Captain Jinks, Hero by Ernest Howard Crosby (story read aloud txt) 📕

that to you. They sound to me rather too flattering, but if you are sure that is the way those things are always done, I won’t make any objection. You might ask Mr. Jonas. Where is he?”

“He’s going on next week. He’s the greatest fellow I ever saw. Everything he touches turns to gold. He’s got his grip on everything in sight on those blessed islands already. He’s scarcely started, and he could sell out his interests there for a cold million today. It’s going to be a big company to grab everything. He’s called it the ‘Benevolent Assimilation Company, Limited’; rather a good name, I think, though perhaps ‘Unlimited’ would be nearer the truth.”

“Yes,” said Sam. “It shows our true purposes. I hope the Cubapinos will rejoice when they hear the name.”

“Perhaps they won’t. There’s no counting on those people. I’m sick of them before I’ve seen them. I’m just going to tell what a lot of skins they are when I begin writing for The Lyre. By the way, did you have your photographs taken at Slowburgh?”

“No,” said Sam, “I forgot all about it, but I can write home about the old ones, and I’ve got one in cadet uniform taken at East Point.”

“Well, we mustn’t forget to have you taken at St. Kisco, and we can mail the photos to The Lyre, but you must be careful not to overlook a thing like that again. The people will want to know what the hero who saved the country looked like.”

“Even if I don’t do anything very wonderful,” said Sam, “and I hope I shall, I shall be taking part in a great work, and doing my share of civilizing and Christianizing a barbarous country. They have no conception of our civilized and refined manners, of the sway of law and order, of all our civilized customs, the result of centuries of improvement and effort.”

Cleary picked up a newspaper to read.

“What’s that other newspaper lying there?” asked Sam.

“That’s The Evening Star; do you want it?” and he handed it to him.

“Good Lord! what’s that frightful picture?” said Cleary, as Sam opened the paper. “Oh, I see; it’s that lynching yesterday. Why, it’s from a snapshot; that’s what I call enterprise! There’s the darkey tied to the stake, and the flames are just up to his waist. My! how he squirms. It’s fearful, isn’t it? And look at the crowd! There are small boys bringing wood, and women and girls looking on, and, upon my word, a baby in arms, too! I know that square very well. I’ve often been there. That’s the First Presbyterian Church there behind the stake. Rather a handsome building,” and Cleary turned back to his own paper, while Sam settled down in his corner to read how the leading citizens gathered bones and charred flesh as mementoes and took them home to their children. No one could have guessed what he was reading from his expression, for his face spoke of nothing but a guileless conscience and a contented heart.

One day at St. Kisco gave just time enough for the photographs, and most of the day was devoted to them. Sam was taken in twenty poses⁠—in the act of leading his troops in a breach, giving the order to fire, charging bayonets himself with a musket supposed to have been taken from a dead foe, standing with his arms folded and his cap pulled over his eyes in the trenches, and waving his cap on a bastion in the moment of triumph. Cleary lay down so that his friend might be pictured with his foot upon his prostrate form. The photographer was one who made a specialty of such work, and was connected with a cinematograph company.

“If you have good luck, sir, and become famous,” he said, “as your friend thinks you will, we’ll fight your battles over again over there in the vacant lot; and then we’ll work these in, and you’ll soon be in every variety show in the country.”

“But I may be mounted on horseback,” said Sam.

“That’s so,” said Cleary. “Can’t you get a horse somewhere and take him on that?”

“We never do that, sir. Here’s a saddle. Just sit on it across this chair, and when the time comes we’ll work it in all right. We’ll have a real horse over in the lot.” And thus Sam was taken straddling a chair.

They left orders to send copies of the photographs to Homeville, Slowburgh, and to Miss Hunter who was still at East Point, and the remainder to The Lyre. That very evening they boarded the transport and at daybreak sailed away over the great ocean. The ship was filled by various drafts for different regiments and men-of-war. Sam’s regiment was already at the seat of war, but there were several captains and lieutenants assigned to it on board, as well as thirty or forty men. Sam felt entirely comfortable again for the first time since his resignation at East Point. He was in his element, the military world, once more. Everything was ruled by drum, fife, and bugle. He found the same feeling of intense patriotism again, which civilians can not quite attain to, however they may make the attempt. The relations between some of the officers seemed to Sam somewhat strange. The highest naval officer on board, a captain, was not on speaking terms with the highest army officer, a brigadier-general of volunteers. This breach apparently set the fashion, for all the way down, through both arms of the service, there were jealousies and quarrels. There was one great subject of dispute, the respective merits of the two admirals who had overcome the Castalian fleet at Havilla. Some ascribed the victory to the one and some to the other, but to take one side was to put an end to all friendships on the other.

“See here, Sam,” said Cleary, not long after they had been out of sight of land, “who are you for, Admiral Hercules or Admiral