O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1919 | Page 7

wondered.
"We are so glad you could come to us," Lady Sherwood said rather
hastily just then. And again he could not fail to note that she was
prompting her husband.

The latter reluctantly turned round, and said, "Yes, yes, quite so.
Welcome to Bishopsthorpe, my boy," as if his wife had pulled a string,
sand he responded mechanically, without quite knowing what he said.
Then, as his eyes rested a moment on his guest, he looked as if he
would like to bolt out of the room. He controlled himself, however, and,
jerking round again to the fireplace, went on murmuring, "Yes, yes,
yes," vaguely--just like the dormouse at the Mad Tea-Party, who went
to sleep, saying, "Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle," Cary could not help
thinking to himself.
But after all, it wasn't really funny, it was pathetic. Gosh, how
doddering the poor old boy was! Skipworth wondered, with a sudden
twist at his heart, if the war was playing the deuce with his home
people, too. Was his own father going to pieces like this, and had his
mother's gay vivacity fallen into that still remoteness of Lady
Sherwood's? But of course not! The Carys hadn't suffered as the poor
Sherwoods had, with their youngest son, Curtin, killed early in the war,
and now Gerald knocked out so tragically. Lord, he thought, how they
must all bank on Chev! And of course they would want to hear at once
about him. "I left Chev as fit as anything, and he sent all sorts of
messages," he reported, thinking it more discreet to deliver Chev's
messages thus vaguely than to repeat his actual carefree remark, which
had been, "Oh, tell 'em I'm jolly as a tick."
But evidently there was something wrong with the words as they were,
for instantly he was aware of that curious sense of withdrawal on their
part. Hastily reviewing them, he decided that they had sounded too
familiar from a stranger and a younger man like himself. He supposed
he ought not to have spoken of Chev by his first name. Gee, what
sticklers they were! Wouldn't his family--dad and mother and
Nancy--have fairly lapped up any messages from him, even if they had
been delivered a bit awkwardly? However, he added, as a concession to
their point of view, "But of course, you'll have had later news of
Captain Sherwood."
To which, after a pause, Lady Sherwood responded, "Oh, yes," in that
remote and colourless voice which might have meant anything or
nothing.
At this point dinner was announced.
Lady Sherwood drew her husband away from the empty fireplace, and

Gerald slipped his arm through the Virginian's, saying pleasantly, "I'm
learning to carry on fairly well at St. Dunstan's, but I confess I still like
to have a pilot."
To look at the tall young fellow beside him, whose scarred face was so
reminiscent of Chev's untouched good looks, who had known all the
immense freedom of the air, but who was now learning to carry on in
the dark, moved Skipworth Cary to generous homage.
"You know my saying I'm glad to meet you isn't just American," he
said half shyly, but warmly. "It's plain English, and the straight truth.
I've wanted to meet you awfully. The oldsters are always holding up
your glorious exploits to us newcomers. Withers never gets tired telling
about that fight of yours with the four enemy planes. And besides," he
rushed on eagerly, "I'm glad to have a chance to tell Chev's
brother--Captain Sherwood's brother, I mean--what I think of him.
Only as a matter of fact, I can't," he broke off with a laugh. "I can't put
it exactly into words, but I tell you I'd follow that man straight into hell
and out the other side--or go there alone if he told me to. He is the
finest chap that ever flew."
And then he felt as if a cold douche had been flung in his face, for after
a moment's pause, the other returned, "That's awfully good of you," in a
voice so distant and formal that the Virginian could have kicked
himself. What an ass he was to be so darned enthusiastic with an
Englishman! He supposed it was bad form to show any pleasure over
praise of a member of your family. Lord, if Chev got the V.C., he
reckoned it would be awful to speak of it. Still, you would have thought
Gerald might have stood for a little praise of him. But then, glancing
sideways at his companion, he surprised on his face a look so strange
and suffering that it came to him almost violently what it must be never
to fly again; to be on the threshold of life, with endless days of
blackness ahead. Good God! How cruel he