Soldiers Pay Read Free

the train conductor and tell him to wire ahead to Buffalo we got two crazy men on board.”
    â€œYeh, Henry,” Yaphank amended to the negro, “tell ’em to have a band there and three bottles of whisky. If they ain’t got a band of their own, tell ’em to hire one. I will pay for it.” He dragged a blobby mass of bills from his pocket and stripping off one, gave it to the porter. “Do you want a band too?” he asked Lowe. “No,” answering himself, “ no, you don’t need none. You can use mine. Run now,” he repeated.
    â€œYas suh, Cap’m.” White teeth were like a suddenly opened piano.
    â€œWatch ’em, men,” the conductor told his appointed guards. “You, Henry!” he shouted, following the vanishing white jacket.
    Yaphank’s companion, sweating and pale, was about to become ill; Yaphank and Lowe sat easily respectively affable and belligerent. The newcomers touched shoulders for mutual support, alarmed but determined. Craned heads of other passengers became again smugly unconcerned over books and papers and the train rushed on along the sunset.
    â€œWell, gentlemen,” began Yaphank conversationally.
    The two civilians sprang like plucked wires and one of them said, “Now, now,” soothingly, putting his hand on the soldier. “Just be quiet, soldier, and we’ll look after you. Us Americans appreciates what you’ve done.”
    â€œHank White,” muttered the sodden one.
    â€œHuh?” asked his companion.
    â€œHank White,” he repeated.
    The other turned to the civilian cordially. “Well, bless my soul, if here ain’t old Hank White in the flesh, that I was raised with! Why, Hank! We heard you was dead, or in the piano business or something. You ain’t been fired, have you? I notice you ain’t got no piano with you.”
    â€œNo, no,” the man answered in alarm, “you are mistaken. Schluss is my name. I got a swell line of ladies’ underthings.” He produced a card.
    â€œWell, well, ain’t that nice. Say,” he leaned confidentially toward the other, “you don’t carry no women samples with you? No? I was afraid not. But never mind. I will get you one in Buffalo. Not buy you one, of course: just rent you one, you might say, for the time being. Horace,” to Cadet Lowe, “where’s that bottle?”
    â€œHere she is, Major,” responded Lowe, taking the bottle from beneath his blouse. Yaphank offered it to the two civilians.
    â€œThink of something far, far away, and drink fast,” he advised.
    â€œWhy, thanks,” said the one called Schluss, tendering the bottle formally to his companion. They stooped cautiously and drank. Yaphank and Cadet Lowe drank, not stooping.
    â€œBe careful, soldiers,” warned Schluss.
    â€œSure,” said Cadet Lowe. They drank again.
    â€œWon’t the other one take nothing?” asked the heretofore silent one, indicating Yaphank’s travelling companion. He was hunched awkwardly in the corner. His friend shook him and he slipped limply to the floor.
    â€œThat’s the horror of the demon rum, boys,” said Yaphank solemnly and he took another drink. And Cadet Lowe took another drink. He tendered the bottle.
    â€œNo, no,” Schluss said with passion, “not no more right now.”
    He don’t mean that,” Yaphank said, “he just ain’t thought.” He and Lowe stared at the two civilians. “Give him time: he’ll come to hisself.”
    After a while the one called Schluss took the bottle.
    â€œThat’s right,” Yaphank told Lowe confidentially. “For a while I thought he was going to insult the uniform. But you wasn’t, was you?”
    â€œNo, no. They ain’t no one respects the uniform like I do. Listen, I would of liked to fought by your side, see? But someone got to look out for business while the boys are gone.