Date: Tue, 29 Nov 2016 21:44:38 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 3  (Revised) Chapter 7

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 3
The Bells of Hell Go a Ting-a-ling-a-ling

Chapter 7
Westward, Look the Land is Bright

"Listen to this one: `Prince of Wales' Surprise Visit'--apparently I am
buying a house in somewhere called Long Island `to escape the zepps'."

"Here's a good picture of the both of us, Mala.  `British Duke and Brother
War Heroes'."

"You've been a very good brother, Derby," said Martin.

"And you will make a fine king, your Royal Highness," replied Stephen,
laughing as he threw across another newspaper that proclaimed: `British
Lords in Recruiting Drive'.

"`The British are Coming: Lords on Mayor's Payroll'," read Stephen. "What
on earth does that mean?"

"Oh, I don't like this one: `Servant at Front: Feudal System in European
War.'--although there's a good picture of you looking oppressed, Carlo.
Have I whipped you today?"

"No, your lordship, shall I fetch the scaffold?"

The boys were in a luxurious suite on the 18th floor of the Plaza Hotel in
New York. Stephen had arisen from the bed to once again gaze at the
spectacular view across Central Park, which was, at that moment, bathed in
the morning sunlight of a spring day.  Martin lolled abed surrounded by
half a dozen morning papers, which had reported their arrival.



 *****

The crossing had been a rough one combined with the unremitting terror of a
likely U-boat attack.  The Olympic had left behind her escort that had
shepherded the liner from Liverpool to Ireland and then, eschewing the
usual zigzag course, made straight for Halifax, trusting that her speed
would outpace any German craft, although it was always possible that a
submarine could chance upon her.  Indeed it was reported once that a
submarine had indeed been sighted, but it did not fire.

The Olympic had been painted in the most striking Dazzle livery and
stripped of many of her luxurious fittings for her new task of conveying
Canadian troops to Britain, but travelling aboard her was still a wonderful
experience, especially for her plentiful supplies of white bread, sugar and
butter.  The three travellers might have been squeezed into one cabin, but
they made up for it in the eating, until rough seas on the second day out
dampened their appetites.

The ship, one of the few passenger liners crossing the Atlantic in wartime,
was crowded with Canadian soldiers, many of them badly wounded and
returning home, as well as with men who had business to conduct in America
and the Orient beyond. Stephen spent many hours of the day chatting to the
Canadian soldiers, the injured ones greatly impressing him with their
stoicism and their open and friendly attitudes. When he was not moving
among these soldiers, he was exercising on the spacious deck.  Martin then
discovered the gymnasium, still intact, and they both made much use of the
equipment to pass the time.  The Captain invited them to his table but was
disinclined to talk about the sea or the dangers of the voyage, so was not
pressed to do so by the passengers at such a worrying time.

It was with relief--and indeed with cheering from the men--that the coast
of Newfoundland was sighted on the fifth day.  The following morning the
liner sailed south and entered a magnificent harbour surrounded by low
hills and guarded by a citadel left over from a previous age of warfare.
They entered The Narrows and passed through the submarine net into the calm
waters of the Bedford Basin.

Halifax was frantic with activity and its port was crammed with hospital
ships, troop ships and convoys assembling for the eastward crossing.  There
was no hotel space available and the boys were just resigned to spending
the night in the railway station, which was at North End, when a message
arrived at the ship.  It was from a Mr Martin, a Canadian businessman and
mayor of Halifax.  Colonel Poole and Captain Knight-Poole were invited to
dine and they were offered beds for the night.  Carlo accompanied them in
the hope (which was not in vain) that he too could be put up.  Mr and Mrs
Martin made a great fuss of them.  This was the first instance of a great
many that were typical of the tremendous generosity shown in Canada and the
United States to the visitors and which made them reflect on the frostiness
of their own kinsman to outsiders.

The overnight train took them across the border where sights and sounds
were stimulatingly unfamiliar and then they suddenly found themselves in
the middle of chaos.  They stepped from the train and were immediately
surrounded by a phalanx of aggressive newspaper reporters and
photographers.  They were bombarded with questions and continually told to
pose for the flash.  Martin felt frightened at the Americans' impertinent
questioning while Stephen wondered how they could even hear their
answers--and clearly they simply make up what they thought their readers
wanted to hear in the absence of anything else.  They moved down the
platform with difficulty then, just as they reached a cathedral-like space,
an Englishman appeared, elbowing his way through the frenzied throng.



"I'm Jarvis, your lordship, the consul here in New York.  Welcome to the
United States," he said, shaking hands with Martin, then with Stephen.
"Please leave these chaps to me.  We're all a touch excited this last
fortnight with war having been declared."

He turned to the reporters: "Now boys, stand back, give 'em some air, give
'em air! They've just come on a dangerous voyage and they have been wounded
at the front. Lord Branksome here is the Colonel of the Url o'
Holdenhurst's Yeomanry--his family's militia.  He's the youngest colonel in
the whole of the British Army.  You were injured in France, weren't you,
Colonel Poole?"  Martin managed to get out that he was injured in an
explosion.  "Cap'n Knight-Poole is his kinfolk and has also been injured on
the Western Front.  He was awarded the Military Cross for bravery-- he's a
British hero."

"Why they in Noo York, Jarvis?" yelled one.

"Boys, they will be on a cross-country tour encouraging Americans to enlist
in this great World War and telling folks something of their experiences.
Come on down to City Hall if ya wanna get some more."

The reporters were busy scribbling in notebooks and that gave the party
time to slip into a taxicab, with Martin and Stephen swivelling their heads
in awe of the magnificent station-- surely the most splendid they had ever
seen.

"Where's Carlo?" asked Martin in a panic.

"Put your heads down, gentlemen," said Jarvis, now returning to his former
mode of speech.  They ducked out of sight and Jarvis scanned the concourse
for the British private whom he soon spotted with a porter and the luggage.
He waved him over and their trunks and suitcases were loaded.  Jarvis
tipped the Negro porter as no one had dollars.

I hope you don't mind gentlemen, but we must go straight to the reception
the Mayor is holding.  He is very much in favour of conscripting troops for
this conflict and we want to cultivate that.  Your batman can take your
things to the hotel.  We've put you in a nice one, although I don't think
the Army will pay for it.  I hope you don't mind."

Martin wasn't sure if he didn't mind, but he was so tired that the sound of
a nice American hotel was very attractive to his ears at any price.

In a whirlwind, the cab proceeded on a miraculous ramp above ground then
below ground and emerged into a broad, straight avenue--numbered 5-- and
then swept the length of Manhattan towards the towers of the Financial
District.  In thick traffic they passed fine-looking shops, business
premises and hotels and a myriad of building sites where the old, brown,
four-storied buildings were being replaced by towering edifices in
light-coloured stone on steel frames.

The City Hall was a surprisingly diminutive Regency building--something
from another age--set in a small park but surrounded by monstrous buildings
that dwarfed the church spires.  These, they were informed, were the
headquarters of some of the newspapers from whence the pack of reporters
had descended.



Just as they were making their way into the building, a terrible din from
police motorcycle sirens heralded the arrival of the Mayor of Greater New
York himself. Jarvis hustled them inside to avoid more newspapermen.

The hall was crowded and Martin and Stephen suddenly found themselves on a
stage. They were introduced to several important people whose names they
forgot instantly and then to the Mayor himself.  Mr Purroy Mitchel was a
surprisingly young man, clean-shaven, with intelligent pale eyes, broad
nose and a thin, determined mouth.  He told them later at the luncheon that
his grandfather had been a Member of Parliament and a convert to the Irish
cause.  He had been transported to Bermuda and then to Van Diemen's Land
from whence he had escaped with remarkable adventures before settling his
family in the part of New York called Brooklyn.  He said that he had long
warned the government to be prepared for war and had personally created a
civilian defence force of over 20,000 men.  He opened his coat to disclose
a revolver.  "I'm a good shot too," he boasted.  "The boys can get you a
permit for a dollar.  I'd advise you to carry a gun; I've been attacked
twice since becoming mayor-- last one was killed-- and this gun has saved
me."

"Is the Plaza Hotel safe, Mr Mayor?" asked Martin in alarm.

"I understand that you've both just come back from the Western Front.  The
Plaza is comparatively safe, but I'm not so sure about Five Points."

The Mayor rose to his feet and made a speech that neither Martin nor
Stephen could hear well.  Martin was called to respond.  He was nervous,
but here he was now, so he swallowed hard and got to his feet.  He did not
choose his usual `speech for all occasions'; instead he said that the war
was a terrible thing, but it was necessary to prosecute it for the good of
civilization.  He described the German invasion of Belgium and France.  He
described the use of poison gas and liquid fire.  He related the shelling
of towns from cannons that could fire 20 miles and from zeppelins and
aeroplanes that could drop bombs over sleeping cities-- hinting that New
York itself might not be safe.  He said that the British government looked
to America as a like-minded ally and that he hoped that with their help the
war would be over all the sooner so that people could get back to their
homes and businesses in peace.  It was a good speech, spoken without notes
or rhetoric and Stephen let him know it when he sat down.

Stephen stood and began by saying that he was half-American (this caused a
cheer and a round of applause) and that serving alongside his men, who were
all fine fellows, and with the comradeship of training and battle, was the
most wonderful thing he had ever experienced.  He did not have any grand
reasons for fighting, he said, but he felt all Americans knew a just fight
when they saw it and that he knew that Americans would want to help out `a
pal' in trouble.

There was applause and then questions were invited.

"Will you be going to kill Irishmen?" asked one angry man.

"I'm not a politician, sir," answered Martin, "but I sincerely hope not.
My fervent hope is that all the Irish people can live peaceful and happy
lives, but I know they will never be able to do this if Germany wins this
war."

"What about India, Canada and Australia?  When are you going to give them
freedom?"

Stephen rose this time and said: "I have just come from Canada, sir, and
the people there look free to me; they'd punch you on the nose if you
suggested otherwise. (Laughter).  There are a million Indians in the Army
fighting against the enemy powers. Would they be volunteering if they were
slaves?"

The remaining questions were a lot easier, finishing up with one about what
the boys thought of American women ("The most beautiful women we have ever
seen--I thought they were all moving picture stars") and `Were they looking
for American girls to marry?' ("We are forbidden to socialise whilst on
this mission, sir, (laughter) and I doubt any sensible American lady would
like to come to a country that did not enjoy the benefits of chewing gum
and hot dogs.")

Thus the event concluded, but not before the American anthem was played by
a brass band that the boys had failed to notice.  Giant recruiting posters
were unfurled to the cheers and applause of the audience.

Jarvis and a Colonel Farmer, a military attaché from the embassy in
Washington, accompanied the boys back to their hotel.  They were thrilled
to be whisked to the 18th floor and marvelled at the luxury and convenience
they found at every turn. Farmer laid out their schedule.  They were to
have a full week of engagements in New York then there was to be a tour in
a giant loop across to the Pacific coast with speaking engagements once or
twice per day.  Included in this was a meeting with President Wilson in
Washington.  They would be returning to England at the beginning of August.
He provided them with a map and itinerary.

It looked daunting, but they were buoyed by their recent speeches. "You
handled the political questions beautifully, gentlemen," said
Jarvis. "There is much pro-Irish sentiment in this country and they have
very peculiar ideas about the Empire, conveniently forgetting about their
own behaviour in Cuba, Nicaragua and The Philippines.  They did have some
bother under a previous George, I believe, and have long memories, but that
was poorly handled and before my time in the service," reflected Jarvis.
"However, generally speaking, they have very little interest in the outside
world and they won't ask you many questions about Britain-- it's beyond
their horizon.  They will expect you to be impressed by everyone they
introduce you to and by everything you are told to see--but you would have
found that already.  Praise them extravagantly."

"Are we expected to urge men to enlist, sir?" asked Stephen who had his
doubts about the War.

"No.  That would not look right," said Farmer. "Just tell them your own
stories as you did today.  I think the Americans are itching to fight--it
will be providing organization and training that will be their problem, not
men.  Remember what we were like in 1914."

"Poor fools," said Stephen, then he regretted it. "It's a bloody business,
Colonel Famer," he continued, turning to him, "We're in so deep now, yet
the cost of life does not seem to justify the gain--or lack of it-- not on
the Somme at any rate."

"You might be right, Captain, but the Americans must not be allowed to
think that."

"I believe the Army is not paying our costs, Colonel Farmer," said Martin.

"No, so I believe.  You will continue to receive your pay...but I will see
what I can do. Are you alright for funds in the meantime?"

Martin said he was, but was annoyed at the attitude of the authorities.



*****



"Come back to bed, Derby."

"No, let's go for a ride in the park there; I can see a bridle path and
there must be horses for hire.  Draw our bath, Carlo." called Stephen.

The Park was stupendous-- quite rural in parts--and on both sides were
houses as fine-- if not finer and certainly more expensive than any in Park
Lane or Grosvenor Square.

"We are lunching at that one, said Stephen, pointing to a great marble pile
opposite their hotel.  "Mrs Vanderbilt has invited us.  Jarvis said she is
an old lady but we can't refuse."  They walked down 5th Avenue amid a
cosmopolitan crowd of well-dressed citizens who were briskly coming and
going from shops, clubs and hotels.  At 42nd Street they turned right and
found themselves in the Theatre District.  They turned right again and
walked up Broadway to Times Square, which was very busy with trams, taxis,
motor lorries, motorcars and pedestrians.  The newspaper it was named
after, they found, had moved its offices to a cross street.  At a great
intersection at the edge of Central Park there was an impressive group of
statuary and from one of the avenues a hideous elevated train emerged and
snaked its way into another amid shrill squeals and a deafening thunder.  A
stroll along 59th Street brought them back to the Plaza Hotel.

With their uniforms brushed and pressed, Martin and Stephen made a fine
impression on the marble steps of Mrs Vanderbilt's townhouse.  The size of
the mansion, the number of liveried servants, the acres of marble flooring,
the costliness of the appointments and the overall scale at which the
Vanderbilt's seemed to live, all made Branksome House look rather shabby,
although the assemblage of some of it seemed wanting in taste, thought
Martin rather cattily, but possibly even taste could be purchased here if
one knew where to shop.  Certainly the most luxurious thing was the quiet
that the thick stone walls afforded, for New York, just outside the doors,
could not be heard in the calm monastic silence of Mrs Vanderbilt's rooms
and there was a very fine garden on the other side of the house to boot.

Mrs Vanderbilt was gracious and not at all intimidated at having the
aristocracy to luncheon.  One again they met very distinguished people, but
forgot their names immediately.  Invitations, as at Aunt Maud's, rained
upon them: they were invited to dinners and teas, to clubs and polo
matches, to sail on yachts and to stay at country houses in Westchester,
Newport and Long Island (Stephen determining to buy a map).



Stephen sat next to two very attractive girls, one the daughter of a Mr
Goelet and the other the young wife of Mr Bayard Cutting.  Opposite was Mr
`Neily' Vanderbilt--the old lady's son.  He proved to be very interesting:
he was already in the 12th Infantry Regiment of the New York National Guard
and had fought only recently against the Mexicans.  He had an intense
interest in Military Engineering and talked about the subway system in the
city with which he was apparently involved.

Martin was sitting next to a Mrs Gray who informed him she had been a Fish
before her marriage and on the other side was a Miss Ogden-Trout whose
mother, sitting opposite, kept prompting her daughter into clumsy
conversational gambits with his lordship.

The meal was over quite quickly by English standards as many of the men had
to return to their business offices `downtown' but the remaining guests
withdrew to a magnificent music room where they settled uneasily onto
little gilt chairs and chatted until a musician appeared and stood near the
piano.  Mrs Vanderbilt introduced a Mr Charles Griffes and announced that
he was going to play one of his piano sonatas. There was polite applause
and the crowd (except for a few rude individuals) hushed. Griffes was a
short fellow, young looking--perhaps in his late twenties or early
thirties.  He had a small round face and brown hair that receded from a
high forehead and he pursed his rather thick lips beneath a clipped
moustache that made him look rather like H.G. Wells.

The music was modern in the European manner, with lots of discords and
notes in the minor key.  Martin thought it suited the times, which were
themselves not in harmony and distressingly confused and, while he found it
quite interesting, he had to nudge Stephen who had made the mistake of
letting his eyes close.  At the conclusion there was polite applause and Mr
Griffes took his bow.  The composer came over and chatted to the boys and
Martin decided he liked him.  Stephen excused himself for closing his eyes,
complaining (perhaps not quite truthfully) that his injured leg was
troublesome.  He spoke of his need to strengthen it.  Griffes then
suggested that Stephen make use of the gymnasium at the Young Men's
Christian Association on 57th Street.  He himself had a room there with a
piano where he did much of his composing.  He was just being taken away by
Mrs Vanderbilt to meet someone referred to mysteriously as `the
Bromo-Seltzer heiress' when he handed Stephen a card with its address,
then, at the last minute, he handed a second card to Martin. When he was
gone, Martin looked at his card: `Everard Turkish Baths 28 W 28th Street.'

"Could this be anything like the Hammam Turkish Baths in Jermyn Street?"
asked Martin, showing the card to Stephen.

"If I'm not mistaken, I think it might very well be.  Do you want to go?"
he whispered.

Martin, nodded, with his eyes shining.

The boys walked back to the Plaza Hotel and began to refine their
presentations for the evening's talk, which was to be in a drill hall.
Their work was interrupted by the acceptance of an invitation to afternoon
tea at a Mrs Kingdon Gould's on 5th Avenue. The lady herself turned out to
be a beautiful and youthful Italian woman and her husband's source of great
wealth was never made quite clear to them.  The afternoon tea was very
elaborate and the Italian pastries were delicious.  The boys found
themselves surrounded by elegant ladies who peppered them with questions
but were exceedingly agreeable.

Their speaking engagement was at the Armoury on Park Avenue, which proved
to be an enormous arched building like a railway station.  Stephen was
spellbound by the spider's web of girders and arches that held up the
massive roof under which, it seemed, the Olympic herself could have
berthed.  Thankfully however it was in the smaller Veteran's Hall where
they were to speak. This was an altogether more luxurious chamber with
costly panelling and glass.  They were told that the building had been
privately constructed for the militia drawn from New York's `finest
families'.

Martin refined his speech and emphasised how the German's must not be
allowed to win the war for the sake of `civilization' as he put it.
Stephen spoke of the sense of comradeship and purpose he found in his men
and in himself.  He did feel moved to say something about the horrors of
the front, but he could tell that his audience were not heeding this in
their excited thirst for action.

"Is it true you have taken your servant as your batman, Colonel Poole?"
asked one.

"No, I don't have a batman as I am now mainly in London," he answered
honestly, "but Captain Knight-Poole's valet is his batman-- and a
courageous fellow he is too."

There were several questions about the progress the Allies were making
which Martin deflected by saying that America's help was vital in driving
home the modest gains they had made since the Somme Offensive and that the
Germans were retreating to what they called the Hindenburg Line.

There were questions about poison gas and rationing at home.

"How did you get your medal, Captain?" called out one.

Stephen fearing this would be asked, was truthful but modest: "I helped
rescue my men who were under a surprise attack from German machine gunners
while we were building a floating bridge."

"Did you kill 'em?"

"Yes."

"Is it true that your King is German and that he's the cousin of the
Kaiser?"

Martin answered: "Yes, that is so, in that his grandfather was born in
Germany.  I have a German grandmother myself and I imagine many families in
this city have German relatives.  Our fight is with the German military,
not the German people," he concluded, wondering if he believed this
himself.

The boys sat down while another speaker urged men in the audience to
enlist.

They had accepted an invitation to dine at Mrs Frederic W. Rhinelander's
and there sampled her famous punch made to a secret recipe.  The source of
their wealth and their origins connected to the castle that they owned near
Oberwesel on the river that was their namesake also remained politely
elusive and connections with Germany were not alluded to as they were out
of fashion at this moment.  Once again, the Marquess of Branksome was
required to make a little speech, which he did, giving an abbreviated
version of one he had made a few hours earlier.

It was with some excitement that the boys departed early from 5th Ave and
took a taxi down to W. 28th Street. They were a little conspicuous in
evening clothes, but less so than had they worn British Army uniforms.  The
Everard Baths was a small building of three storeys and distinguished by a
pair of green lamps on either side of the door. A wooden staircase led
upwards to where a clerk asked if they were members.  When they replied
they were visitors, a book was thrust their way and Mr Smith and Mr Jones'
names, joined their legion of cousins, and for a dollar they passed inside.
They put their clothes in a locker and wrapped themselves in towels and
climbed to the upper floor, which was dimly lit.  Off the steam room was a
series of private cubicles with narrow benches.  They each occupied a
cubicle and presently Martin heard a soft tap on his door, which was ajar.
A middle-aged man appeared. "I saw you come in," was all he said.  He
dropped to his knees and removed Martin's towel.  He pleasured Martin with
his mouth and worked his own cock with his right hand.  He spilled but
Martin hadn't. "Do you want me to finish you off, buddy?" he asked.  Martin
shook his head, but was afraid to speak.  The man leant down and kissed him
on his lips and then he was gone.

Martin sat there and could hear noises from Stephen's cubicle.  There were
moans and the sounds of someone gagging.  Clearly Stephen was receiving the
same treatment. Martin hardened.  Another tapping announced a young man--a
lad about his own age. Martin found him more attractive.

"How ya' doin', pal?"

Martin smiled and this time it was he who boldly pulled the boy's towel
away, revealing a nice cock.

"Ya got nice mitts, buddy," said the boy, "real soft.  Ya don't work in the
tannery that's for sure."

Martin pleasured him until he said to stop.  Then he knelt down and sucked
Martin. He was very good and Martin felt himself getting close.

"Let it out, pal.  Give it to me," said the fellow and quickly resumed his
actions. Martin spilled and the man seemed satisfied.  He then straddled
Martin who reciprocated.  He spilled and used his own towel to wipe up the
mess.  "That was swell.  You're a real gent, I can tell." There was no
kissing and he departed saying he was on night shift.

There was another knock, but this time it was Stephen. "I've had two
visitors, Derby," said Martin.  "They don't waste time here do they?"

"I've only had one, but I thought he'd chew me to the bone.  He was
starving.  Do you want to go?"

Martin nodded.  They had just left their cubicles when the door of another
one opened. A small man scuttled out like a beetle and then Carlo emerged.

"Good evening your lordship, Mr Stephen," he said.

"Good evening, Carlo," said Stephen. "Are you having a nice time?"

"Fair to middling sir.  I was just thinking of returning to the hotel."

"So were we, come and help us dress."

Martin took off his towel and let out a howl.  "Look!" he cried, "I'm all
covered in chewing gum.  He didn't even bother to take it out of his
mouth!"

Carlo and Stephen exchanged amused glances. "I believe ice and scissors
will do the trick, sir.  Wait until we get home," said Carlo.

They found a taxi at 6th Avenue.  "How did you come to be there, Carlo?"
asked Stephen.

Carlo felt he could have asked the same question but answered: "I was
recommended it by someone at another establishment in Lafayette Street,
sir.  Perhaps you might care to go there another evening, but tell me first
to prevent any social awkwardness, sir."

"No awkwardness, Carlo," said Stephen rubbing his knee, "at least not on my
part."

"Hear, hear," said Martin.

"Thank you," said Carlo, "but I was thinking of myself."

At the Plaza hotel they worked on Martin and freed him of the chewing
sweet.  His newly cropped blond pubic hair was then fashioned into a
portion of a star, in honour of the United States, and then he was put into
the bath.  Stephen stripped off and got into the warm soapy water with him.
He commenced to slowly soap Martin's body. Carlo knelt at the side of the
tub and washed their hair.  He was getting terribly wet. "Take off your
clothes, Carlo.  You might enjoy it more," said Stephen.  Martin nodded in
agreement and Carlo pulled off his shirt and removed his trousers.  He was
hard very quickly.  Martin used his soapy hand to pleasure Carlo as he
rinsed Stephen's hair, Carlo finding it hard to concentrate.  All of a
sudden, as Carlo was leaning over to reach the tap, Stephen pulled him in.
There was a big splash and water flooded the mosaic tiles, but Carlo was in
both their grips and was laughing.

"Don't tell Mr Chilvers, please!"

It was a tight squeeze, but the Plaza had not skimped on bathtubs.  Martin
sat astride Carlo who was sitting on Stephen's legs. "Lets make him spill,
Derby," said Martin, quite excited.

Martin rubbed his hairy chest and bobbed up and down, letting Carlo's cock
explore the cleavage between his buttocks.  Martin had a mischievous glint
in his eye and rose a little higher and inserted the soapy member into his
own rectum.  Carlo's eyes widened as Martin settled down, coming to rest on
the wiry hair of Carlo's thighs. Carlo tried to do the same on Stephen's
cock, but it couldn't be accomplished.  "Go easy, Carlo," said Stephen, "I
just about had it chewed off tonight."  Still Carlo persisted and it was
fun trying.  Stephen put his arms around Carlo's chest and held him while
Martin supplied the movement.  Eventually Martin pulled off and he and
Stephen set to work with their hands until Carlo spilled in the water.

"That was a good load of cream, Carlo," said Stephen in admiration.

"I think it's all the ice-cream I've been eating.  I had something called a
`banana split sundae' just this afternoon in a chemist shop of all places.
It was delicious and I have obtained the recipe to take back home.  A very
nice young man behind the counter gave it to me.  It was he who took me to
Lafayette Street."

Carlo and Stephen dried Martin and, once again, admired their handiwork
with the scissors.  Carlo dried himself and was just collecting his
trousers when Martin stopped him.  "Would you like to sleep with us, Carlo?
It must be awfully lonely in your room without Glass."  Carlo said he would
like that very much and climbed under the covers. Stephen picked up Martin
and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed, Carlo rolling clear in the nick
of time.  Then Stephen jumped in between them.

"You're still wet, Derby!  I hate it when you do that."

"No he doesn't, Carlo; he loves it," Stephen said, as he rolled on top of
Martin, squashing the air out of him and kissing him as he struggled."

"I think I need to show Carlo, how much I love you, Mala."

"Oh sir, I've seen.  You love him very much and quite a number of times."

"This is better than France, eh Carlo?" said Stephen.

"Yes, that seems to be another dark world far, far away, sir."



*****



The week flew by.  Carlo kept their uniforms in perfect order, making sure
that Stephen and Martin did not disgrace the British Empire on the
platforms and in the drawing rooms of New York.

There was a mid-day engagement in a drill hall in Brooklyn, which was
filled to capacity by men anxious to enlist lest the conflict should be
over.  The boys came back on foot by way of the magnificent suspension
bridge and, at the invitation of Mr Bourne of the New York Yacht Club who
had been president of the Singer Company, and Mr Frank Woolworth of Glen
Cove, they toured the enormous towers that these man had caused to be
erected on the tip of the island.  By the time they emerged into the street
from the Woolworth Building, their heads were spinning from facts such as
the miles of piping and telephone wire, the number of stenographers who
worked there, weight of paper clips used annually, the speed of the lifts
and so on.  They then took a ferry to Staten Island where they obtained a
view of the famous statue standing on its plinth on Bedloe's Island in the
harbour.

"You once said you'd be the unhappiest man in England if you were free of
everything, Mala, remember?"

Martin did.  It had been their first quarrel and it was down by the
swimming place at Branksome-le-Bourne.  "But that statue isn't about
freedom, Derby; they have it wrong.  I think it's about belonging--about
finding a home, don't you think?  How can you breathe free if you do not
have a refuge?"

Stephen leant on the rail.  The wind flopped his silky black hair over his
left eye.  He pushed it back and said: "I've lost faith in this War.  I
think it's wrong to keep it going. Don't you think it would be better to
let the Germans just have what they want and go home?  It couldn't be any
worse than sending 60,000 men to their death in one day for no gain at
all."

"But wouldn't the Germans just keep coming-- taking all of France and then
England--even America?"

"Would they?  Perhaps, but I'm sure they just want to go home too."

"You won't say that to the Americans--especially about the 60,000?"

"No, of course not," he said with weary resignation.  "They can't be
expected to understand.  We have to keep fighting until the end I suppose."

"We should never have got to into this position, should we Derby?" said
Martin, quite upset that his friend seemed so distressed.

"Do you mean us being here or Britain?"

"I meant Britain.  I don't think what we're doing is wrong, Derby.  America
fighting may bring the war to an end sooner, if not, I imagine it going on
for...I don't know, could it go on forever?"

"Let's hope not.  I'll try to think that way."

They passed by the statue for the second time and gave a salute.  The other
people on the deck applauded the British visitors and someone took their
picture.  Stephen smiled radiantly.



There were speaking engagements in New Jersey across the river and in the
borough further north called The Bronx.  They went out to Westchester and
took the train to Buffalo where they detoured to see the falls.

On their free evenings they went to dinners and dances. They proved to be
very popular with American girls who loved to dance.  Martin and Stephen
also found their hands ached from having them so heartily wrung, sometimes
a slap on the back or even a blow to the skull substituting when the crowds
were dense.

Carlo was kept busy noting the names of important people they had met and
writing thank you notes.  Very often invitations came at the last minute by
telephone--something unheard of in London, but acceptable in casual
America.

It was just such a call that Stephen received asking if he could he please
come out to New Rochelle.

"Where is that?" asked Stephen.

"It's a town in Westchester County, just beyond the city.  I want to draw
you."

The urgent voice belonged to a commercial artist, explained Stephen to
Martin when he hung up the receiver.  "He wants to do my portrait for a
recruiting poster.  He saw my photograph in the newspaper.  He said he's
the man who does the illustrations for the magazines-- and for Arrow
Collars--we've seen that one in Times Square.  Can we go?"

"Well, we'd have to cancel lunch at the Yale Club.  Why don't you go?"

"Mala, I think this sounds quite...interesting.  You'd best come."

They followed the directions and took the electric line at the end of the
subway and within an hour they were at Joe Leyendecker's studio.
Leyendecker was a small dark complexioned man-- born in Germany but brought
up in Chicago.  He shook their hands and showed them around.  The
illustrations were wonderful, much more interesting than the paintings in
great galleries, thought Martin.  There were advertisements for commercial
products as well as colourful magazine covers, often featuring `college
boys' or sophisticated young men on yachts, with polo ponies or lounging in
clubrooms.  He certainly had a way of capturing handsome young men.

Another man entered the studio as they were talking.  He was about 30--
several years younger than the artist--and was tremendously
good-looking--almost as good looking as Stephen, and indeed could have been
his older brother.  He was introduced as Mr Beach and then Martin realised
that for many of the illustrations Leyendecker had used Beach as a
model--often with slight alterations to hair colour and such, but always
with Beach's broad shoulders, strong chin and steady, clear gaze.

Before they knew it, Stephen was stripped down to his trousers and
Leyendecker was doing a pencil sketch and annotating the colours he would
use.  Beach took Martin out to the kitchen and made coffee.  It was clear
that Beach lived in the house too. Martin could barely take his eyes off
him and blurted out: "Stephen lives with me in England."  He went red.

Beach smiled lazily and said: "I live with Joe."  He handed Martin two cups
and they returned to the studio.  Now Stephen was squeezed into and
American officer's uniform and Lyendecker was drawing him.  Martin sat down
with Beach and the fell to talking about Chicago to where they would
shortly be going.  Soon Stephen was posing in very short knickerbockers and
sleeveless vest, holding aloft an imaginary rowing shell.  "Joe will have
to get his eraser out; the Saturday Evening Post will never allow all that
to be shown on their front cover.  Are all you British guys hung like that,
Lord Branksome?"

"Oh yes," said Martin. "Stephen is one of the smaller ones, poor devil."

"Huh?" said Beach and then he realised.  "You're just kidding me, right?"

Lastly Stephen was dressed in American football gear, with a jersey that
was torn on the right shoulder, exposing the leather protective pad worn by
footballers.  Stephen had to stand with his legs apart and the ball at rest
between his boots.  He was looking to his right in a challenging pose.
Beach assisted in getting the uniform and pose correct, as Stephen was
unsure of how the game was conducted.

"Stephen, we have an engagement in somewhere called The Bowery, and then we
must pack.  I'm afraid we have to get back to the City, Joe," said Martin
after half an hour.

The artist was disappointed but the boys promised to return when they were
back in New York before they sailed.

"There is one pose I'd like to see," said Martin and had a hurried
conversation with Leyendecker.  So it was arranged. Beach took his shirt
off and Stephen was just left in his breeches.  They stood side by side and
the viewer's made comparisons.  Then Beach grabbed Stephen and gave him a
scorching kiss on the mouth.  They were both strong and almost wrestled in
their passion.  Their hands went down and each seized the other by the
privates.  After a minute, Stephen's amused eye caught Martin's and he
pulled apart, laughing.

Beach was chuckling too. "Now I'd sure like to see that on the cover of
Collier's," said Beach, gasping for air.


To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.