Chapter 3

When we relieved, we waded up to the line through miles of trenches all knee-deep in water, to the accompaniment of ominous splashes as the sides began to fall in. When daylight came we found our select estate converted into a system of canals filled with a substance varying in consistency from coffee to glue. Hic, Haec and Hoc, owing to the wear and tear of constant traffic, became especially gluey, and after a time we rechristened them respectively the Great Ooze, the Little Ooze and the River Styx--the last not solely in reference to its adhesive qualities, but also because such a number of things went West in it. Some time after the original duck-boards had sunk out of our depth we could still move along Styx on a solid bottom composed of lost gum-boots, abandoned rations and the like. At last, when Frankie, struggling up to the line with the rum ration, was forced to dump his precious burden in order to save his life, we pronounced Styx impassable and thenceforth proceeded along the top after dusk.

The Great Ooze still remained just possible for those whose business took them back and forward during the day, but even here were spots in which it was worse than unwise to linger. As I squelched painfully through one of these on our last day in the line, I found one Private Harrison firmly embedded to the top of his thigh-boots. He told me he had been struggling vainly for about an hour.

"Give me your hands," I said.

I tugged, but could get no proper purchase. Harrison grew gradually black in the face, but remained immovable. I tried another plan. I turned about, and Harrison clasped his hands round my neck. Then I walked away.... At least that was the idea.

"Harrison," I said anxiously after a determined struggle, "were you standing on the duckboards?"

"Yes, Sir. I still am."

"Heavens, so am I. Let go. I've got to get myself out now."

By using Harrison as a stepping-stone to higher things I just managed to heave myself out. I surveyed him panting.

"In about an hour it'll be dusk. I'll bring some men and a rope and haul you out then. If that fails we'll simply have to hand you over as trench stores when we get relieved."

As soon as Fritz's wire had disappeared into the gathering gloom I took out my little rescue party. We threw the captive a rope and began to pull scientifically under direction of a sergeant skilled in tugs-of-war.

"Heave, you men," I whispered excitedly. "He's coming."

He was, but without his boots. Inch by inch we dragged him out of them. The strain was terrific. Suddenly--much too suddenly--the tension broke. Harrison shot into the air and fell again with a dull thud in the Ooze beside his boots, while the rescue party collapsed head over heels into an adjacent shell-hole.

Harrison seemed a little peevish, but consented to try again. The rope tautened, and there was a sharp crack from below.

"'Old on," cried the prisoner sharply, "me braces is bust."

"Can't think o' braces now," grunted my burly sergeant. "Heave-ho, lads, up she comes!"

Harrison was pulled clean out of his nether garments, cursing bitterly as the wind caught his bare legs, and hung suspended between earth and water, amid ribald comments from above.

One more pull would do it. But at that moment Fritz, apparently feeling that we weren't taking his war seriously enough, opened up with a machine-gun. The rescue party dropped the rope and rolled heavily into the shell-hole, and the sorely tried Harrison found himself back again, but face downwards this time, and held by his arms up to the elbows.

We could hear horrible language, and after a moment, all being quiet, I crawled to the edge and looked over. His last struggle had split Harrison's tunic and pulled it clean off his back; and now, with his shirt-tail trailing dismally in the Ooze, he was making the best of his own way to the dressing-station, ungratefully consigning his gallant rescuers to complete and lasting perdition as he went.

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* * * * *

A TOPICAL TRAGEDY.

Jim Startin was not loved at school; We thought him rather knave than fool. Migrating thence to Oxford, he Failed to secure a pass degree. Years sped--some twenty--ere again Jim Startin swam into my ken. I met him strolling down the Strand Well-dressed, well-nourished, sleek and bland, A high-class journalistic swell-- The Headline Expert of _The Yell_. Great at the art, in peaceful days, Of finding means our scalps to raise, The War had since revealed in him A super-Transatlantic vim, And day by day his paper's bills Gave us fresh epileptic thrills. The sons of Belial, in the rhyme Of DRYDEN, had a glorious time, But never managed to attain To Jim's success in giving pain. But while his power was at its height It perished in a single night; For, with his bills by law abolished, Jim's occupation was demolished; Headlines that can't be blazed abroad On bills and posters are a fraud; They cease to titillate the mob Or draw the pennies from its fob, So Jim was "fired" and lost his job.

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"More to the west the British marked fresh progress south of Achiet-le-Petit, where their lines were advanced on a front of 2 kilometres (1-1/4 miles). Finally the Germans fell back for the length of 2 kilometres (5/8 mile) between Essarts and Gommecourt."--_The Evening News._

The road home always seems shorter.

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"The enemy went at the moment when he left because he was shelled out."--_Daily Mail._

Of course he might have had a different motive if he had gone the moment after he left.

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"She was wearing a three-quarter red coat with glass buttons to match a heavy blue skirt with low neck."

We never have approved of these _décolletés_ skirts.

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* * * * *

THE FRUIT MERCHANT.

"I feel regular down this morning, Sir," said Private Thomas Weeks, as I seated myself beside his bed; "regular down, I do."

It was such a very unusual greeting from this source that I said anxiously, "Not the leg gone wrong?"

"No, the old leg's fine. It's the stopping of the imports." He indicated the morning paper which he had just laid aside. "It's just about bust up my old business."

I took the paper and glanced down the list of prohibited articles. Clocks and parts thereof, perfumery, and quails (live) caught my eye. I didn't think it could be any of these.

"What was your business?" I asked.

"Fruit merchant, Sir. Barrow trade, you understand. 'Awker, some calls it. But it don't much matter now what it's called, 'cos it's bust up."

"Not quite bust up, is it?" I said. "Only a bit cut down for a time."

"That may be," he said, "but I got a strong affection for the trade, Sir, a very strong affection, and I can't 'elp feeling it. Why, rightly speaking, it was the fruit trade what got me my D.C.M."

"Did it though? How was that?"

"Well, it was like this. I bin callin' fruit a good many years. I could call fruit with anyone. When I calls ''Oo sez a blood orange?' at Kennington Lane, you could 'ear it pretty well as far as New Cross. Same with ''Ave a banana?' If you're to do the trade you must make the people 'ear. It ain't no good bein' like them chaps what stands in the gutter and whispers, 'Umberella ring a penny,' to their boots."

"But what about the D.C.M.?"

"I'm comin' to it, Sir. You see, I got it in connection with a little bit o' work Trones Wood way. Through various circs, fault o' nobody really, me and Sam Corney found ourselves alone alongside a dug-out full o' Bosches. If we'd 'ad a few bombs we'd 'a' bin all right, but we 'adn't. I sez to Sam, 'We must scare 'em,' I sez, and I shouts, '_'Oo says a blood orange?_' at the top o' my voice into the dug-out, which was dark, of course, and I stands in the doorway with my bayonet ready. I can't say what they mistook it for. Crack o' doom, Sam sez. But eight come out o' that dug-out with their 'ands up. I sent Sam off 'ome with 'em, though they'd 'a' gone with no escort at all, I reckon, bein' sort o' stunned. And I went on down the trench.

"At the turn there was another dug-out. '_'Ave a banana?_' I yells, and out come ten of 'em, cryin' for mercy. I took 'em back to what we calls Petticoat Lane and 'ands 'em over and come up again. But I didn't get no more barrow-work that day, and my D.C.M. was for them prisoners right enough. So now you see what I feels like about the fruit business. It's like an old pal bein' done in."

"I shouldn't worry too much about it," I said. "You've each had a bit of a knock-out; but you'll soon be on your legs again, and so will your barrow, and going strong, both of you."

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SCOTLAND YET.

[Dr. GEORG BIEDENKAPP, writing in the _Münchner Neueste Nachrichten_, says that if you examine any famous "Englishman" you find that he really comes from Scotland, to which country he assigns a place with Suabia, Thuringia, and the Hartz Mountains as "a cradle of Kultur and a fountain of first-class genius."]

Man Sandy, here's a German Hun Wha thinks he's on a track That nane hae trodden, having fun' A new an' stairtlin' fac'; A' English thocht he doots is nocht, An' English ways are henious, But ah, says he, in Scotland see The hame o' first-class genius.

New? Why, my feyther kent it fine, An', Sandy, I'll be sworn The knowledge o' the fac' was mine Or ever I was born; If there be ane wad daur maintain The truth is still to settle, I haena met the madman yet In bonny braw Kingskettle.

Ay, yon's a truth that's kent fu' weel In ilka but an' ben; But I could teach the German chiel A truth he doesna ken; Gin ye would find the hame o' mind An' intellectual life, man, Ye needna look far frae the Nook, The bonny Nook o' Fife, man.

Whaur did our good EX-PREMIER go Whene'er he wished to swank? To Lunnon? Edinburgh? No! He cam' to Ladybank; Nae doot he thocht if there was ocht Would put him on his mettle 'Twas meetin' men o' brain, ye ken, Like us frae auld Kingskettle.

Fleet Street is fu' o' Fifers tae; The Cockneys want the views O' men like JOCK MCFARLANE frae _The Crail and Cupar News_; For if a chiel can write sae weel That you an' me will read him, Why, man, withoot a shade o' doot Lunnon is sure to need him.

Then tak' the Army. What d'ye see? Wha's chief? Nae need to tell That DOUGLAS HAIG is prood to be A Fifer like mesel'; An' weel he may, for truth to say There's something aye aboot us: In ilka trade they want oor aid-- They canna win withoot us.

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Wedding Fashions, B.C.

"The bridesmaid was attired in pink carnations."--_"Daily Colonist," Victoria, British Columbia._

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THE HARDSHIPS OF BILLETS.

Jim and me could never 'ave got through the six weeks we was billeted with Mrs. Sweedle if we 'adn't been 'ardened by Mrs. Larkins in the way I 'ave described.

Mrs. Sweedle were a widow woman with a big family, besides a aged father and a brother who suffered with fits. The billetin' orficer was afraid she wouldn't he able to take us in, but Mrs. Sweedle was willin' and eager.

"Bless their hearts, that I will," she said; "it shall never be said I turned a soldier from my door. Nobody knows better than I do what soldiers is in an 'ouse. Always merry and bright and ready to put their 'ands to anything when a poor woman's work's never done and she's delicate and liable to the sick-'eadache in the mornin's. There's the week's clothes to go through the wringer, but I know what soldiers is for a wringer; they can't leave it alone. And if I 'appens to overlay meself I know there's no cause to worry about Grandfer's cup o' tea, nor yet Bobby and Tom and Albert gettin' off to school tidy. Like as not they'll do me more credit than if I washed 'em meself; there's nobody like a soldier for puttin' a polish on children."

Mrs. Sweedle overlaid herself the very first mornin', and sent word by Albert if we would be so kind as make her a cup o' tea when we was makin' Grandfer's it might save her a doctor; and the wood for the fire was out in the yard, and she knew, bein' soldiers, we should chop her a barrer-load while we was about it; and when she crawled downstairs presently the breakfast things would be washed and put away, as was the 'abit of soldiers, and very likely the pertaters peeled for dinner.

It bein' a strange 'ouse and we not knowin' where to put our 'ands on anythin', and, when we'd got the kettle to boil, not bein' able to let it out of our sight owin' to the youngest little Sweedle wantin' to drink out of the spout, Jim and me was regler drove. We was as near late for parade as we 'ave ever been in our lives. Mrs. Sweedle was very upset. "I know what soldiers is for punctuality," she said, "a minute late and they're court-martialled. How would it be if you was to lay the fire over-night and scrub over the floor? It 'ud save ye a lot in the mornin', if so be I'm forced to keep me bed."

We done as she advised, and it were fortunate. She 'ad another sick-'eadache the next day, and sent word by Albert would we be so good as bake her a mouthful of toast; she knew what soldiers' toast was like, it give ye a appetite to look at it, thin and crisp, with the butter laid on smooth as cream and cut in fingers.

We never run no risk after that. 'Owever dog-tired we was and 'owever Mrs. Sweedle seemed in 'ealth we always got the work forward over-night, and when we could catch 'old of Bobby and Tom and Albert we washed 'em to save time in the mornin' and parted their 'air.

One day Mrs. Sweedle were well enough to get up. "I know who's goin' to 'ave a treat now," she said. Our 'arts leapt. We did 'ope she might be goin' to say we was to sit down to our breakfasts.

"Grandfer's goin' to be shaved, and not 'ave to pay tuppence out of 'is poor pension," she said. "There's nobody can shave like a soldier." And when Jim 'ad got the old man by the nose she said to me, "I can see what you want to be at, shakin' these mats with your strong arm and savin' me comin' on giddy."

It were very 'ard at first, but after a bit Jim and me got into the work at Mrs. Sweedle's and was just able to get through with it, except the mornin' her brother 'ad a fit when we was racin' to finish the washin'-up. That fair broke our backs. We 'ad a sort of seizure on parade and 'ad to fall out till we got our breaths back.

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THE RECOGNISED.

Give ear to my words and you shall hear The song of the British Volunteer, Who started out when the War began As a middle-aged mostly grey-haired man. Too old to be sent to join the dance Of the doughty fellows who fought in France, He refused to go on the dusty shelf, And he set to work and he bought himself A spirited grey-green uniform, With a cap to match and a British warm, And he took his fill Of the latest drill; But somehow they didn't seem to prize him Or wish in the least to recognise him.

But now they have let him cast away His excellent clothes of green and grey; They think they can use him, And don't refuse him, And they've dressed him up and they've dressed him down In a regular suit of khaki brown; He has been gazetted And properly vetted As able to march five miles at least, Though he puffs a bit when the speed 's increased; And he can double Without much trouble, And do such deeds as a man must do Who is willing to help to see things through.

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A Wholesale Order.

"Lieut-Colonel ---- received the K.C.B. and other decorations, including C.M.G.s, D.S.O.s, Military Crosses, and Royal Red Crosses."--_Evening Standard._

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From "Paris Theatrical Notes":--

"The programme for to-day at the Opéra compromises 'Samson et Dalila.'"--_Continental Daily Mail._

It sounds a little superfluous.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

_Alfred Lyttelton: An Account of his Life_, by EDITH LYTTELTON (LONGMANS), is a most fascinating book. Mrs. ALFRED LYTTELTON might perhaps have contented herself with writing a formal biography of her husband. It would have been difficult for her, but she might, as I say, have done it. Instead of this she takes her readers by the hand in the friendliest manner and admits them with her into the heart and soul of the man with whom she was for twenty years associated. She shows him as what he was, a noble and upright English gentleman, straightforward and tender-hearted, and beloved in a quite exceptional measure by all who were privileged to be his friends. I can only be grateful to Mrs. LYTTELTON for having interpreted her duty in this manner, and for having carried it out with so sure a hand. As I read her pages I saw again in my mind's eye the loose-limbed, curly-headed young son of Anak as he swung down Jesus Lane, Cambridge, or as he witched the world with noble cricketing at Fenner's or at Lord's. It is good to be able to remember him. His Eton tutor described him as being "like a running stream with the sun on it," and there was, indeed, a charm about him that was irresistible. Mrs. LYTTELTON devotes a beautiful chapter to the memory of ALFRED'S first wife, LAURA, who died after one short year of happiness. "She was a flame," says Mrs. LYTTELTON, "beautiful, dancing, ardent, leaping up from the earth in joyous rapture, touching everyone with fire as she passed. The wind of life was too fierce for such a spirit--she could not live in it. Surely it was Love that gathered her." I have only one little bone to pick, and that not with Mrs. LYTTELTON, but with Lord MIDLETON, who in a page or two of reminiscences describes as one of ALFRED'S triumphs at the Bar his appearance as counsel for the Warden of Morton, Mr. GEORGE BRODRICK. The Warden, having said something offensive about Mr. DILLON, was hailed before the Parnell Commission for contempt of court. ALFRED put in an affidavit by the Warden, in which the whole thing was said to be a joke, and in his speech he chaffed Mr. REID (now Lord LOREBURN), who was counsel for Mr. DILLON, for being a Scotsman, with a natural incapacity for seeing a joke. So far Lord MIDLETON; but he omits Mr. REID'S crushing retort. "Even a Scotsman," said Mr. REID, "may be pardoned for not seeing a joke which has to be certified by affidavit."

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Mr. JEFFERY E. JEFFERY has been playing cheerful tricks on the British public. We must forgive him, because he has for a long time been doing far worse than that to the Huns; but it is undeniable that in following the winding trail of his beloved guns we are in no small danger of losing our sense of direction. This is because along with imaginary tales, some of them written before August, 1914, when of course he could not fix precisely the chronology and locality of his fights, he has mixed almost indiscriminately the record of his own actual experiences during two distinct phases of the War. Not until the last page does he abandon the jest to explain--with something of a school-boy grin--just where fact and fiction meet, and so enable me to recover from my bewilderment and pass on a word of warning. Once on your guard, however, you will find his story of the _Servants of the Guns_ (SMITH, ELDER), and more especially the first half of it (dealing, in diary form, with his recent adventures as an officer of Artillery--he does not state his present rank), as vivid and real as anything of the sort you have seen. Field-gun warfare of to-day--mathematics, telephones and mud--with little more of old-time dash and jingle than the hope that some to-morrow may revive them in the Great Pursuit--this is his theme; and above all the loyalty of the gunner to his guns. Even the story-book part in the middle of the volume speaks of this finely and movingly; but here and there amongst his personal experiences comes a passage less consciously composed that tells it even better in the bareness of a great simplicity.

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Mr. J.D. BERESFORD'S new story, _House-Mates_ (CASSELL), might be regarded as an awful warning to young gentlemen seeking bachelor-apartments. Because, if the hero had been a little more careful about his fellow-lodgers at No. 73 Keppel Street, he would not, in the first place, have been defrauded of a large sum of money, or, in the second, have been involved in a peculiarly revolting murder. (The special hatefulness of this murder strikes me as rather superfluous. But this by the way.) On the other hand, of course, he would never have married the heroine, and we should have missed a very agreeable study of expanding adolescence. This, I take it, is the real motive of Mr. BERESFORD'S story, as exemplified by his pleasant introductory metaphor of the chicken and the egg. From the feminine point of view, indeed, the tale might be not inaptly labelled "Treatise on Cub-hunting." Anyhow, what with strange actresses and I.D.B. criminals and painted ladies and reviewers (they _were_ a queer lot at No. 73!) the hero completes his tenancy with enough experience of life, chiefly on its shadowy side, to last him for some time. An original and rather appealing story, told with a good deal of charm.

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I was waiting for it, and now, behold, it has come. In _The Shining Heights_ (MILLS AND BOON) the War is over and we have to do with some of the results of it. Unfortunately Miss I.A.R. WYLIE is very chary about dates, and she is not encouraging about the changes which most of us hope will come with peace. "Social conditions indeed," she writes, "had scarcely moved. Universal brotherhood was not ... and, for the vast majority of men and women it had been easiest to go back to the old work, the old pleasure, the old love and the old hate." Well, I don't know much about universal brotherhood, but for the rest I sincerely hope that these gloomy prognostications are wrong. As for the story, laid in the Delectable Duchy, no one needs to be told that Miss WYLIE is a novelist of considerable power and capacity, and here she has chosen a theme of very real interest. It is the rivalry of two men, one of whom had returned from the War with wounds and a V.C., while the other had never taken part in it because he believed (with justification) that he was on the point of making a discovery of value to humanity. The story is well constructed and well told, but I am beginning to think that it is time for Cornwall to be declared a prohibited area for all novelists except Mr. CHARLES MARRIOTT and "Q."

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