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Page 4
"I LOVE A LASSIE,
ANITHER LOWLAN' LASSIE."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Officer._ "WELL, PETERS, HOW DID YOU GET ON?"
_Steward_ (_who has asked for special leave_). "NOTHIN' DOIN', SIR. THE
SKIPPER 'E SEZ TO ME, 'E SEZ, 'IT'LL COST THE COUNTRY FOUR-AN'-SEVENPENCE
TO SEND YOU 'OME, AN' AS THE NAVY 'AS GOT TO ECONOMISE YOU'LL DO TO BEGIN
ON,' 'E SEZ."]
* * * * *
A LIMPET OF WAR.
(_With the British Army in France._)
The day on which that fine old crusted warrior, Major Slingswivel, quits
the hospitable confines of Nullepart Camp will be the signal that the
British Army in France has completed its work, even to the labelling and
despatching of the last bundle of assorted howitzers. A British army in
France without Major Slingswivel would be unthinkable. It is confidently
asserted that Nullepart Camp was built round him when he landed in '14, and
that he has only emerged from it on annual visits to his tailor for the
purpose of affixing an additional chevron and having another inch let into
his tunic. Latest reports state that he is still going strong, and
indenting for ice-cream freezers in anticipation of a hot summer.
But for an unforgivable error of tact I might have stood by the old
brontosaurus to the bitter end. One evening he and I were listening to a
concert given by the "Fluffy Furbelows" in the camp Nissen Coliseum, and a
Miss Gwennie Gwillis was expressing an ardent desire to get back to Alabama
and dear ole Mammy and Dad, not to speak of the rooster and the lil
melon-patch way down by the swamp. The prospect as painted by her was so
alluring that by the end of the first verse all the troops were infected
with trans-Atlantic yearnings and voiced them in a manner that would have
made an emigration agent rub his hands and start chartering transport right
away. She had an enticing twinkle which lighted on the Major a few times,
so that I wasn't surprised when the second chorus found him roaring out
that he too was going to take a long lease of a shack down Alabama way.
"Gad--she's immense! We must invite her to tea to-morrow," he said to me in
a whisper that shook the Nissen hut to its foundations. Slingswivel was no
vocal lightweight. Those people in Thanet and Kent who used to write to the
papers saying they could hear the guns in the Vimy Ridge and Messines
offensives were wrong. What they really heard was Major Slingswivel at
Nullepart expostulating with his partner for declaring clubs on a no-trump
hand.
"Very well," I answered sulkily. It wasn't the first time the Major had
been captivated by ladies with Southern syncopated tastes, and I knew I
should be expected to complete the party with the other lady member of the
troupe, Miss Dulcie Demiton, and listen to the old boy making very small
talk in a very large voice. I could see myself balancing a teacup and
trying to get in a word here and there through the barrage.
Still, there was no getting out of it, and next afternoon found our
quartette nibbling _petits g�teaux_ in the only _p�tisserie_ in the
village. The Major was in fine fettle as the war-worn old veteran, and
Gwennie and Dulcie spurred him on with open and undisguised admiration.
"Now I'm in France," gushed Gwennie, "I want to see _everything_--where the
trenches were and where you fought your terrible battles."
"Delighted to show you," said Slingswivel, bursting with pride at being
taken for a combatant officer. "How about to-morrow?"
"Just lovely," cooed Gwennie. "We're showing at Petiteville in the evening,
but we shan't be starting before lunch."
"That gives us all morning," said the Major enthusiastically. "Miss
Gwennie, Miss Dulcie, Spenlow, we will parade to-morrow at 9.30."
I couldn't understand it. Naturally Gwennie, with her mind constantly set
on Alabama, couldn't be expected to be up in war geography, but the Major
knew jolly well that all the battles within reasonable distance of
Nullepart had been fought out with chits and indents. I put it to him that
it wasn't likely country for war thrills.
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