Over the massive glowing logs a teakettle sang. By the hearth lay Flash, the golden collie. Back of him, on a rug, the two young girls played at jacks. Dave, who sat nearest to them, noted with approval that their hair was now neatly combed, their dresses clean, their faces shining—“That’s the part Alice plays,” he thought with approval.
As his eyes swept the circle, Alice knitting, Cherry smiling over a book, Jock and Brand talking about cattle that had strayed, he thought: “This is indeed a happy home.”
At that moment there came the sound of a motor, followed by a loud honk. At once Cherry, with cheeks aglow, was at the door.
She ushered in a young man of medium height, with smooth dark hair and smiling black eyes.
“Good evening, everybody,” he exclaimed. “Thought I’d just drop by to see how you liked the bombing. Stirred you up a bit. I’ll bet on that. I—” He paused as his eyes fell on Dave. Dave was new to him. So too were the small girls who stared up at him.
“Lord Applegate,” Cherry began, “I want you—”
“Forget about the Lord part,” the young man laughed. “I’m not yet a lord. If ever I receive the title it will never fit. Call me Harmon, as you’ve always done, or Lieutenant Applegate of the R. A. F.”
“That,” Brand exclaimed, “is an honor indeed. I only wish—” He did not finish but stared enviously at the Lieutenant’s uniform. “I’d be content if I were only a private,” he whispered under his breath.
“Well, anyway,” Cherry laughingly began all over, “I want you to meet David Barnes. He’s from America. His uncle is a war reporter who knew father in the World War. And so—”
“So he’s paying you a visit. That’s fine.” The young lord who wasn’t yet a lord but was a Lieutenant in the Royal Air Force shook hands with Dave, then accepted a place beside him.
“Where did you get the children, Cherry?” Applegate asked, looking down at the pair who had resumed their game.
“Oh, they are Alice’s,” Cherry laughed.
“Nice work, Alice,” the Young Lord said. “It must have been a very long time since I was here.”
“It has been,” Alice agreed. “Quite too long. But these children,—they are refugees from London. Bombed out, you know.
“You should have seen them when they came!” she added in a low voice, with a grimace. “Their mothers came with them. But they couldn’t stand the eternal silence of this place.”
“So they left you the children?” said Applegate. “Good old Alice!”
“Oh, they’re really a joy!” The girl’s face lighted.
“But Harm!” Her face sobered. “That plane dropped a bomb on the old playhouse. Blew it to bits. You know, you used to come and play with us sometimes long ago—with dolls and things,” she added teasingly.
“With dolls! Good heavens!” he exclaimed.
“And today the dolls had their heads blown off,” Cherry added. “Just think! It might have been our heads that were blown off!”
“Yes,” the young man’s face sobered, “it might have been. That was a real scrap. Didn’t come out so badly on the whole. Did they catch the men who bailed out?”
“Two of them.” Brand’s brow wrinkled. “The Home Guard tells me the other got away.”
“Oh, they’ll catch him,” Applegate prophesied cheerfully.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Brand did not smile. “They did find his parachute and his uniform half hidden under leaves.”
“Oh! Fixing to turn into a spy!” Applegate’s face sobered.
“Alice,” the younger of the two children called. “What is a spy?”
“A spy,” said Cherry, “steals secrets.”
“And blows up castles and bridges. A terrible man!” said Alice. “I know all about it. I’ll tell you a story about a spy when it’s time for bed.”
“Ooo.” Peggy gave a delectable shiver. “After that we won’t dare go to sleep!”
“The most astonishing thing,”—Brand leaned forward in his chair—“is that one of the men we captured today is the son of the prisoner who worked on this farm more than twenty years ago.”
“What?” Applegate exclaimed. “It can’t be possible!”
“How do you expect us to believe that?” Cherry demanded with a wave of the hand.
“I’ll leave it to Dave and Jock,” Brand defended.
“That’s right,” Jock agreed. Dave nodded his head.
“See?” Brand’s voice was low. “What’s more, I’m almost sure the fellow who eluded us is his brother. If you don’t believe that, look at this picture.” He passed the paper and the photo around.
“Hans Schlitz,” Applegate said, musingly, “That’s the name, right enough. I’ve often heard my mother speak of him. Gloomy, brooding sort of fellow, he was. Probably went back to Europe after the war to tell his sons vile tales of the way he was treated. Poisoned their minds with hate.”
“Oh—ah!” Cherry shuddered. “Gives me the creeps to think of that son of his prowling about here at night.”
“Oh come!” Applegate sprang up. “It’s not as bad as all that. Come on, Cherry.” He put out his hands. “How about a song. I’ll do the honors at the old grand. Happy days.”
“I’d love it!” said Cherry, allowing herself to be led away to the corner where a huge grand piano loomed out of the shadows.
Taking up a candle, Alice carried it to that corner, set it on the piano, then tiptoed back.
With this pale light playing across their interesting mobile faces the young Lord and Cherry took their places.
The moments that followed will linger long in David’s memory. Never before had he seen or heard anything like it. The pale light playing on two bright happy faces, eager for all life, and most of all the perfect blending of mellow tones from the ancient piano with the fresh, free joy of Cherry’s voice. Ah! That was something indeed! More than once, without knowing it, he whispered:
“Oh Cherry! I didn’t know you could sing like that!”
From moment to moment the mood of the music changed. Now the girl’s slender form was swaying to “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow,” the next she was bringing back for good old Jock’s sake a song loved by all those of twenty years before:
“There’s a long, long trail awindingInto the land of my dreams,Where the nightingale is singingAnd the white moon beams.”
“There’s a long, long trail awinding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And the white moon beams.”
And then, springing to a place on the long piano bench she cried: “Now! Let’s all sing, Roll out the barrel.”
Long before this songfest was over Dave found himself bursting with a wonderful plan. No, it was not his war. But he could do his bit, couldn’t he? And he would.
When quite out of breath after her last rollicking song Cherry was led to her place by the fire, she exclaimed:
“Oh! It’s wonderful just to live!”
“Yes,” the Young Lord agreed. “It is grand. And yet, perhaps tomorrow we die.
“Come!” He took Brand by the shoulder. “Let’s go out and see the holes those bombs dug for you. I’ve got to report to my C. O. about them.” And so the two of them disappeared into the night.
“Come Peggy. Come Tillie,” Alice called. “Time for a goodnight story. And then to bed.”
“Will you really tell us a spy story?” Peggy begged.
“Perhaps.”
“A real, true spy story!” Tillie was fairly dancing.
“Yes, I guess so.”
At that Alice, the two children, and Flash, the dog, marched into the small dining room to close the door behind them.
“It was the Young Lord who piloted that Tomahawk plane this afternoon,” Jock said in a hoarse whisper. “I have it on good authority, the very best.”
“And he said never a word about it!” Dave marvelled.
“He’s like that.” Cherry’s lips went white. “He never tells of such things. But just think! He nearly crashed!”
“So near I closed my eyes,” Dave replied admiringly. “Young Lord,” he thought. “Not a bad name for a chap like that!”
When Jock had gone stomping out to follow the Young Lord on his tour of inspection, Dave found himself alone with Cherry.
“Listen, Cherry.” He was more excited than the girl had ever known him to be. “I’ve got a grand idea!”
“That’s what England needs right now,” the girl laughed nervously. “Just think what happened today, and is likely to happen more and more.”
“That’s just it!” Dave leaned forward eagerly. “In all of England there are thousands of anxious people, millions, really, who need a touch of youthful cheer. And you can give it to them!”
“I?” The girl caught her breath. “How?”
“By singing for them as you sang for us tonight—singing over the radio.”
“Oh—o!” Cherry drew in a long breath. “I hadn’t thought of doing that. You—you see, I’m only a local song bird in a little country village. Easter at the church, you know, Christmas carols, parties, and all that. But the radio! I—I—just—”
“Don’t say you couldn’t,” Dave pleaded. “Please say you’ll try. We must each do our bit.” He had forgotten for the moment that this was not his war.
“Yes, I know,” Cherry breathed. “There’s mother, you know. She was a World War nurse. Now she’s directing an entire ward. Alice has her refugee children. And I—I just sit in the sun and tend the sheep.”
“Yes. And you might be the most talked-of girl in England!” Dave was bursting with his new idea. “Just go up to London with me tomorrow. My uncle has a trans-Atlantic news broadcast. He’ll arrange it all. Wi—will you go?”
“Sure! Shake on it.” The girl put out a slim hand.
“It’s just as I thought,” declared the Little Lord, as the men came stomping back into the room a moment later. “Those bombs were rather small. A Messerschmitt can’t carry a heavy load. But they can keep all of England on edge with their nuisance flight.”
“Cheerio!” Cherry sprang to her feet. “At least one Messerschmitt has ceased to be a nuisance, and that, I’m told, is because a certain Young Lord learned how to fly long ago.”
“All part of a day’s work,” the Young Lord grinned. “I’d like just such a scrap every morning before breakfast.”
At that the cook brought in cakes and steaming coffee and they all took seats by the great broad three-inch thick table that had served the Ramsey family for more than a hundred years.
In the meantime Alice was telling her young refugees the promised spy story.
“Once,” she began, “in that other terrible war, the one in which my father and your grandfather fought, there were two spies named Louise and Charlotte.”
“Oh!” Tillie exclaimed with a sudden start. “Are there really lady spies?”
“To be sure,” was the quiet reply.
“Goody!” Tillie clapped her hands. “I’m going to be a lady spy!”
“Yes sir!” Peggy broke in with her high, piping voice. “We’ll both be spies. You be Louise, and I’ll be Charlotte!”
“Wait and see!” the story teller warned. “Let me tell you the story. Then you may not want to be a spy at all!”
“Oh, yes we will!” Tillie insisted. “Aunt Alice (they called her aunt) do we have a spy right here on our farm?” The child’s voice was low, mysterious.
“Hush!” Alice warned. “Don’t dare to breathe a word about that.”
“Tillie!” The younger child’s voice rose sharply, “Let her tell the story!”
And so, while the children lay back among the cushions, Alice told the story of Louise and Charlotte.
“They had lived in France.” Her voice was low and mellow. “Then had come the terrible German soldiers. Louise fled before them. Charlotte hid in a cellar.
“Louise was very bright. She had been a teacher. She could speak French, German and Belgian.
“A great soldier asked her to be a spy. This frightened her nearly out of her wits. But she said ‘all right. I will do it.’
“One dark night a great giant of a man named Alphonse, who had been a smuggler and was a friend of her country, took her hand and said: ‘We will go.’”
“Wh—where did they go?” Tillie was growing excited.
“They went to the border.” Alice smiled. “At the border there was a very high barbed wire fence. You couldn’t go over it. If you tried to go under it you might touch an electric wire that would sound an alarm. Then you would be shot. If you tripped on something it might set off a mine, and you’d be blown to bits.”
“And wa—was—” Tillie got no further. Her sister’s fingers were on her lips.
“We do have a spy”“We do have a spy”
“We do have a spy”
“Alphonse knew all about these things,” Alice went on. “He made a hole under the fence. The earth was very loose. He had gone under before. They got across safely. Then they were in the land where German soldiers were. And, just when they were breathing easy, a blinding white light swept along the barbed wire fence. It was searching for them.”
“And—did—”
“Alphonse and Louise dropped flat and lay there hiding their faces in the damp earth. The sweeping searchlight came and went, came and went, then came to go away for good.”
“Oh—oo!” Peggy breathed. “They didn’t get them.”
Just then Tillie sat straight up. “Aunt Alice!” she cried. “Wedohave a spy on our farm. I saw his face at the window. I really did, just now.” At that same instant the dog Flash growled softly.
Visibly shaken, Alice managed to regain her poise. “Shish!” was all she said. Then she went on with her story.
“When this loyal French girl reached her home where German soldiers now were living, she began making lace and selling it from town to town. What was more important, she was finding friends to help her work as a spy. One was a scientist who could do strange things with chemicals, magnifying glasses, cameras and printing presses. Another was a map maker who in shorthand could write three thousand words with invisible ink on a piece of transparent paper so small Louise could paste it to a spectacle lens and carry it across the line that way.”
“What for?” Tillie breathed.
“So none of the German spies could read it,” Alice explained.
“You see,” she went on, “things were happening over there that great French and English officers needed to know. And Louise could tell them. Once there was a terrible battle. Thousands of Germans were wounded. How many? Louise must find out.
“There was a house close to the railroad track where all the cars filled with wounded soldiers were passing. Someone hid in the dark room. Every time a car passed, she’d tap on the floor, tap, tap, tap. In the next room, seeming to study her lessons, was a school girl.”
“Just like you and me!” Tillie squeezed Peggy’s arm.
“This school girl was making marks on paper,” Alice went on. “Four marks, then one across, four more and one across.”
“Keeping track of the taps. I could do that.” Tillie was growing excited again.
“When all the trains had passed,” Alice whispered, “Louise counted up all the marks. Then she multiplied that by the number of wounded men in each car, and so she knew how many thousands had been badly wounded. But how was she to get that number across the line?”
“Paste it on her spectacle,” suggested Tillie.
“Not this time, she didn’t,” Alice smiled. “She wrote it on a paper and hid it. You’d never guess where.”
“In her shoe—in her glove—in her hair,” Tillie exploded.
“Nope. None of these.” Alice shook her head. “Let me tell you all about it, then you may guess.”
“Al—all right.” Tillie drew a long breath as she settled back.
“You see,” said Alice, “Louise was going down a dark road in the night. In one hand she carried her bag of laces, in the other a lantern. It was a tin lantern. The tin was all full of holes. Inside a candle flickered. It didn’t give much light, just enough. Suddenly a gruff voice commanded:
“‘Halt!’
“Louise was taken to a rough cabin where a short broad German spy woman lived. Everyone called her Le Grenouille, the frog. Louise and Charlotte feared and hated her.
“‘Take off your clothes’, that’s what the Frog said to Louise.
“Before obeying, Louise carefully blew out the candle in her lantern, then set it in the corner.
“All her clothes were taken off. Everything was searched,—dress, stockings, shoes,—everything. Nothing was found.
“‘All right. You may dress and be gone,’ said the Frog.
“When Louise had dressed she went on her way. That night our High Commander way across the line in France knew how many Germans had been wounded in that battle.”
“Louise, the spy, had told him,” Peggy whispered.
“She showed them the paper on which the number had been written,” said Alice. “Where do you think it was hidden?”
“In her basket!” Tillie cried.
“No.”
“In her hair,” Tillie guessed again.
“I know!” Peggy jumped up and down. “In her candle!”
“Good! That’s right! How did you guess?” Alice’s face shone.
“She—” Peggy did not finish. At that instant old Flash leapt from his corner, dashed up to the window which was above his head, and barked angrily.
At the same instant Tillie cried: “We do have a spy on our farm! I saw his face in the window! Saw him plain as day!”
They all rushed to the kitchen where the others were talking. A few excited words and the boys, with Flash at their heels, were out searching in the night.
But for one thing they might have succeeded in making a capture. The moment they stepped outside, the sky was lit by a sudden flash. Then came the roar of an explosion.
“They’re at it again,” Young Lord murmured.
“Here Flash!” Brand called. “Go find him!” But Flash only whined at his feet. The roar of that distant explosion had paralyzed him. And so, in the end they returned empty handed.
“Aunt Alice,” Peggy whispered as she was being tucked in bed, “will you tell us more about those lady spies?”
“Sometime perhaps,” was the quiet reply.
After they returned from the futile search the three of them, Dave, Brand and the Young Lord stood for a time beside the car. They had talked for a moment. Then Brand walked away to the barn for one more look about before he retired for the night. It had been a strange, exciting and momentous day. Nothing quite like it had ever happened at Ramsey Farm before. He felt restless and ill at ease.
After he had gone the Young Lord asked Dave a strange question:
“What are you doing in England?”
“Why—I—nothing really,” Dave hesitated. “You see my uncle is in the news service here. He was coming over in the Clipper. He invited me to come along. So here I am. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as simple as all that, but he fixed it up.”
“I see,” the Young Lord murmured.
Did he? Dave doubted that. He made a second start. “You see I’ve had two years in college. Didn’t like it any too well, the class-room part. Oh, math was well enough. In fact I really liked it. But the rest,” he heaved a sigh. “Well, I majored mostly in football, basketball, tennis and golf. So—oo,”
“So they didn’t care much whether you stayed on?”
“I suppose not. Anyway, all the colleges in America have been crammed with fellows who haven’t anything else to do but go to college now,—”
“All that will change fast,” said the Young Lord. “The way things are going over there now those boys are going to have things to do. Ever do any flying?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes—a little—quite a bit in fact. Uncle was a flyer in the World War. Not an ace exactly, but he got to like flying. He’s always had a flying crate or two about, and naturally I had to have a turn at them.”
The Young Lord guessed, and quite shrewdly too, that Dave was being too modest about his flying.
“I’m trying out a new plane tomorrow,” he said slowly. “It’s a two-seater. Want to go up? Just a little sky patrol. Nothing’s likely to happen.”
Dave seemed to see that Tomahawk of the afternoon plunging downward apparently headed for destruction. He wanted to say “no”. For some reason his tongue wouldn’t form the word. So he said:
“Yes. Sure. I’d like to.”
“Righto.” The Young Lord reached for the door of his big old English car. “I’ll be after you in this bus at 10:00 A. M.”
His motor roared. He was away.
“Now why did I say that?” Dave asked himself aloud.
“Say what?” He started. Brand was at his side.
“I promised to go up with Applegate tomorrow.”
“Sayee! That’s corking! Just what I’d like to do! In fact,” Brand’s tone was sober, “I want to join up. Since this afternoon I want to more than ever. Mother objects. Says I’m needed to manage the farm. Says the army needs our butter and fat cattle. This farm! Of course, we love it. All of us do. But when all of England is threatened—when the others are doing their bit—to be tied to the sail! God!” Brand stamped his foot.
“It’s all the way you think, I guess.” Dave laughed lightly. “Well, I’ll be up having a look at your native land from the clouds in the morning. So, goodnight.” Half an hour later, in his bed beneath the rafters of that ancient house, Dave was asking himself: “Why did I come to England?”
The answer seemed simple enough. This war was too big to miss—that is—miss seeing. But why had he persuaded Cherry to go with him to London where bombs were falling? Why had he promised to go up with the Young Lord in the morning? He did not know the answers. All he knew was that he felt like a fly caught in a web. The web did not have a very strong hold on him yet. He could break away if he wished. But did he wish? Not knowing the answer, he fell asleep.
In another corner of that broad upstairs, her door leading into the children’s room ajar, Alice was hearing a shrill childish voice cry:
“You’re a spy, a little lady spy. I’m a frog, a great big black frog. I’m going to swallow you—swallow you right down. Here I come!”
This was followed by a low, half-suppressed exclamation, a giggle, then a loud “Shish.” After that all was silent.
Alice was nearly asleep when suddenly from far overhead there came the roar of powerful motors. London was in for one more beating. Would those terrible bombings never end?
It was with a strange thrill tickling his spine that Dave climbed into the rear of the lord’s two-seater plane the next day. This, he knew, was a fighting plane, his very first. This plane carried a sting in its nose, eight guns capable of firing nearly ten thousand shots per minute.
“Of course,” he thought, “this is broad daylight. Not much chance of picking up an enemy. And yet, there’s yesterday.”
After fastening his safety belt with great care, he waited for the takeoff. It came with a roar. They were in the air. Some ship!
He studied it with great care. It had a dual control. If something happened, just happened to go wrong with the Young Lord, he could bring the ship to earth. He might, in a pinch, do a great deal more. The firing of those guns seemed simple. He had had a great deal more flying experience than he was willing to admit,—at least 200 hours.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Applegate gave a slight squeeze at his firing button. In no uncertain tones the guns spoke. Dave was thrilled to his fingertips.
He began studying the electric switches, the emergency boost, the petrol switch, the air-speed indicator, the directional gyro, the climb indicator, and all the other instruments. A born mechanic, he could study these out one by one, eliminate the ones least needed, then picture himself guiding the ship.
Watching a mirror, studying his face, Applegate nodded in approval to the sky. As they climbed to 10,000 feet Dave saw London in the distance. Smoke hung over it. There had been a bombing, fires started. Homes of simple, honest, hard-working people who had not asked for this war had been destroyed. He hated all that.
White clouds, like distant snowbanks, were drifting through the blue as blue sky.
“Take her for a minute, will you?” The Young Lord spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.
Dave’s hands trembled as he gripped the controls. He kept the ship going on an even keel while his companion, after unstrapping heavy binoculars, studied the sky.
Suddenly Applegate threw out a hand. Swinging it to the right, he directed Dave into a fluffy white cloud.
“That’s it,” he approved. “Now just lurk around in here for a bit.”
With a tickling sensation at the back of his neck Dave “loitered round”. At the same time he was asking himself, “Why did I let myself in for this?”
Twice they came out of the cloud, but on the wrong side. At last, after one more wave of the lord’s hand, Dave headed straight out, on the side from which they had entered.
He caught his breath sharply as, on breaking out into blue sky, he sighted an airplane beneath and beyond them. He trembled as he saw the hated swastika on its tail.
“Will there be a scrap?” he asked himself. Strangely enough he felt quite cool about it. The Young Lord took the controls. The motors roared. This gave Dave time to study land and sky. As near as he could tell the other plane which was slowly circling, was just about over Ramsey Farm. “That’s why Applegate is putting on such speed,” he thought.
Just then, like a squirrel darting for shelter, the enemy plane leapt upward and into a cloud.
“You better!” Applegate growled, at the disappearing enemy.
Only when they were near the cloud did he slacken his speed. Then, like a dog waiting for a squirrel, he loitered about in the sky.
“If the enemy really wished to get away,” Dave thought, “every advantage is with him.” A whole string of clouds was drifting in from the distant sea. Was he glad or sorry? At that moment he could not have told.
After a time, like a dog watching clumps of bushes where a rabbit is hiding, the Young Lord began skirting that long procession of clouds.
They had followed almost to landsend and the shore when suddenly the Young Lord pointed to a black speck against the distant sky. Dave heaved a sigh of relief. Turning about, they headed for the airdrome.
“He was bashful, that Hun,” Applegate laughed into his mouthpiece. “Perhaps he came over to find his pals who paid us a visit yesterday. Sorry to disappoint him. Even the wreck has been carted away.”
“One of his friends is still at large,” Dave suggested. “Might have set up a signal. Black cross cut from the sod would do the trick.”
“That’s right,” Applegate agreed. “Anyway,” he laughed as they began circling for a landing, “we’re back just in time for lunch. It’s cold beef and plum pudding. You’ll stay, I hope.”
“Oh! Sure!” Dave agreed.
His visit to the flying corps’ mess was one not soon to be forgotten. He had read magazine stories of these fighters. Loud, boisterous, wild and a bit coarse, that was how they had been pictured. To his surprise he found them a simple, kindly lot, with manners that would have put many a college group to shame.
“You’ve really got to be up to things to be a-flying in this squadron,” the Young Lord explained. “And in any other, for that matter. Drinking, loud laughs, roughness—well, it doesn’t seem to go with life-and-death flying, that’s all.
“You have to be a man,” he added after a pause. “And a man’s nearly always a gentleman as well.”
When late that afternoon Dave walked with Cherry to the village to catch the bus to London, he carried a parcel under his arm. “My hiking boots,” he explained. “These hard roads have worn the soles thin.”
“Oh! I’m glad,” Cherry exclaimed. “You are going to like Uncle John. He’s our shoemaker. We call him that though I’m sure he’s really uncle to no one. He’s very old and still does all his work the hard way, by hand. Wonderful work it is, too.”
Dave did like Uncle John. Seated there at his bench, a leather apron on his lap and nails between his teeth, he seemed to have just moved out of a very old story book.
“Do you still make shoes as well as repair them?” Dave asked.
“Oh, yes, now and then.” The old man’s smile was good to see. “I’ve made all the Young Lord’s shoes since he was a baby.
“But then,” he sighed, “times have changed. You can’t get the leather any more. It used to be that I could make a pair of shoes and guarantee them for five years. Those times are gone.
“But perhaps it is best that it should be so,” he added cheerfully. “Nowdays people like change. If you only pay one pound for a pair of shoes, you can afford more than one pair.” Taking a tack from his mouth, he drove it home, then another.
“He lives in two small rooms behind the shop,” Cherry said when they were outside. “His little wife was just like him, always cheerful and kind. She died three years ago.
“Nearly all the people in the village are like that,” she added as they walked on. “The butcher has his stall in front of his home. The baker’s shop is in his basement. So is the grocer’s. Everyone works. All are kindly. They never have much, but they make it do—and are happy.”
Dave was to recall this picture with a sudden pull at his heartstrings in the days that were to come.
The bus came lurching in. They climbed aboard and were away for London.
Arrived in London they hurried up to the radio studio for Cherry’s audition. Singing in a bare studio with a strange accompanist, the girl was far from doing her best. For all that the director gave her a small spot on the “People’s Choice” program at 9:00 P. M.
Once more on the street where shadows had grown long and dark, and people by hundreds were hastening home before the air raid siren sounded, Cherry gripped Dave’s arm as she said in a tragic whisper: “David, I never can stick it out. It will only be a dismal failure.”
“Nonsense!” Dave laughed. “It’s only stage-fright. Come on. My uncle took me to a rare little basement eating place once. They serve good old American coffee and waffles with maple syrup. That will put you on your toes.”
In the quiet of the sub-cellar, they drank great quantities of coffee and ate their waffles joyously.
“I—I guess I’ll make it now,” Cherry murmured. Once more they were on the deserted streets.
Then, as if to crush her high hopes, all hell let loose. The roar of powerful motors, the scream of sirens, the boom and bang of anti-aircraft guns filled all the night with terror.
“I can’t let you in ’ere now,” said a burly guard at the entrance to the broadcasting station. “It is quite impossible. You shouldn’t be ’ere at all.”
“But this lady is to sing over the radio at nine!” Dave protested.
“Can’t be ’elped.” The guard was firm. “Orders is orders. No ladies hallowed in the station during an alarm. If you’d ask me sir, I’d hadvise a subway station at once, sir. Yonder’s one not ’alf a block haway.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there came a low, whining sound, followed by a flash that lit all the sky. Then came a roar fit to burst their eardrums, and a tremendous push that tossed them to the pavement five yards away.
Without a word Dave scrambled to his feet, picked the slight girl up in his arms, dashed half a block, and was down two flights of stairs to the subway station before he fully realized what he was doing.
Seated on the hard floor of the station, with thousands of people all about them, for a full moment they were completely silent. Then Dave began to laugh. Cherry joined in, and the spell was broken.
The laugh over, they looked about them. The whole long platform was filled with people. Young and old, rich and poor, salesgirls in thin, shabby coats, gray-haired ladies in mink and ermine, they all were there. And all, it seemed, were bent on making the best of an unpleasant situation. Bye and bye they would do their best to snatch a little sleep, for tomorrow would be another day.
“Look at them.” There was a catch in Dave’s throat. “They seem almost happy.”
“Yes.” Cherry’s chin went up. “They’re not going to let Hitler get them down. He wouldn’t be pleased if he could see them now!”
In a bright corner four old men were playing cards. In the shadows a shopgirl was whispering to her young man. Sitting on their bedrolls, two sedate matrons were knitting. Children were everywhere, and all of them whooping it up in hilarious fun.
“Excuse me,” said a smiling young lady. “Aren’t you Cherry Ramsey?”
“Why—why yes, I am.” Cherry looked into a pair of eager blue eyes.
“I knew it!” the young lady exclaimed. “I heard you sing at Lady Applegate’s home once. It was truly quite wonderful. Now—” she hesitated, “well, you see, I’m just helping out down here, sort of social service work, don’t you know. And I thought you might not mind, well, you know,”—she hesitated—“well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind singing a song or two for these people. They’d think it quite the berries if you would.”
“Well, that—” Cherry laughed, “that’s what I came to town for, to sing on the radio. But the guard wouldn’t let us go up to the station.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Miss Meeks, the social worker murmured. “Listen!” There came a deep, low rumble like the roll of distant thunder. “You can’t help loving these people, don’t you know.” Her tired face brightened as she spread out her arms. “Not one of them knows whether his home will be standing in the morning. But you see how they are.”
“Yes—yes I see.” Cherry swallowed hard.
“The radio,” Miss Meeks murmured. “Now I shouldn’t wonder. Will you sing for them, Miss Ramsey?”
Cherry nodded.
From somewhere a small piano was made to appear. A little Irish girl with a tumbled mass of red hair took her place before it. A small platform—a heavy packing box—was placed beside the piano.
After shedding her heavy coat, Cherry stood before her strange audience. All lovely in gold and blue, she caught their eyes at once. Leaning over, she whispered to the girl at the piano, giving her the name of her first song. The social worker clapped her hands for silence. Deep, appreciative silence followed.
“Miss Ramsey, a friend of Lady Applegate, from Dorset way, will sing to us,” Miss Meeks announced. “Let’s give her a hand.” The applause was tumultuous.
Somehow, a light, not too strong, was made to play on the slender girl as she sang.
“In the gloaming, Oh my darling,When the lights are dim and low.”
“In the gloaming, Oh my darling,
When the lights are dim and low.”
She sang the song through to the end. The applause that followed drowned out the sound of exploding bombs.
“More! More!” came from every corner.
The social worker slid a microphone before the singer. Bending over, a smile on her lips, Cherry once more whispered a title. Then, lifting her voice high, she cried: “Roll out the Barrel! Everybody sing! Let’s make it ring!”
Everybody did sing,—more people than Cherry will ever know, for through the microphone that had been placed before her, Cherry was at last singing on the radio. From end to end of England the song boomed on: “Roll out the Barrel.”
Every platform in the subway had its radio. Station by station they joined in until the whole tube, miles on end, echoed with the song.
“Roll out the barrel! We’ll have a barrel of funRoll out the barrel! We’ll put the blues on the run.”
“Roll out the barrel! We’ll have a barrel of fun
Roll out the barrel! We’ll put the blues on the run.”
It seemed to Dave as he listened after that song was over, that even the Führer must have heard the applause that followed, heard and shuddered.
Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters who recalled that other terrible war, Cherry sang:
“There’s a long, long trail a-windingInto the land of my dreams,Where the nightingale is singingAnd the white moon beams.”
“There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And the white moon beams.”
Then, scarcely pausing for breath, leaning far forward, a bewitching smile on her face, she sang: “No! No! No! Papasista.”
When the roar of applause had died away, Dave heard a gray-haired lady in a Persian lamb coat say:
“Such a vulgar song!”