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Page 13
"I wasn't meanin' to 'urt ole Ginger Nobby nohow, but the muck I
throwed took 'im dead on the jor. 'Wot's yer gime?' 'e 'ollers at me.
'Wot's my gime?' I says back to 'im. 'Nuffin', if ye want ter know!' I
says. 'I was just shyin' at squidges.'"
Thus spoke the bright-eyed Cockney at the table next me, gazing
regretfully at his empty coffee-cup and cutting away a fringe of
rag-nails from his finger with a clasp-knife. The time was eight
o'clock of the evening, and the youth was recounting an adventure
which he had had in the morning when throwing mud at sparrows on the
parade ground. A lump of clay had struck a red-haired non-commissioned
officer on the jaw, and the officer became angry. The above was the
Cockney version of the story. One of my friends, an army unit with the
Oxford drawl, was voluble on another subject.
"Russian writers have had a great effect on our literature," he said,
deep in a favourite topic. "They have stripped bare the soul of man
with a realism that shrivels up our civilisation and proves--Two
coffees, please."
A tall, well-set waitress, with several rings on her fingers, took the
order as gravely as if she were performing some religious function;
then she turned to the Cockney.
"Cup of cawfee, birdie!" he cried, leaning over the table and trying
to grip her hand. "Not like the last, mind; it was good water spoilt.
I'll never come in 'ere again."
"So you say!" said the girl, moving out of his way and laughing
loudly.
"Strike me balmy if I do!"
"Where'll yer go then?"
"Round the corner, of course," was the answer. "There's another bird
there--and cawfee! It's some stuff too, not like 'ere."
"All right; don't come in again if yer don't want ter."
The Cockney got his second cup of coffee and pronounced it inferior to
the first; then looked at an evening paper which Oxford handed to him,
and studied a photograph of a battleship on the front page.
"Can't stand these 'ere papers," he said, after a moment, as he got
to his feet and lit a cigarette. "Nuffink but war in them always; I'm
sick readin' about war! I saw your bit in one a couple of nights ago,"
he said, turning to me.
"What did you think of it?" I asked, anxious to hear his opinion on an
article dealing with the life of his own regiment.
"Nuffink much," he answered, honestly and frankly. "Everything you say
is about things we all know; who wants to 'ear about them? D'ye get
paid for writin' that?"
One of his mates, a youth named Bill, who came in at that moment,
overheard the remark.
"Paid! Of course 'e gets paid," said the newcomer. "Bet you he gets
'arf a crown for every time 'e writes for the paper."
All sorts and conditions of soldiers drift into the place and discuss
various matters over coffee and mince pies; they are men of all
classes, who had been as far apart as the poles in civil life, and are
now knit together in the common brotherhood of war. Caste and estate
seem to have been forgotten; all are engaged in a common business,
full of similar risks, and rewarded by a similar wage.
In one corner of the room a game of cards was in progress, some
soldiers were reading, and a few writing letters. Now and again a song
was heard, and a score of voices joined in the chorus. The scene was
one of indescribable gaiety; the temperament of the assembly was like
a hearty laugh, infectious and healthy. Now and then a discussion took
place, and towards the close of the evening hot words were exchanged
between Bill and his friend, the bright-eyed Cockney.
"I'll give old Ginger Nobby what for one day!" said the latter.
"Will you? I don't think!"
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