Part 3

Routine order issued by the Q.M.G.'s department:--

"Fuel for general and other headquarter offices and signalling offices with the troops, is authorised at the scale of sixteen kilometres of coal per fireplace per day.

Dec. 20th. B. E. F."

Theirs not to reason why. If the order is "Ten miles of coal per fireplace" then ten miles it is.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OXYGEN EXERCISE.

_SCENE.--A mud puddle in ----shire, in which are discovered forty yeomen in khaki lying on their backs and flapping their legs like seals. They are not really seals, but men whom their KING and country needs, doing breathing exercises. The reason they do not get up out of the puddle and walk away is that they would probably be killed by the enormous troop sergeant who is instructing them._

_Troop Sergeant_ (_fiercely_). Now then. Work at it. I'm 'ere to do you a bit of good, I am. Finest thing in the world, this is. Some of you fellows don't know a good thing when you see it. What is it that causes tuberckylosis? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it is. Look at Sam Stevens--middle-weight champion of the world he was. And what did he die of? Why, drink. And what made him take to drink? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it was. If a man can't breathe hoxygen he'll drink it. How many cells do you suppose you 'ave in your lungs, Number Three?

_Number Three_ (_inhaling through the mouth_). Don't know, Sergeant.

_Troop Sergeant._ Why, fifty million. Fifty million cells in your lungs you've got.

[_Number Three, appalled at this revelation, inhales briskly through the nose in the hope of filling some of them._

_Troop Sergeant._ And how many do you suppose you generally use? Why, not half of them. Twenty-five million cells you've got doing nothing.

[_Number Three exhales despondently through the mouth, realising the vanity of all human endeavour. The Troop Sergeant, satisfied that he has disposed of Number Three, glares contentedly at the troop in silence._

_Troop_ (_exhaling through the mouth_). F-s-s-s-s-h.

_Troop Sergeant_ (_with sudden emotion_). Look at your neck, Number Ten. I ask you, look at the back of your neck.

[_Number Ten, feeling that this is a difficult feat to perform at any time and quite impossible when lying on his back, continues to gaze upwards, conscious of insubordination._

_Troop Sergeant._ Why is it twisted like that? A bone out of place, the doctors will tell you. But (_solemnly_) WHY is it out of place, I ask you? Tell me that. Want of hoxygen--that's what it is. It's as plain as day.

[_Enter Troop Officer._

_Troop Officer_ (_explosively_). A-tssh! Code id by head, Sergeadt.

_Troop Sergeant._ Ah, Sir, if you was to do these breathing exercises you wouldn't 'ave no colds, Sir. If everyone was to do these exercises there wouldn't be no doctors, Sir. It's only want of hoxygen that makes people ill. There isn't a man in this troop's 'ad a cold since we began, Sir.

_Numbers Five, Seven and Nine_ (_surreptitiously_). A-tissh!

[_The Troop Sergeant is about to ignore this breach of discipline when Number Three, who has been trying to repress a sneeze while inhaling through the nose and at the same time carrying the legs to a vertical position above the body, explodes violently._

_Troop Sergeant_ (_ominously_). Number Three!

_Number Three_ (_weakly_). Yes, Sergeant.

_Troop Sergeant._ Have you got a cold?

_Number Three_ (_ingratiatingly_). Only a very little one, Sergeant.

_Troop Sergeant_ (_appealing to Officer_). Isn't it enough to break one's 'eart, Sir? 'Ere am I trying to do them a bit o' good and 'ere's this man lies there with his 'ead tucked into 'is chest, and doesn't even try to breathe. There's only one thing that causes a cold. Want of hox----A-tissh! A-tissh!

* * *

[_A painful silence ensues. The Officer walks away, leaving the Sergeant to his grief. The forty seals continue to flap in the mud puddle in ----shire._

* * * * *

THE WATCH DOGS.

XI.

MY DEAR CHARLES,--When you have witnessed a military inspection, have seen the Great Man going round the companies and have heard his few kind words to the victims of his scrutiny, no doubt you have told yourself that a soldier's life must be very smooth and comfortable and his work as easy as kiss-my-hand. If further you assume, from the clock-like regularity of the parade, that we must all be on very good terms and intimate understanding with each other, I feel bound to disclose the dismal facts.

The information that we were to be inspected by our Great Man on the Friday was handed to me, with the soup, at Thursday's mess. I did not appreciate its horrible significance and, wondering why it should put the older hands off their ration beef, I ate my dinner in the usual manner, cracked a jest or two with the slightly preoccupied Adjutant and C.O., and later on strolled down to my company's billet to inform them that they would be inspected on the morrow. I supposed they would say to each other, "Oh! indeed," and turn in to sleep; but I am credibly informed that they had no bed that night.

On the following morning I was dumbfounded by their dazzling appearance and could not help remarking that here at last was the Perfect Thing. I was just sufficiently soldierlike, however, to examine them with an icy disdain before we set out. _En route_ to the rendezvous, I pictured to myself the Great Man's delight at beholding us, his superlative admiration expressed in a voice choked with affectionate emotion, and his final jocular farewell to myself--"As for _your_ company, my dear Henry, it's marvellous."

I cannot record the actual event in all its details, which were mostly bootlaces and whiskers. The first I knew of the trouble was a face so ominous as to divert attention even from a splendid uniform. Such was the look in the inspecting eye that, had I been my own master, I should have bowed as lowly as to Allah, and said, "Your Highness, I regret that urgent business at the Bank compels the instant departure of myself (with my company)," and we should have been gone at the double before he had gathered the gist of my remark. As it was, I had to stand fast and pretend that we were all very glad to see him and hoped he would make a long stay with us.

At about the third man, he stopped dead, very dead, and called my attention to the fact that this private was all whiskers and no bootlaces. What had I to say to that? I might have said, "So he is, Sir, now I come to look at him. He should, of course, have been all boot-laces and no whisker," or merely, "Well, I never!" or, again, with some truth, "As to his laces, Sir, they were there a minute ago but have just fallen out of his boots; and the hair has all grown on his face while you and I were saluting each other just now." Instead I was mute by the visitation of Heaven and we passed on, to pause at No. 8, whose feet and face also were by now all that they should not be.

Again, I was called upon for a speech--in vain. You will notice, Charles, that Brigadiers and Colonels are poltroons at these times; they push the company-commander into the forefront of the battle and skulk behind his back.

The Great Man interrupted his examination to chat with his A.D.C., mainly, I fancy, about whiskers and bootlaces. Being also interested in the subject, I took the opportunity to look along my company and see (believe me or not, as you please) the whiskers coming into existence and the laces going out.... I gathered later that things were much the same with every company in the brigade. The Brigadier gathered this also, but at once and from the Great Man.

That night the Brigadier sent for our C.O. The next morning our C.O. sent for us. In due sequence we sent for our section-commanders, and what was left of them, when we had finished, went to interview the private. The last-named, having no one to whom to express his contempt, utter loathing and devilish intentions for the future, adopted the only alternative and took the necessary action.

The news of a second inspection reached me a week in advance, during which I took no food because I was left no time and had no appetite. It was a gloomy period, which was relieved only by two small incidents. The one took place at the C.O.'s inspection, and I will call it "The Private and the Toothbrush." Asked why it was so black, he replied that he cleaned his teeth with permanganate of potash, thus defeating the little crowd inspecting him, since none knew whether that chemical could be used for cleaning teeth and, if it could, whether it would turn the brush black. The other I will call "The Memo. of the Transport Officer," who was so upset by what was said to him that he "begged to certify that he had that day purchased 3 new altars for his Transport service." This was officially passed on to me to cheer me up a little, and I am authorised to divulge it to you.

The week elapsed in a hurricane of harsh oaths, and again I paraded my company. Upon examination it now appeared to me to be the most revoltingly untidy and deficient sight I had ever seen, an opinion heartily endorsed by the Adjutant, C.O. and Brigadier. _En route_ to the rendezvous this time I pictured nothing to myself; I merely shifted my service revolver to a position from which I could more easily destroy myself in an emergency.... And when the Great Man approached he smiled at me, and no sooner had he remarked to his A.D.C. that the buttons and bayonets of the brigade did credit to all concerned than those stolidly dull buttons of mine brightened up and bayonets grew where before there had been empty and depressed scabbards.

I don't know exactly what the Great Man said to the Brigadier, but expect it was much the same as the C.O. said to us and we to the section-commanders. I doubt if the section-commanders said anything nice to the private, but no doubt the latter knew by instinct that this was an occasion upon which he might with impunity, but only once in a way, step slightly aside from the straight and narrow path. I guess, my dear Charles, that it is only the _second_ inspection to which you, as representing the ignorant public, are invited.

The forty-eight hours' leave (by way of reward or for convalescence) which ensued I spent with my wife. With feminine perversity she at once started inspecting my moustache, one of the most astonishing productions of these astonishing times. "Say what you please now," said I, quite imperturbable. "At the next inspection you'll find yourself remarking that it is the best disciplined and equipped moustache you have ever seen." And so it is.

Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

TO A GERMAN GEOGRAPHER.

If mid your foolish change of names Your ruler takes it ill That, spoiling all his cherished aims, Calais is Calais still,

Sir, there's a name supremely pat Lies ready to your hand; Call it, and let it rest at that, The Never Never Land.

* * * * *

"There is a curious discrepancy in the reports of the Kaiser's New Year message to his forces that have reached London."

_Irish Times._

The KAISER has been misled. They have not reached London.

* * * * *

ACQUIRING POLISH.

* * * * *

THE CRANK'S COMPLAINT.

(_On seeing Mr. HENRY NEWBOLT'S name in the New Year's Honour List_).

Because his verses always aim, With one unwearying design, At adding lustre to the fame Achieved by Britain on the brine; Because they fail to satisfy The sex-besotted catechist-- It very nearly makes me cry To see him in the Honour List.

Because he holds in high respect The knightly courtesies of war, Does not bow down to intellect, And steeps himself in FROISSART'S lore; Because he bids us play the game And not the super-egotist-- I do not care to see his name Included in the Honour List.

Because he has not eulogized The operas of RICHARD STRAUSS, Or liberally recognized KEIR HARDIE'S courage in the House; Because he's more an errant knight Than Pacifist or Chauvinist-- I feel it is not fair or right To put him in the Honour List.

Because he has not wreathed with bays The brow of good Sir WILLIAM BYLES Or lavished undiluted praise Upon the food of EUSTACE MILES; Or urged that we should subsidize The cult of the Theosophist-- It fills me with a sick surprise To find him in the Honour List.

Because he hasn't written odes In praise of NORMAN ANGELL'S views, Or aped the fashionable modes Which modern versifiers use; Because he writes with much restraint And is, in style, a Classicist-- It very nearly makes me faint To see him in the Honour List.

In fine, while MASTERMAN--O Fi For ASQUITH'S everlasting shame!-- MACDONALD, CADBURY and I Have each no handle to his name; While HANDEL BOOTH'S well-earned O.M. Is still conspicuously missed-- I can't sufficiently condemn The framing of the Honour List.

* * * * *

Irony in the Tube.

After all the efforts and good nature sometimes exercised in getting on to the right platform in a Tube station, it is quite nice to be faced by the following bold announcement--

"THE BEST WAY TO SEE LONDON IS FROM THE TOP OF A 'BUS."

Each word that follows is a stab at your heated and gross imbecility:--

"YOU ENJOY FRESH AIR. YOU SEE THE LIFE OF THE TREES. YOU PASS EVERY PLACE OF INTEREST."

Possibly the Tube will take its revenge and post the following advertisement on the buses:--

"ONLY IDIOTS TRAVEL BY 'BUS. THE TUBE IS FAR, FAR THE BETTER METHOD OF TRANSIT."

* * *

Private----writes from the Front:--

"Dear Mother, I expected when I come to France to hear the pheasants shouting the mayonnaise, but you dont."

* * *

"Reinforcements subsequently arrived, and a squadron of dragons then courageously attacked the enemy."--_Westminster Gazette._

Thus heaping coals of fire on the head of poor ST. GEORGE.

* * * * *

MY EWE LION.

I must confess that I was finding it rather galling to have no friends at all at the Front. Everyone else was so well furnished with these acquaintances, often actually relations. But I had no one I knew, although gradually one by one my clerks joined KITCHENER'S Army and passed to various training grounds, returning (in my opinion far too often) to the office in their uniforms to disturb the routine and waste the time of the others. Some drilling and instruction I am assured go on in these camps, but I see in London every day sufficient English soldiers to drive twice the present number of Germans out of Belgium--if they really meant it.

My point, however, is that for far too long there was no one at the Front, either living, dead or wounded, with whom I could claim any intimacy, and this is the kind of thing which does not do a man any good on his way to and back from the City.

Everyone else in my morning and evening trains has had friends at the Front ever since we sent out our first draft, and to me their talk about them has been extremely galling. Some of them have even had letters from them, and these are either read or paraphrased and have enormously sent up the stock of the recipients. In fact several men whom I know to be very shaky in business, and others who have been rather blown upon on account of their general bounderish demeanour, have established themselves in improved social positions wholly through letters from the Front.

There are people, of course, who, not having a soldier friend, would invent one; but that is not my way. I would not do that. For one thing, I should have great difficulty in keeping it up. It would mean studying the map, reading all the reports and knowing more about the army than I have time to learn.

Imagine then my delight and excitement when I opened the evening paper a day or so ago, and found that the hero of the dashing and perilous feat of which everyone was talking, and which resulted in the capture of many Germans and machine guns, was no other than the son of my old friend Wargrave. I had not seen Wargrave for some years, but we met often once, and on my last visit to him his son had been home from school, and I now remembered how fine a lad I had thought him. He had a fearless eye and a high spirit; he was, in fact, the very stuff of which bold warriors are made. There was no doubt about his identity either, for a personal paragraph in the paper stated who his father was.

I was so pleased about it all that I sat down at once and wrote a congratulatory note to Wargrave senior; and on my way to the station I thought of other things in connection with his brave son which I might never have called to mind but for this deed of prowess: what a good appetite he had had; how he had climbed a tree for cherries; how he had torn his clothes; and how tedious I had found his addiction to what was called a water-pistol. "Good old Clifford!"--that was his name. Lieut. Clifford Wargrave, I said to myself, and my heart beat the faster for having known him.

That evening the only man that I knew in my carriage coming home was Barrington, and naturally I said something to him about the gallant son of my old friend. Barrington is not a man that I ever liked, and my young people say contemptuous things of his family as a whole. One of the daughters, however, is rather pretty, but I should not care to confess this at my own table. It is as dangerous to tell some girls about the prettiness of others as to tell some people that they look well. Anyway, since Barrington was there, I mentioned to him that it was gratifying to me to think that my old friend's son had become such a public hero, and I recollected as I was talking, and mentioned too, certain further incidents in the young fellow's boyhood. We once bathed together in Cornwall, I remembered, and I am not sure that it was not I who taught him to swim. At another time we had been on a picnic and I had made him and his sister laugh a good deal by my jokes--poor simple things, no doubt, but tickling to him. "And no doubt he is the same simple fellow now," I said, "always ready to laugh and be merry." I told Barrington also about the cherries and the torn clothes, and what a good appetite he had; and about the water-pistol.

"Odd to think that that boy should grow into a hero," I said. "How little we can read the future!"

"Yes, indeed," said Barrington.

I don't know why, but talking about this young friend of long ago, now so illustrious, to Barrington, made me quite to like the man, and I even went out of my way to accompany him to his gate.

I am wiser now. I now know that it is a mistake ever to change one's opinion of a man. And the extraordinary pettiness of human nature! the paltry little varieties of it! the straws it will clutch at to support its self-esteem!

The next morning, owing to some delay over breakfast, I was a little late at the station and failed to get my usual seat among my usual set. I managed just to scramble into a carriage and subsided into the far corner with my paper well before my face because I did not want to be sociable in that company. One has to be careful. Just as the train started, in dashed Barrington and took the only seat left--in fact there was not really room for him. He did not see me.

The train had not left the station before one of the men remarked upon the heroism of young Wargrave; when to my astonishment and annoyance Barrington at once took him up.

"Ah! yes," he said. "Such a fine young fellow; I always knew he would do something like that."

"Then you know him?" he was asked.

"Well, I don't say that I exactly know him," he said, "but I used to hear a lot about him from one of the most intimate friends of the family."

And one by one he told all my little anecdotes--trivial enough when in the mouth of a stranger, but, coming from one who knew, interesting and important. Will you believe it, Wargrave lasted Barrington and his idiotic listeners all the way to London--my Wargrave, mind, not his at all! And the way they listened! I personally sat hidden, and fumed but said nothing. How could I suddenly claim Wargrave as my own without being ridiculous? Nor would they have believed me. Besides, to put myself in competition with Barrington....

I managed to elude Barrington's eye at the terminus, and sought my office in a state of fury and contempt. At lunch I was again baulked, for none of my regular companions were there. It was beginning to be ridiculous. I might as well have not known the Wargraves at all.

That evening I was very carefully early for my train, determined that I would score then. My own set should now know first-hand what my association with the young hero was. After all, what did those others matter? But here again I had been forestalled.

"I met that man Barrington at lunch," said one of my neighbours, "and he was most interesting about this young Wargrave. Knew lots of things about his boyhood. Often stayed there. A ripping boy it seems he was. Really, Barrington's not such a bad chap when you get to know him. I think we must have him in our carriage now and then. He was most modest about it."

"Did Barrington say that Lieut. Wargrave was a friend of his?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. No doubt about it; Barrington taught him to swim."

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)