Captain Jim.

by Mary Grant Bruce.

CHAPTER I

JOHN O'NEILL'S LEGACY

"Queer, isn't it?" Jim said.

"Rather!" said Wally.

They were sitting on little green chairs in Hyde Park. Not far off swirled the traffic of Piccadilly; glancing across to Hyde Park Corner, they could see the great red motor-'buses, meeting, halting, and then rocking away in different directions, hooting as they fled.

The roar of London was in their ears.

It was a sunny morning in September. The Park was dotted in every direction with shining perambulators, propelled by smart nurses in uniform, and tenanted by proud little people, fair-haired and rosy, and extremely cheerful. Wally liked the Park babies. He referred to them collectively as "young dukes."

"They all look so jolly well tubbed, don't they?" he remarked, straying from the subject in hand. "Might be soap advertis.e.m.e.nts.

Look, there's a jolly little duke in that gorgeous white pram, and a bigger sized duke trotting alongside, with a Teddy-bear as big as himself. Awful nice kids." He smiled at the babies in the way that made it seem ridiculous that he should be grown-up and in uniform.

"They can't both be dukes," said Jim literally. "Can't grow more than one in a family; at least not at the same time, I believe."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter--and anyhow, the one in the pram's a d.u.c.h.ess," returned Wally. "I say, the duke's fallen in love with you, Jim."

"The duke," a curly-haired person in a white coat, hesitated on the footpath near the two subalterns, then mustering his courage, came close to Jim and gravely presented him with his Teddy-bear. Jim received the gift as gravely, and shook hands with the small boy, to his great delight.

"Thanks, awfully," he said. "It's a splendid Teddy, isn't it?"

The nurse, greatly scandalized, swooped down upon her charge, exhorting him to be ashamed, now, and not worry the gentleman. But the "duke" showed such distress when Jim attempted to return the Teddy-bear that the matter had to be adjusted by distracting his attention in the direction of some drilling soldiers, while Wally concealed the toy under the embroidered rug which protected the plump legs of the "d.u.c.h.ess"--who submitted with delighted gurgles to being tickled under the chin. They withdrew reluctantly, urged by the still horrified nurse.

"See what it is to be beautiful and have the glad eye!" jeered Wally.

"Dukes never give _me_ Teddy-bears!"

"It's my look of benevolent age," Jim said, grinning. "Anyhow, young Wally, if you'll stop beguiling the infant peerage, and attend to business, I'll be glad. We'll have Norah and Dad here presently."

"I'm all attention," said his friend. "But there's nothing more to be said than that it _is_ rum, is there? And we said that."

"Norah gave me a letter from poor old O'Neill to show you," Jim said.

"I'll read it, if you like."

The merriment that was never very far from Wally Meadows' eyes died out as his chum unfolded a sheet of paper, closely written.

"He wrote it in the hotel in Carrignarone, I suppose?" he asked gently.

"Yes; just after dinner on the night of the fight. You see, he was certain he wasn't coming back. Anyhow, this is what he says:

"My Dear Norah,--

"If I am alive after to-night you will not get this letter: it is only to come to you if I shall have 'gone West.' And please don't worry if I do go West. You see, between you all you have managed almost to make me forget that I am just an apology for a man. I did not think it could be done, but you have done it. Still, now and then I remember, and I know that there will be long years after you have all gone back to that beloved Australia of yours when there will be nothing to keep me from realizing that I am crippled and a hunchback.

To-night I have the one chance of my life of living up to the traditions of O'Neills who were fighting men; so if, by good luck, I manage to wing a German or two, and then get in the way of an odd bullet myself, you mustn't grudge my finishing so much more pleasantly than I had ever hoped to do.

"If I do fall, I am leaving you that place of mine in Surrey. I have hardly any one belonging to me, and they have all more money than is good for them. The family estates are entailed, but this is mine to do as I please with. I know you don't need it, but it will be a home for you and your father while Jim and Wally are fighting, if you care for it. And perhaps you will make some use of it that will interest you. I liked the place, as well as I could like any place outside Ireland; and if I can look back--and I am very sure that I shall be able to look back--I shall like to see you all there--you people who brought the sun and light and laughter of Australia into the grey shadows of my life--who never seemed to see that I was different from other men.

"Well, good-bye--and G.o.d keep you happy, little mate.

"Your friend, "John O'Neill."

Jim folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, and there was a long silence. Each boy was seeing again a strip of Irish beach where a brave man had died proudly.

"Different!" Wall said, at last, with a catch in his voice. "He wasn't different--at least, only in being a jolly sight better than most fellows."

Jim nodded.

"Well, he had his fight, and he did his bit, and, seeing how he felt about things, I'm glad for his sake that he went out," he said. "Only I'm sorry for us, because it was a pretty big thing to be friends with a man like that. Anyhow, we won't forget him. We wouldn't even without this astonishing legacy of Norah's."

"Have you any particulars about it?" Wally asked.

"Dad got a letter from O'Neill too--both were sent to his lawyers; he must have posted them himself that evening in Carrignarone. Dad's was only business. The place is really left to him, in trust for Norah, until she comes of age; that's so that there wouldn't be any legal bother about her taking possession of it at once if she wants to.

Poor old Norah's just about bowled over. She felt O'Neill's death so awfully, and now this has brought it all back."

"Yes, it's rough on Norah," Wally said. "I expect she hates taking the place."

"She can't bear the idea of it. Dad and I don't much care about it either."

Wally pondered.

"May I see that letter again?" he asked presently.

Jim Linton took out the letter and handed it to his friend. He filled his pipe leisurely and lit it, while Wally knitted his brows over the sheet of cheap hotel paper. Presently he looked up, a flash of eagerness in his keen brown eyes.

"Well, I think O'Neill left that place to Norah with a purpose," he said. "I don't believe it's just an ordinary legacy. Of course, it's hers, all right; but don't you think he wanted something done with it?"

"Done with it?"

"Yes. Look here," Wally put a thin forefinger on the letter. "Look what he says--'Perhaps you will make some use of it that may interest you.' Don't you think that means something?"

"I believe it might," Jim said cautiously. "But what?"

Wally hesitated.

"Well, he was just mad keen on the War," he said. "He was always planning what he could do to help, since he couldn't fight,--at least, since he thought he couldn't," the boy added with a sigh. "I wonder he hadn't used it himself for something in connexion with the War."

"He couldn't--it's let," Jim put in quickly. "The lawyers wrote about it to Dad. It's been let for a year, and the lease expires this month--they said O'Neill had refused to renew it. That rather looks as if he had meant to do something with it, doesn't it?"