In tense silence as the rich contralto voice sang “The Hills of Donegal.” Then he rose to his feet and entered the tent. Something in the attitude of Arnold Cresswell—a certain self-»«nsciousness in his look—strengthened the suspicion that had entered Jim’s mind. He tried to make his tone as casual as possible, but when he spoke he was aware that his voice sounded harsh end unnatural. “What made yon pick on that record, Arnold?” “Why—why, Jim,” replied his partner, hesitating and flushing slightly, “it’s a fine song, isn’t it?” His hesitancy dispersed the last lingering shreds of doubt in Jim’s mind. “Nancy Weir sang it to you, didn’t she?” he said bluntly, and the sudden pallor, followed by the quick flush, that came into his partner's face was sufficient answer. “Yes,” said Jim; “you met her, of course, that week I was in Wellington. ” “Yon never told me you knew her,” returned Cresswell. “No,” said Jim briefly. He did not add that Nancy Weir was the kind of girl whose acquaintance one does not speak casually of. “Well,” said Arnold Cresswell with sudden defiance, “I suppose that is the finish of things between us.” “What is Nancy Weir to yon?” asked Jim quietly. “Everything!” cried his partner with flashing eyes. “I know,” he added, flushing hotly and speaking in a quieter tone, “that I’m not half good enough for her, but”—throwing back his head defiantly—“l’m going to do my best to win her.” “I see,” said Jim heavily. He suddenly felt older. His mind went back and busied itself with the past. They stood there, these two who had been cobbers so long— Arnold Cresswell, tall, elim, and handsome of face, a striking contrast to the huge bulk and lion-headed massiveness of Jim Lawson. When the big man spoke it was in a half-musing tone. “Strange, isn’t it, that we should have been cobbers all these years and never had any trouble before over a girl. When we both got shook on Gahrielle in Armentieres we still remained cobbers. We both had onr sheilas in Blighty, yet we always spent part of our leave together. Yet, now you speak as if it meant the end of things between us.” “You don’t mean to compare Nancy with those others,” began Arnold hotly ; but Jim stopped him with a gesture of his hand. “Nancy is— Nancy,” he said quietly, “and if yon think my regard for her is light, why”—passion shook his voice—• “you’ve made a great mistake.” “And yet you expect; us to go on as before,” Arnold protested. “It’s up to us to finish this contract now that we’ve started it. We owe it to Johnson; we owe it to ourselves as men. Surely we can play the game long enough for that. After that, well,” he drew a deep breath. “I suppose we’re both out to win. Will you carry on?” “I suppose so,” agreed Cresswell a trifle sulkily. Then something in his companion’s face stirred in him an emotion less selfish. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, hut his partner made no sign that he had heard, and was making for the door of the tMlt. “May not be bark for some time,” he said gruffly over his shoulder. “Goodnight !” Jim Lawson stroke sa.vagely through the bash, seeking in physical exertion some outlet to the tempest of emotion that rageci within his breast. Serenely and brightly the stars twinkled above, and, as if seeking to rival and outvie their light, a chaste and stately moon rose slowly above the tree tops. Somewhere in the heart of the bush a swamp hen uttered its mournful erv; and close at hand the underbrush rustled to the movements of unseen life. But, unheeding all these things. Jim Lawson strode on, ignoring the fibrous roote of trees that sought to impede his progress or the barbed fingers of the bush lawyer that plucked at his clothes and scratched ’-is hands. Once he laughed— a grim laugh without mirth—when he thought how in his kit was a record of the same song that had served to shatter his dreams—a song that he, like Arnold, had sought to play, waiting for the praise of the other whilst secretly exulting in the association which he, woor fool, thought he shared with no one else. For many miles he tramped, until at last the mad rage and jealousy that strove for expression had spent itself, and he was able to think sanely. What a malicious jester Fate was, bringing the two of them together, cementing their friendship hy the ties of war and mutual hardship; then, when it seemed that nothing could loosen the bonds that bound them in comradeship, throwing across their path that slip of sweet womanhood, Nancy Weir, to accomplish the seemingly impossible. Nancy Weir I “Nancy!” He said her name aloud, and in the revulsion of feeling* that followed he uttered the pretest

that Arnold had made. No, how could they go on together with this between them. Then followed the dull conviction that they had to go on together. Jim turned and made his way back to camp reluctantly, yet irritated this time by the many obstacles in his path. His great shoulders were hunched together, his big head was sunk forward, he moved slowly and stumbled frequently. Arnold was sleeping when he reached the tent, and Jim reflected bitterly that the younger man had taken lightly the shock of their rivalry. The days that followed were days of purgatory to both men. Both grew taciturn and moody, and as time went on they found it harder to break the habit of silence that had grown between them. Even the most casual words appeared forced and unnatural. The gramophone lay dusty and neglected, for by a mutual instinct both partners avoided the instrument that indirectly had played such havoc with their lives. Sometimes, when memory was in abeyance, one of the men, obeying a sudden impulse, would make a move towards the machine, then would remember, and the action was never completed. And so the evenings dragged on, and bedtime seemed always a relief. Thus forced to dread the evenings when they would be alone together, they worked hard and late, and even in the progress of their contract was the cause for pain—in the contrast between what was and what might have been. Sometimes Jim, sitting smoking in gloomy contemplation, would glance across at his partner, and at the sight of that fresh, handsome countenance a pang of jealous fear would stab his heart. What chance had he after all ? What girl would turn from the comely countenance of Arnold Cresswell to his own homely, weather-beaten visage. At such times the morbid reaction of their own gloomy repression would breed in the men a dangerous irritability that only the habit of silence prevented from breaking into storm. Sometimes the association of a chance word, a smell, the sound of rain on the tent, would bring back intimate memories of their campaigning days, and they came near then to being real comrades again. But more often close association of two people with a disturbing elernpn t between them serves only as an irritant of their trouble, and they both looked forward to the expiration of their contract as a prisoner looks forward to the dawn of the day of his liberty, and yet, like that cap T tive, underlying the hope of release was an uneasy fear of the future. The sun shone warmly down from a sky of unflecked blue and glinted on the foliage of the trees. Both men were engaged in the splitting of the final lot of logs, which were to make the fencing posts for which the contract had been made. Holes were bored in the birch logs lying sawn into the required length, a charge of blasting powder was inserted, a fuse attached, the top of the hole around the latter being tamped with fine earth to localise the force of the explosion which rent the logs asunder. The birds flew screaming at the sound of the dull, heavy explosion that reverberated through the bush. In the middle of the afternoon a hitch occurred. One of the fuses had failed to explode. Both men waited impatiently. “Guess it’s safe to investigate,” announced Arnold, and ran forward. He had nearly reached the log when the unexpected happened. There was a dull roar, the log burst open in a flying shower of dirt, splinters, and leaves, and Jim Lawson saw his partner go down. Cursing aloud, Jim ran forward. Arnold C-resswell lay where he had fallen, a tiny trickle of blood running from the white, earth-smeared face. But it was not that crimson flow that caused Jim’s heart to contract —his gaze was upon the splintered post that lay across one of Arnold’s legs. Quickly the big man lifted the post and flung it aside; gently as a woman he raised the still figure in his arms and made for the camp, which, fortunately, was not very far away. There his capable hands made a brief examination of Cresswell’s hurts, and what he found made him swear aloud. In the rough, but capable, manner of bush surgery he doctored Arnold’s hurts—while the other stirred and groaned feeblv. Then Jim did some quick thinking. They were in the heart of the bush, the township—the nearest link with civilisation—was nearly ten miles away, and would have to be reached before a doctor could be telephoned for. Two miles away was another camp where three men were fencing. With their help Arnold could be carried to the township and the doctor ’phoned for. Jim started to run. Nearlv an hour later four strong men set their faces towards the township, carrying on an improvised stretcher the battered body of Arnold Cresswell. They found it advisable to carry in reliefs, for the track wa3 narrow and rough, and dusk waa_ = creeping on. Lawson carried with untiring energy, and relinquished his share of the burden reluctantly. T!iß others, big, strapping fellows though they were, regarded him with envious admiration. But, as he carried, -Tim’s mind was back in the past—the filth and litter of a Flanders (battlefield, when to the menacing accompaniment of screeching, bursting shells he carried one end of a stretcher whereon reposed a smiling, cheery, handsome-faced lad jauntily smoking a cigarette, and making light of the bullet-hole through his thigh. And here to-night, stricken far more seriously, lay the same youth. “Holy hell 1” ejaculated one of the men. “Have a spell for God’s sake. You’re unnatural, Lawson. Don’t you ever get tired ?" “My cobber’s badly hurt,” returned Jim. “I -want to get the quack quick.” “Right-o! Give it another go, then!” It was a hard task, that journey—-a task that taxed the strength and endurance of all four; for Arnold was no light burden and the going was rough. But at last—■ cheery and comforting sight-—the great

acetylene light at the boarding-house gleamed ahead, and their task was done. Exhausted, with aching muscles and strained backs, three of the carriers flung themselves down as they were on the floor and slept; but the fourth, a big, broadshouldered, lion-headed man, whose greatness of heart and strength of will triumphed over tired muscles, waited for the welcome sound of the doctor’s car. And it was only when that car bore off the form of his cobber that Jim Lawson let Nature have her way. “He is bearing it splendidly,” said the fresh-faced, neatly-garbed nurse who admitted Jim Lawson to the ward where his cobber lay convalescent. Arnold was sitting up in bed, and Jim noticed with relief that he was smiling. “Hullo, Dig!” he greeted. “Hullo, Arnold!” “Don’t look so downhearted, man,” grinned Cresswell. “Anybody would think it was you who had lost a leg.” “I almost wish it was,” began Jim. “Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for,” retorted the other with privileged familiarity. Jim was silent. He was wondering how he could best break the news. Somehow he could not bring himself to wipe the smile from that face. They began to chat about different things, hut soon a silence fell between them, and each knew what the other was thinking about. At last Jim braced himself back. After all it had to be.told some time. “I see the Weirs have gone to Auckland,” he said. “Yes,” said Arnold. Another silence. , “I—I,” began Jim. Hang it, it was going to be harder than he expected. “I had a letter from Nancy two days ago. It seems,” said Jim, staring steadily at the temperature chart above the bc-i “that Nancy is going to marry a r ■ there.” His gaze followed the zig-zag lines on the chart, then turned to Arnold. Arnold was not smiling, neither had he turned pale, but there was an expression in his eyes that puzzled Jim. “It’s hard luck, Jim,” said Arnold. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” began Jim, but was interrupted by a laugh from his cobber. “You thick-headed Anzac 1” said Arnold, “do you think you’re the only one Nancy writes to? Why, I had a letter myself two days ago, telling me the news. It’s not hard on me, Dig. I was out of the running when I lost this,” he nodded down to the bed, “but it’s rough on you. But, after all, old sport, we want Nancy’s happiness to be first, don’t we? And,” he added softly, ‘we are still cobbers, aren’t we?” and two hands found each other suddenly, and there was an eloquent silence. But the nurse, coming along a little later, found two young men laughing and taunting each other in good-natured fun, for so do Englishmen all the world over camouflage their deepest emotions.