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Authors: Philip Wylie
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the ship itself drifted shoreward. Late in the afternoon their heap of debris was augmented by a score of things--wooden bowls from the galley, spars, planks, a straw cover from a bottle of wine, and a pillow.
They saved everything as it came in, and all that time they had not spoken to each other.
At last Stone, wading on the rocks, picked up a cupboard and he perceived that the inside was lined with newspaper, tacked on shelves.
The sight of that newsprint devastated him.
He hugged the box to his person. He pulled the tacks with his nails, heedless of the pain. He rolled the wet paper with the utmost care and, when he saw that his find had not been noticed by the others, he hurried secretly back to the house.
The first words he saw inflamed his mind. He could not help his selfishness and fanatic greed for news.
GERMANS AOVANCE ALONG MARNE SECTOR
That is what he had read.
As he went to the house his mind reeled. Germans advance. There was a war up there in the world. A war that involved Germany.
He locked himself in his room. He spread the wet pages with agonizing care and as he worked his eyes gleaned fragments.
Woodrow Wilson was President of the United States. England was at war with Germany. Also France. The name of Russia appeared as a combatant.
Finally, the papers were spread and he focussed his eyes. He read.
He forgot that salvation had missed them by a terrible margin--a margin at once minute and gigantic.
He forgot his son and McCobb and Jack.
He became for a little while the man he had been--the man of the world, the political power. And he became a student of the new world. They were moving troops through Paris in omnibuses and taxicabs? What were taxicabs? The Stutram had radioed for help. What was radioing? The, British line was holding well and Paris would be saved.
Paris.
Ah, God, Paris.
The curves of the Seine and the cold gray of Notre Dame. The wide passage of the Boulevard Montparnasse past the place where he had lived when he studied there.
The still dark places of the Bois and the songs and the wine and the lights and the music.
German guns were belching and French blood was making a red mud of Flanders fields but Paris would be saved.
Paris!
On the headland, wading in the seaweed and sliding on the rocks over which water gushed, three men hunted for souvenirs of their Gethsemane.
Henry rubbed shoulders with McCobb. The Scotchman was holding a shoe.
"Somebody's," he said, in a world where somebody was a word seldom used.
The expression was forlorn, so hopeless and woebegone, that Henry's spirit turned in its tracks.
He grinned.
"We can make better shoes than that."
The sentence rallied the Scot. His eyes lighted and on his tough face there came a smile both radiant and calm.
"Let's go back to see your father," he suggested. "There's no virtue--in this salvage and more'll wash up on the sand down the point."
"Right. Come on, Jack."
The Negro flashed his teeth from habit. "Yes, Mr. Henry."
They moved away from the place in slow file, heartened by an emotional chemistry which the indomitability of Henry's eyes had started. Thrice they knocked at the locked door of the bedroom before reluctant motion responded.
Stone came out and never did he look more like the substance of his name. His granite face was fixed. He recognized them as if they were not people, but far-fetched theories.
"There's a war," he whispered.
McCobb had seen madness and he was much frightened, but Henry, who had never seen it, laughed.
"War? What are you talking about, father?"
Vacantly, Stone stared.
"I found a newspaper in that stuff--that floated--ashore. I've been reading it."
"That's fine, father! It must have been great!"
"It was hideous."
"What do you mean?"
"I--"
He walked into the center of the living-room, where the hand-made furniture was arranged between shelves of books and corpulent cupboards, where, McCobb's golden handiwork gleamed and
They saved everything as it came in, and all that time they had not spoken to each other.
At last Stone, wading on the rocks, picked up a cupboard and he perceived that the inside was lined with newspaper, tacked on shelves.
The sight of that newsprint devastated him.
He hugged the box to his person. He pulled the tacks with his nails, heedless of the pain. He rolled the wet paper with the utmost care and, when he saw that his find had not been noticed by the others, he hurried secretly back to the house.
The first words he saw inflamed his mind. He could not help his selfishness and fanatic greed for news.
GERMANS AOVANCE ALONG MARNE SECTOR
That is what he had read.
As he went to the house his mind reeled. Germans advance. There was a war up there in the world. A war that involved Germany.
He locked himself in his room. He spread the wet pages with agonizing care and as he worked his eyes gleaned fragments.
Woodrow Wilson was President of the United States. England was at war with Germany. Also France. The name of Russia appeared as a combatant.
Finally, the papers were spread and he focussed his eyes. He read.
He forgot that salvation had missed them by a terrible margin--a margin at once minute and gigantic.
He forgot his son and McCobb and Jack.
He became for a little while the man he had been--the man of the world, the political power. And he became a student of the new world. They were moving troops through Paris in omnibuses and taxicabs? What were taxicabs? The Stutram had radioed for help. What was radioing? The, British line was holding well and Paris would be saved.
Paris.
Ah, God, Paris.
The curves of the Seine and the cold gray of Notre Dame. The wide passage of the Boulevard Montparnasse past the place where he had lived when he studied there.
The still dark places of the Bois and the songs and the wine and the lights and the music.
German guns were belching and French blood was making a red mud of Flanders fields but Paris would be saved.
Paris!
On the headland, wading in the seaweed and sliding on the rocks over which water gushed, three men hunted for souvenirs of their Gethsemane.
Henry rubbed shoulders with McCobb. The Scotchman was holding a shoe.
"Somebody's," he said, in a world where somebody was a word seldom used.
The expression was forlorn, so hopeless and woebegone, that Henry's spirit turned in its tracks.
He grinned.
"We can make better shoes than that."
The sentence rallied the Scot. His eyes lighted and on his tough face there came a smile both radiant and calm.
"Let's go back to see your father," he suggested. "There's no virtue--in this salvage and more'll wash up on the sand down the point."
"Right. Come on, Jack."
The Negro flashed his teeth from habit. "Yes, Mr. Henry."
They moved away from the place in slow file, heartened by an emotional chemistry which the indomitability of Henry's eyes had started. Thrice they knocked at the locked door of the bedroom before reluctant motion responded.
Stone came out and never did he look more like the substance of his name. His granite face was fixed. He recognized them as if they were not people, but far-fetched theories.
"There's a war," he whispered.
McCobb had seen madness and he was much frightened, but Henry, who had never seen it, laughed.
"War? What are you talking about, father?"
Vacantly, Stone stared.
"I found a newspaper in that stuff--that floated--ashore. I've been reading it."
"That's fine, father! It must have been great!"
"It was hideous."
"What do you mean?"
"I--"
He walked into the center of the living-room, where the hand-made furniture was arranged between shelves of books and corpulent cupboards, where, McCobb's golden handiwork gleamed and
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