CHAPTER IV.

The death of Betty Cruise occurred the second day after her baby was born. In a way, this lamentable occurrence solved a knotty problem and pacified two warring s.e.xes, so to speak. For, be it known, the women of the Doraine took a most determined stand against the manner in which the men, viva voce, had arrogated unto themselves the right to name the baby. Not that any one of the women objected to the name they had given her; they were, in fact, pleased with it. But, they protested, this was a matter over which but one person had jurisdiction, and that person was Betty Cruise. If it was not a mother's privilege to name her own child,--especially in a case where the infant's father was in no position to decide the question for her, whether she consented or no, then all they could say was that things had come to a pretty pa.s.s.

At any rate, they were going to see to it that the baby was not named by a mob!

Ruth Clinton went straight to Percival.

"I hear you have named the baby, Mr. Percival," she said, prefacing her remark by a curt "good morning."

It was the first time she had spoken to him in many days. Their ways not only lay apart but she had made a point of avoiding him. She stopped him this morning as he was pa.s.sing the hut in which she and her aunt were to live with two of the American nurses.

The three young women had spent several days in the making and putting up of some very unusual and attractive window curtains and portieres; painting the stones that framed the fireplace, the crude window-casings and door jamb; and in draping certain corner recesses which were to achieve dignity as clothes closets. They were scrubbing the floor when Percival pa.s.sed on his way to the "office."

His "office," by the way, was a rude "lean-to" at the extreme outer end of the street. It was characteristic of him to establish headquarters at a point farthest removed from the approach to the camp from the ship.

Fitts was perhaps the only person who sensed the real motive back of this selection. Every one else attributed it to an amiable conclusion on Percival's part to sacrifice himself for others by walking almost twice as far as any of them. As a matter of fact, he had nothing of the sort in mind. He deliberately arranged it so that all operations should be carried on between headquarters and "home." It was his plan to drive inward instead of outward, to push always in one direction. In other words, thought Fitts quite correctly, he "never had to look behind him for trouble."

To save his life, Percival could not subdue the eager, devouring gleam that flashed into his eyes as he looked into hers. He could have cursed himself. A swift warm flush raced from her throat to her cheeks.

Her direct, steady gaze faltered under fire, and a confused, trapped expression flickered perceptibly for a moment or two. He mistook it for dismay, or, on second thought, even worse,--displeasure.

"I--I can't help it," he stammered, surprised into voicing the thought that was uppermost. "You know how I feel. I--I--"

But she had recovered her self-possession. "Do you really think you have the right to name Mrs. Cruise's baby?" she inquired coolly.

He managed a wry, deprecatory smile. "Everybody seems to like the name, Miss Clinton. The more I think of it myself, the better it sounds. I tried it out last night in all sorts of combinations. It fits nicely into almost any family tree--even Nicklestick's. Just say it to yourself. Doraine Nicklestick. Try any name you like. Doraine Smith, Doraine Humperdinck, Doraine Landover--even Doraine Shay--and, I tried it out with Clinton. Doraine Clinton. Don't you like it? I even tried Percival. It isn't quite so satisfying tacked onto a name like mine,--and it's a poor beginning for Fitts,--but with good, sensible surnames, it's fine."

"It isn't a question of how it sounds, Mr. Percival."

"Don't you like Doraine Clinton?"

"I like almost anything better than Ruth. I suppose most people loathe the names that other people have given them."

"No one knows that better than I. I sometimes wonder what they might have called me if I were a girl. Nothing as nice as Doraine, or Ruth, I'll bet my soul on that. Something like Guinevere Aphrodite, or Desdemona Venus, or--"

"We are getting away from the subject," she interrupted crisply. "Has it occurred to you that poor little Mrs. Cruise might like to name her own baby? Why should you men take it upon yourselves to choose a name for her child? Don't you think you were a trifle high-handed in the matter?"

"Of course, if Mrs. Cruise doesn't like Doraine, we will--"

"You will suggest another, I suppose," she broke in scornfully. "Well, I may as well inform you that you are about to strike a snag," she went on, a trifle inelegantly in her desire to be emphatic. "We intend to see to it that the mother of that baby gives it a name of her own choosing."

"May I inquire just who you mean by we?" he asked.

"The women,--three hundred of us, Mr. Percival, that's who. I for one happen to know that Betty Cruise chose a name long ago. Her heart is set on naming the baby after her mother,--Judith, I think it is. That's the name she wants, but do you imagine she will have the hardihood or the courage, poor little sc.r.a.p, to oppose you, Mr. Percival? I mean you, personally. She thinks your word is law. She would no more think of defying you than she would think of--"

"Pardon me, Miss Clinton," he interrupted gently, "but don't you think that's a trifle far-fetched? I am not a dictator, you know. I fancy Mrs.

Cruise knows that, even if you do not."

"I have heard all about your meeting last night," she went on ruthlessly, her eyes flashing. "How you suggested the name, how you settled the question to suit yourself, and how you called the men together this morning and told them that the child was to be called Doraine before you asked them to vote on it. Vote on it! What a travesty! And no one had the nerve to stand up and say a word for that poor little woman. Oh, you've got them well-tamed, Mr. Percival."

By this time the two nurses had appeared in the doorway, and several other women at work down the line, scenting the fray, were approaching.

"I guess you'd better call off the vote, Mr. Percival," said one of the nurses, eyeing him unflinchingly.

"I can't call it off. The men adopted the name unanimously. I have no right to set aside their decision, no matter how hastily it was made,"

said he, beginning to bridle now that he tasted concerted opposition.

"I warn you that I intend to call the women,--and what few men there are with minds of their own,--together this evening to see that Betty Cruise gets fair play," said Ruth. "When she hears that we are behind her, she'll have the backbone to tell you men to mind your own business and--"

"Have I a mind of my own or not, Miss Clinton?" he interrupted.

"You certainly have," she declared with conviction.

"Then you may expect me to be one of the men to attend your meeting.

Good morning." He lifted his hat, smiled and walked briskly away.

"He'll crab the whole thing," observed one of the women, and despite her vocal rancour there was an admiring expression in her eyes as they followed him down the road.

"If he wants to call that baby Andrew Jackson or George Washington, he'll have his way," said another. "s.e.x won't make any difference to him."

"You just wait and see," said Ruth, quivering with indignation.

"Mercy, how you must hate him, Miss Clinton," cried one of her house-mates.

"I only wish I were a man," cried the other, clenching her fists.

"It would simplify matters tremendously," came in dry, masculine tones from the outskirts of the group. They turned and discovered Randolph Fitts. He was smiling sympathetically.

"I don't quite see what you mean, Mr. Fitts," said Ruth, after a moment.

"Because if you were a man, Miss Clinton, you wouldn't even think of hating him. You'd love him."

Miss Clinton stared at him for a second or two and then, whirling, entered the hut. Her cheeks were burning. Who shall say whether the tears that sprang to her eyes as she fell to work scrubbing in the corner were of anger or self-pity?

Briefly, the situation became quite strained as the day wore on. Women gathered in little knots to discuss the unprecedented "nerve" of the men. By nightfall they were pretty thoroughly worked up over a matter that had mildly amused them at the outset of the day. A comparatively small proportion had cared one way or the other in the beginning. Most of them did not care at all. Given time, however, to digest the thought, aided by such seasoning as could be supplied by a half dozen determined and more or less eloquent voices, they came in the course of a few hours to the conclusion that they never had heard of anything so outrageous, and, to a woman, were ready to fight for little Mrs. Cruise's rights!

Several of the stewardesses and two or three women from the second cabin were avowed and bitter suffragettes. Indeed, two of the stewardesses, being English, were of the hatchet-wielding, brick-throwing element that made things so warm for the pained but bull-headed male population of London shortly before the Great War began. These ladies harangued their companions with great effect.

To have heard or witnessed the little gatherings at noon and at the close of work for the day, one might have been led to believe that a grave, portentous ques-tion of state was involved. Trifling and simple as all this may seem to the reader of this narrative, it serves a definite purpose. It reveals to a no uncertain degree the eagerness with which these castaways reached out hungrily for the slightest morsel that would satisfy the craving of active minds dulled by the constant, never-absent thought of self; minds charged with thoughts that centred on something thousands of miles away; minds that seldom if ever worked in harmony with hands that toiled.

The men took up the gauntlet. They considered themselves challenged.

Notwithstanding the secret conviction that the women were right, they stood united in defence of their action. Nothing that Percival could say or do moved them. He tramped from one group of toilers to another, always meeting with the same grins and laughter when he suggested that they wait until Mrs. Cruise was able to approve or disapprove of the name they had chosen.

"Good gosh!" cried one of the sailors. "Are you goin' to give in to the women, boss?"

"Well, I've been thinking it over, boys. I guess we were a little too officious. We meant well, G.o.d knows, but after all, Betty Cruise ought to be consulted,--now, oughtn't she?"

"Sure," cried any number of them cheerfully. "It's her kid."