Chapter III

From the day when Percy disappeared with these mysterious words on his lips to the day when the news came that he had been killed there was an interval of time that varied according to the occupation and the preoccupation of his particular acquaintances. To Bultishaw it appeared a very long time, but this may have been partly due to the fact that in the interval he had spent most of the time in bed with a very serious illness. He had been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and he had not been allowed to drink. The time had consequently hung very heavily on his hands, and his thoughts had been feeding on each other. The exact time was in effect eleven weeks.

During the latter part of this period his friend Ticknett paid him many visits, and had been very kind and attentive. And it was he indeed who brought the news that Percy had been killed.

It was one evening when it was nearly dark, and Bultishaw was sitting up in his dressing-gown in front of the fire, and his daughter Elsie was sitting on the other side of the fireplace, sewing. Ticknett paid one of his customary visits. Elsie showed him to an easy chair between the two, and after Ticknett’s solicitous enquiries regarding Bultishaw’s health, the two men reverted to their usual discussion of the staff of Cotterway’s and their friends. Suddenly Ticknett remarked quite casually:

“Oh, by the way, young Percy has been killed at the front.”

And then the room seemed to become violently darker. Bultishaw struggled to frame some suitable comment upon this but the words failed to come. He sat there with his fat, puffy hands pressing the sides of his easy chair. At last he said:

“Elsie, you might go and get my beef-tea ready.”

When his daughter had gone out of the room, he still had nothing to say. He had not dismissed her for the purpose of speaking about the matter to Ticknett, but simply because a strange mood had come to him that he could not trust himself. In the gathering darkness he could see the sallow mask of his friend’s face looking at the fire, and his cold eyes peering beneath his heavy brows. Bultishaw at length managed to say:

“Any particulars?”

And Ticknett replied:

“No. It was in the papers yesterday.”

And then Ticknett smiled and added:

“So you won’t have to bother about your job any longer, Mr. Bultishaw.”

And Bultishaw thought:

“There’ll be a packet for you, Ticknett. A packet. Do you understand? And by God! you’ll deserve it!”

He was still uncertain of what “the packet” would contain, but he had thought a lot about it during his illness, and he was sure the packet would contain something unpleasant, if not terrible. And yet Ticknett was his friend, in fact his only friend; the man who had saved him in a crisis, and who waited on him in his sickness. He tried to pull himself together, and he managed to say in his normally wheezy voice:

“I hope to be back next week.”

And indeed on the following Tuesday he did once more report himself to the heads of the firm. He was still very weak and ill, and the doctor had warned him to avoid alcohol in any form. But by half-past twelve he felt so exhausted he decided that a little whisky and milk might help to get him through the day. He crawled round to “The Duchess of Teck” and was soon amongst his congenial acquaintances. It was very warm, very pleasant and ingratiating, the atmosphere of the bar. He ordered his whisky and milk, and then became aware of a striking vacancy. Daphne was not there. Mrs. Clarke and Gladys were busy serving drinks, and a tall thin girl was helping them. A peculiar sense of misgiving came to Bultishaw. He did not like to say anything about it to Mrs. Clarke, but he turned to an old habitué, named Benjamin Strigge, and he whispered:

“Where’s Daphne to-day, Mr. Strigge?”

And Mr. Strigge answered:

“Daphne? She ain’t been here for nearly three months. There was some story about her and young Percy. I’ve really forgotten what it was all about. Of course, you’ve been away, Mr. Bultishaw. You’ve missed all the spicy news, eh? They never interest me. Ha, ha, ha! Can I order you another whisky and milk?”

Bultishaw declined with thanks, and stood there sucking his pipe. In a few minutes Ticknett entered the bar. He appeared to be quite cheerful, and for him garrulous. He was very solicitous about Bultishaw’s health, and insistent that he should not stand near a draught. He talked optimistically about the war, and Bultishaw replied in monosyllables. And all the time the ridiculous thought kept racing through his mind:

“You’re going to get a packet, my friend.”

It was a week later that Prosser turned up. He was one of eleven men, the sole survivors of a regiment--Percy’s regiment. Prosser was slightly wounded in the foot, and strangely altered. He stammered and was no longer a gay companion. He had a wild, abstracted look, as though he had lost the power of listening, and was entirely occupied with inner visions. They could get little information out of him about Percy. He described certain scenes and experiences very vividly, but the description did not convey much to most of the men, for the reason that they were entirely devoid of imagination. The regiment had, as a matter of fact, been ambushed, and practically annihilated. A mine had done some deadly work. He had seen Percy and another man come into the lines in the morning. It was just daybreak. They had been on listening patrol. He had seen them both making their way along a trench to a dug-out, to the very spot where five minutes later the mine blew up.

“Didn’t you never see Percy again?” some one asked.

“No,” answered the warrior. “But I ’eard ’im laugh.”

“Laugh!”

“Yes. You know the way he used to laugh. Loud and clear-like. He must have been two hundred yards away. Suddenly he laughed, and I says to Peters, who was on my right, ‘’Ark at that blighter, Percy! Seems to think even this is amusin’.’ I ’adn’t got the words out of my mouth when ... just as though the whole bally earth had burst into a gas ... not a quarter of a mile away--thought I was gone myself ... right over in the quarter where Percy had gone ... thousands of tons of mud flung up into the sky ... you could ’ear the earth being ripped to pieces, and there were men in it.... Oh, Gawd!”

Bultishaw shuddered and felt faint, and the rest of the company seemed to think they were hearing a rather highly colored account of some quite inconceivable phenomenon. Prosser was further detailing his narrative, when he happened to drop a phrase that was very illuminating to Bultishaw. He was speaking of another man some of them knew, named Bates. The phrase he used was:

“Charley Bates got a packet too!”

A packet! Bultishaw paid for his drink and went out into the street. He felt rather hot and cold round the temples. He took a cab home, and went straight to bed, explaining to his daughters that he had had “a very heavy day.” When he rolled between the sheets the true meaning of that sinister phrase “getting a packet” kept revolving through his mind. It was evidently the military expression, and very terse and grim and sardonic it was. These men who met a violent end “got a packet.” Percy had got a packet, Bates had got a packet, but why should Ticknett, dividing his days between a furnishing house and a saloon bar, get a packet? It was incredible, preposterous. Men who went out to fight for their country, well--they might expect it. But not men who lead simple, honest, commercial lives. If Ticknett got a packet, why should he not himself get a packet? He passed a sleepless night, but there was one problem he determined to try and solve on the morrow.