THE WORLD WAR COLLECTION OF H. C. MCNEILE (SAPPER). Sapper

      When Carruthers Laughed

       Table of Content

       I. — WHEN CARRUTHERS LAUGHED

       II. — THE SNAKE FARM

       III. — THE GREAT MAGOR DIAMOND

       IV. — THE BROKEN RECORD

       V. — THE TAMING OF SYDNEY MARSHAM

       VI. — DILEMMA

       VII. — THE BARONETS OF MERTONBRIDGE HALL

       VIII. — TOUCH AND GO

       IX. — THE LOYALTY OF PETER DRAYTON

       X. — THE MADNESS OF CHARLES TRANTER

       XI. — A STUDENT OF THE OBVIOUS

       XII. — THE SECOND RIDE

      I. — WHEN CARRUTHERS LAUGHED

       Table of Content

      HENRY ST. JOHN CARRUTHERS was something of an enigma. Where he lived I have no idea, except that it was somewhere north of Oxford Street. But we were both members of the Junior Strand, which, as all the world knows, is not a club frequented largely by the clergy or the more respectable lights of the legal profession. It is a pot-house frank and unashamed, but withal a thoroughly amusing one.

      It is not a large club, and the general atmosphere in the smoking-room is one of conviviality. Honesty compels me to admit that the majority of the members would not find favour in the eyes of a confirmed temperance fanatic, but since the reverse is even truer the point is not of great interest. Anyway, it was there that I first met Henry St. John Carruthers.

      He was, I should imagine, about thirty-six years of age—neither good-looking nor ugly. Not that a man's looks matter, but I mention it en passant. He was sitting next to me after lunch, and we drifted into conversation about something or other. I didn't even know his name. I have entirely forgotten what we talked about. But what I do remember, as having impressed me during our talk, is his eyes. Not their size or colour, but their expression.

      I sat on for a few minutes after he had gone trying to interpret that expression. It wasn't exactly bored: it certainly wasn't conceited—and yet it contained both those characteristics. A sort of contemptuous resignation most nearly expresses it: the look of a man who is saying to himself—'Merciful heavens! what am I doing in this galaxy?'

      And yet, I repeat, there was very little conceit about it: it was too impersonal to be in the slightest degree offensive.

      "Rum fellow that," said the man sitting on the other side of me, after he had gone. "You never seem to get any further with him."

      It was then I learnt his name and the fact that he was in business in the City. "A square peg in a round hole if ever there was one," went on my informant. "From the little I know of him he'd be happier in the French Foreign Legion than sitting with his knees under a desk."

      Time went on and I saw a good deal of Henry St. John Carruthers. And as my acquaintance with him grew—not into anything that may be called friendship but into a certain degree of intimacy—I realised that my casual informant was right. That City desk was a round hole with a vengeance. And the fact supplied the clue to the expression in his eyes. It was the life he lived that it was directed against—and himself for living that life.

      Not that he ever complained in so many words: he was not a man who ever asked for sympathy. It was his bed and he was going to lie on it; he asked no one else to share it with him. Very much alone did he strike me as being: a man who would go his own way and thank you to go yours. It would be idle to pretend that he was popular. And in view of his manner it was not surprising. His somewhat marked air of aloofness tended to put a damper on the spirits of men he found himself with.

      "Hang it all!" said Bearsted, a stockbroker, one night as the door closed behind Carruthers. "Has anyone ever seen that fellow laugh?"

      I thought over that remark during the next few days, and finally came to the surprising conclusion that it was true. I'd never considered the matter before, and now that it had been brought to my notice it struck me that I never had seen Henry St. John Carruthers laugh. I'd seen him smile, I'd seen a twinkle in his eye—but an outright laugh, never. So one evening I tackled him about it.

      "Do you know, Carruthers," I said, "that in the course of the year since I first met you I've never seen you laugh?"

      He stared at me for a moment; then he scratched his head.