War-time Silhouettes | Page 2

the name,

grasps the paper and hides behind it. From long experience he has
discovered the utility of the newspaper as a sort of parapet behind
which he can better await attack.
A slight figure in khaki advances into the room, observes the
newspaper above the legs and smiles slightly.
"Hello, uncle!" It's a fresh young voice.
Mr. Reiss grunts, slowly lowers the paper and gazes at the youth over
his eyeglasses.
"Oh, it's you. When did you come up?"
"Just arrived, uncle. We're ordered out. I thought I'd look you up at
once as there are one or two things--"
"Eh--what?"
Among Mr. Reiss's characteristics is a disconcerting habit of making
people repeat their remarks. This is deliberate and its purpose
twofold--to gain time and to embarrass the person addressed.
The young fellow sits down rather uncomfortably and begins again--
"We're ordered out, you know--"
"No, I didn't know. How could I? You never write--"
Mr. Reiss consolidates his defence with the pretence of a grievance.
"I didn't know myself until yesterday. They don't give one much time,
you know."
"They--who?"
"The War Office people. You see, our first battalion has had a lot of
casualties and three of us subs are being taken from the third. We've got
to join the day after to-morrow. Bit of a rush. And I've got things to get.
I'm afraid I must ask you to give me a leg up, uncle. I'm a bit short--"
"Short? Why, you've got an ample allowance besides your pay and the
Government pays for your outfit at an extravagant rate." Mr. Reiss
never ceases denouncing the extravagance of the Government. He now
adjusts his glasses and glowers at the youngster, who fidgets under the
scrutiny. "Yes, I know. I--" he stammers.
"Well--well?"
"The fact is--when Staples, our captain, went back--he--I--"
A grunt. Then, "Eh--what?"
"He was engaged, you know."
"Well--well?" irritably.
"I can't explain, uncle, if you don't give me a chance."

Another grunt.
"Jimmie--I mean Staples--wanted to give his girl a ring before he went
back. He hadn't enough money--so I lent him fifty pounds."
Mr. Reiss drops his glasses, gets up from his chair, and stands before
the fire, facing his nephew.
"So you lent him fifty pounds, did you? A third of your annual
allowance. You had no business to--and if Captain
Whatever's-his-name were a respectable man, he would have saved the
money to pay for the ring. Instead of that I have to pay for it."
"Oh no, uncle."
"How d'you mean--'no, uncle'? Aren't you asking me for money? It's
always the same story with the lot of you. You like to be generous at
other people's expense. I've told you I'm a ruined man. The fortune
which was the result of my hard work all my life has disappeared. I'm a
poor man. I spend nothing on myself. I've given up my car. I've put
down everything. I'm trying to dispose of my pictures and to sell the
lease of this place. You don't seem to understand what this infernal war
means to people like myself. You don't have to pay for it. Do you
realize that one-third of my entire income goes for income tax? I've
paid your bills over and over again, but I can't do it any more. For this
once I'll--" The boy holds up his hand.
"Look here, uncle. I'd better tell you at once. I shall need another fifty
to make me square. But I'll pay you back--on my honour--"
"Bah! Your honour! Pay me back. I know what that means. So it's a
hundred pounds you want. Very well. You shall have your hundred
pounds. But I solemnly warn you that it's the last penny I intend to pay
for your extravagance. As for that waster of a Captain What's-his--"
The boy flushes to the roots of his light, wavy hair.
"I say, uncle. He's not a waster. He's the finest fellow in the regiment. I
can't allow you--Look here--never mind the money. The jeweller
knows it's all right. I'd rather--"
He stops. The words won't come. He gazes at his uncle helplessly. Mr.
Reiss goes slowly to the writing-table and sits down. Taking a blank
cheque from a pocket-book he always carries, he fills it in and passes it
to the boy without speaking.
"I don't like taking it, uncle. I don't, really--"
Mr. Reiss half turns round. He still says nothing, he does not even grunt.

He knows that there are times when silence is golden. Moreover, he
knows that money talks.
A few minutes later Mr. Adolf Reiss is again sitting alone, gazing into
the fire. And he has another grievance against Life.
* * * * *
The philosophy of Mr. Reiss is a natural result of his early environment.
In Magdeburg, where