The Tin Soldier

Temple Bailey

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• Publié par: ibbi
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 23
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Tin Soldier, by Temple Bailey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Tin Soldier Author: Temple Bailey Release Date: March 27, 2006 [eBook #18056] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START SOLDIER*** OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIN E-text prepared by Al Haines [Frontispiece: "I shall come back for more"] THE TIN SOLDIER BY TEMPLE BAILEY AUTHOR OF GLORY OF YOUTH, CONTRARY MARY, ETC. ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. VAUX WILSON NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1918 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY First printing November, 1916. Second printing January, 1919. Third printing March, 1919. Fourth printing May, 1919. Sixth printing September, 1919. The Tin Soldier CONTENTS BOOK ONE ON THE SHELF CHAPTER I THE TOY SHOP II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII CINDERELLA DRUSILLA THE QUESTION THE SLACKER THE PROMISE HILDA THE SHADOWED ROOM ROSE-COLOR! A MAN WITH MONEY HILDA WEARS A CROWN WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? SHINING SOULS HILDA BREAKS THE RULES JEAN-JOAN THE WHITE CAT BOOK TWO THROUGH THE CRACK XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII THE BROAD HIGHWAY HILDA SHAKES A TREE THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN DERBY'S WIFE JEAN PLAYS PROXY BOOK THREE THE BUGLE CALLS XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX THE EMPTY HOUSE THE SINGING WOMAN WHITE VIOLETS THE HOPE OF THE WORLD MARCHING FEET SIX DAYS "HE CAME TO THE WARS!" ILLUSTRATIONS "I shall come back for more" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ "I haven't anything left—for you" "If anything should happen, you will remember?" "These are my jewels" BOOK ONE ON THE SHELF "I cannot bear it," the Tin Soldier said, standing on the shelf, "I cannot bear it. It is so melancholy here. Let me rather go to the wars and lose my arms and legs." HANS ANDERSEN: The Old House. THE TIN SOLDIER CHAPTER I THE TOY SHOP The lights shining through the rain on the smooth street made of it a golden river. The shabby old gentleman navigated unsteadily until he came to a corner. A lamppost offered safe harbor. He steered for it and took his bearings. On each side of the glimmering stream loomed dark houses. A shadowy blot on the triangle he knew to be a church. Beyond the church was the intersecting avenue. Down the avenue were the small exclusive shops which were gradually encroaching on the residence section. The shabby old gentleman took out his watch. It was a fine old watch, not at all in accord with the rest of him. It was almost six. The darkness of the November afternoon had come at five. The shabby old gentleman swung away from the lamppost and around the corner, then bolted triumphantly into the Toy Shop. "Here I am," he said, with an attempt at buoyancy, and sat down. "Oh," said the girl behind the counter, "you are wet." "Well, I said I'd come, didn't I? Rain or shine? In five minutes I should have been too late—shop closed—" He lurched a little towards her. She backed away from him. "You—you are—wet—won't you take cold—?" "Never take cold—glad to get here—" He smiled and shut his eyes, opened them and smiled again, nodded and recovered, nodded and came to rest with his head on the counter. The girl made a sudden rush for the rear door of the shop. "Look here, Emily. Poor old duck!" Emily, standing in the doorway, surveyed the sleeping derelict scornfully. "You'd better put him out. It is six o'clock, Jean—" "He was here yesterday—and he was furious because I wouldn't sell him any soldiers. He said he wanted to make a bonfire of the Prussian ones—and to buy the French and English ones for his son," she laughed. "Of course you told him they were not for sale." "Yes. But he insisted. And when he went away he told me he'd come again and bring a lot of money—" The shabby old gentleman, rousing at the psychological moment, threw on the counter a roll of bills and murmured brokenly: "'Ten little soldiers fighting on the line, One was blown to glory, and, then there were nine—!'" His head fell forward and again he slept. "Disgusting," said Emily Bridges; "of course we've got to get him out." Getting him out, however, offered difficulties. He was a very big old gentleman, and they were little women. "We might call the police—" "Oh, Emily—" "Well, if you can suggest anything better. We must close the shop." "We might put him in a taxi—and send him home." "He probably hasn't any home." "Don't be so pessimistic—he certainly has money." "You don't know where he got it. You can't be too careful, Jean—" The girl, touching the old man's shoulder, asked, "Where do you live?" He murmured indistinctly. "Where?" she bent her ear down to him. Waking, he sang: "Two little soldiers, blowing up a Hun— The darned thing—exploded— And then there was—One—" "Oh, Emily, did you ever hear anything so funny?" Emily couldn't see the funny side of it. It was tragic and it was disconcerting. "I don't know what to do. Perhaps you'd better call a taxi." "He's shivering, Emily. I believe I'll make him a cup of chocolate." "Dear child, it will be a lot of trouble—" "I'd like to do it—really." "Very well." Emily was not unsympathetic, but she had had a rather wearing life. Her love of toys and of little children had kept her human, otherwise she had a feeling that she might have hardened into chill spinsterhood. As Jean disappeared through the door, the elder woman moved about the shop, setting it in order for the night. It was a labor of love to put the dolls to bed, to lock the glass doors safely on the puffy rabbits and woolly dogs and round-eyed cats, to close the drawers on the tea-sets and Lilliputian kitchens, to shut into boxes the tin soldiers that their queer old customer had craved. For more than a decade Emily Bridges had kept the shop. Originally it had been a Thread and Needle Shop, supplying people who did not care to go downtown for such wares. Then one Christmas she had put in a few things to attract the children. The children had come, and gradually there had been more toys—until at last she had found herself the owner of a Toy Shop, with the thread and needle and other staid articles stuck negligently in the background. Yet in the last three years it had been hard to keep up the standard which she had set for herself. Toys were made in Germany, and the men who had made them were in the trenches, the women who had helped were in the fields—the days when the bisque babies had smiled on happy working-households were over. There was death and darkness where once the rollicking clowns and dancing dolls had been set to mechanical music. Jean, coming back with the chocolate, found Emily with a great white plush elephant in her arms. His trappings were of red velvet and there was much gold; he was the last of a line of assorted sizes. There had always been a white elephant in Miss Emily's window. Painfully she had seen her supply dwindle. For this last of the herd, she had a feeling far in excess of his value, such as a collector might have for a rare coin of a certain minting, or a bit of pottery of a pre-historic period. She had not had the heart to sell him. "I may never get another. And there are none made like him in America." "After the war—" Jean had hinted. Miss Emily had flared, "Do you think I shall buy toys of Germany after this war?" "Good for you, Emily. I was afraid you might." But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily wrapped the old mastodon up in a white cloth. "I believe I'll take him home with me. People are always asking to buy him, and it's hard to explain." "I should say it is. I had an awful time with him," she indicated the old gentleman, "yesterday." She set the tray down on the counter. There was a slim silver pot on it, and a thin green cup. She poked the sleeping man with a tentative finger. "Won't you please wake up and have some chocolate." Rousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hospitality. "My dear young lady," he said, with a trace of courtliness, "you shouldn't have troubled—" and reached out a trembling hand for the cup. There was a ring on the hand, a seal ring with a coat of arms. As he drank the chocolate eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old coat. He was facing the door. Suddenly it opened, and his cup fell with a crash. A young man came in. He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the old gentleman. He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat. He took off his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness. His eyebrows made a dark pencilled line—his eyes were gray. It was a striking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache. He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder, "Hello, Dad." Then, anxiously, to the two women, "I hope he hasn't troubled you. He isn't quite —himself." Jean nodded. "I am so glad you came. We didn't know what to do." "I've been looking for him—" He bent to pick up the broken cup. "I'm dreadfully sorry. You must let me pay for it." "Oh, no." "Please." He was looking at it. "It was valuable?" "Yes," Jean admitted, "it was one of Emily's precious pets." "Please don't think any more about it," Emily begged. "You had better get your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot water bottle." Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emily found herself softening towards the old gentleman. Simply as a derelict she had not cared what became of him. But as the father of this son, she cared. "Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad." The old gentleman stood up. "Wait a minute—I came for tin soldiers—Derry—" "They are not for sale," Miss Emily stated. "They are made in Germany. I can't get any more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind from my selling stock." The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately. "Oh, Emily," said the girl behind th