Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

“Never! S’runk an’ wizen; ’is clothes ’angin’ on ’im like bags, an’ the back of ’is neck whiter’n chalk. ’Twas all I could do not to oppen my arms an’ cry after him. But I swallered me spittle till I was back ’ome again an’ the chillern abed. Then I says to Bessie, after supper, ‘What in de world’s come to ’Arry Mockler?’ Bessie told me ’e’d been a-Hospital for two months, ’long o’ cuttin’ ’is foot wid a spade, muckin’ out the old pond at Smalldene. There was poison in de dirt, an’ it rooshed up ’is leg, like, an’ come out all over him. ’E ’adn’t been back to ’is job--carterin’ at Smalldene--more’n a fortnight. She told me the Doctor said he’d go off, likely, with the November frostes; an’ ’is mother ’ad told ’er that ’e didn’t rightly eat nor sleep, an’ sweated ’imself into pools, no odds ’ow chill ’e lay. An’ spit terrible o’ mornin’s. ‘Dearie me,’ I says. ‘But, mebbe hoppin’ ’ll set ’im right again,’ an’ I licked me thread-point an’ I fetched me needle’s eye up to it an’ I threads me needle under de lamp, steady as rocks. An’ dat night (me bed was in de wash-house) I cried an’ I cried. An’ _you_ know, Liz--for you’ve been with me in my throes--it takes summat to make me cry.”

“Yes; but chile-bearin’ is on’y just pain,” said Mrs. Fettley.

“I come round by cock-crow, an’ dabbed cold tea on me eyes to take away the signs. Long towards nex’ evenin’--I was settin’ out to lay some flowers on me ’usband’s grave, for the look o’ the thing--I met ’Arry over against where the War Memorial is now. ’E was comin’ back from ’is ’orses, so ’e couldn’t _not_ see me. I looked ’im all over, an’ ‘’Arry,’ I says twix’ me teeth, ‘come back an’ rest-up in Lunnon.’ ‘I won’t take it,’ he says, ‘for I can give ye naught.’ ‘I don’t ask it,’ I says. ‘By God’s Own Name, I don’t ask na’un! On’y come up an’ see a Lunnon doctor.’ ’E lifts ’is two ’eavy eyes at me: ‘’Tis past that, Gra’,’ ’e says. ‘I’ve but a few months left.’ ‘’Arry!’ I says. ‘_My_ man!’ I says. I couldn’t say no more. ’Twas all up in me throat. ‘Thank ye kindly, Gra’,’ ’e says (but ’e never says ‘my woman’), an’ ’e went on up-street an’ ’is mother--Oh, damn ’er!--she was watchin’ for ’im, an’ she shut de door be’ind ’im.”

Mrs. Fettley stretched an arm across the table, and made to finger Mrs. Ashcroft’s sleeve at the wrist, but the other moved it out of reach.

“So I went on to the churchyard with my flowers, an’ I remembered my ’usband’s warnin’ that night he spoke. ’E _was_ death-wise, an’ it _’ad_ ’appened as ’e said. But as I was settin’ down de jam-pot on the grave-mound, it come over me there was one thing I _could_ do for ’Arry. Doctor or no Doctor, I thought I’d make a trial of it. So I did. Nex’ mornin’, a bill came down from our Lunnon green-grocer. Mrs. Marshall, she’d lef’ me petty cash for suchlike--o’ course--but I tole Bess ’twas for me to come an’ open the ’ouse. So I went up, afternoon train.”

“An’--but I know you ’adn’t--’adn’t you no fear?”

“What for? There was nothin’ front o’ me but my own shame an’ God’s croolty. I couldn’t ever get ’Arry--’ow _could_ I? I knowed it must go on burnin’ till it burned me out.”

“Aie!” said Mrs. Fettley, reaching for the wrist again, and this time Mrs. Ashcroft permitted it.

“Yit ’twas a comfort to know I could try _this_ for ’im. So I went an’ I paid the green-grocer’s bill, an’ put ’is receipt in me hand-bag, an’ then I stepped round to Mrs. Ellis--our char--an’ got the ’ouse-keys an’ opened the ’ouse. First, I made me bed to come back to (God’s Own Name! Me bed to lie upon!). Nex’ I made me a cup o’ tea an’ sat down in the kitchen thinkin’, till ’long towards dusk. Terrible close, ’twas. Then I dressed me an’ went out with the receipt in me ’and-bag, feignin’ to study it for an address, like. Fourteen, Wadloes Road, was the place--a liddle basement-kitchen ’ouse, in a row of twenty-thirty such, an’ tiddy strips o’ walled garden in front--the paint off the front doors, an’ na’un done to na’un since ever so long. There wasn’t ’ardly no one in the streets ’cept the cats. _’Twas_ ’ot, too! I turned into the gate bold as brass; up de steps I went an’ I ringed the front-door bell. She pealed loud, like it do in an empty house. When she’d all ceased, I ’eard a cheer, like, pushed back on de floor o’ the kitchen. Then I ’eard feet on de kitchen-stairs, like it might ha’ been a heavy woman in slippers. They come up to de stairhead, acrost the hall--I ’eard the bare boards creak under ’em--an’ at de front door dey stopped. I stooped me to the letter-box slit, an’ I says: ‘Let me take everythin’ bad that’s in store for my man, ’Arry Mockler, for love’s sake.’ Then, whatever it was t’other side de door let its breath out, like, as if it ’ad been holdin’ it for to ’ear better.”

“Nothin’ was _said_ to ye?” Mrs. Fettley demanded.

“Na’un. She just breathed out--a sort of _A-ah_, like. Then the steps went back an’ down-stairs to the kitchen--all draggy--an’ I heard the cheer drawed up again.”

“An’ you abode on de doorstep, throughout all, Gra’?”

Mrs. Ashcroft nodded.

“Then I went away, an’ a man passin’ says to me: ‘Didn’t you know that house was empty?’ ‘No,’ I says. ‘I must ha’ been give the wrong number.’ An’ I went back to our ’ouse, an’ I went to bed; for I was fair flogged out. ’Twas too ’ot to sleep more’n snatches, so I walked me about, lyin’ down betweens, till crack o’ dawn. Then I went to the kitchen to make me a cup o’ tea, an’ I hitted meself just above the ankle on an old roastin’-jack o’ mine that Mrs. Ellis had moved out from the corner, her last cleanin’. An’ so--nex’ after that--I waited till the Marshalls come back o’ their holiday.”

“Alone there? I’d ha’ thought you’d ’ad enough of empty houses,” said Mrs. Fettley, horrified.

“Oh, Mrs. Ellis an’ Sophy was runnin’ in an’ out soon’s I was back, an’ ’twixt us we cleaned de house again top-to-bottom. There’s allus a hand’s turn more to do in every house. An’ that’s ’ow ’twas with me that autumn an’ winter, in Lunnon.”

“Then na’un hap--overtook ye for your doin’s?”

Mrs. Ashcroft smiled. “No. Not then. ’Long in November I sent Bessie ten shillin’s.”

“You was allus free-’anded,” Mrs. Fettley interrupted.

“An’ I got what I paid for, with the rest o’ the news. She said the hoppin’ ’ad set ’im up wonderful. ’E’d ’ad six weeks of it, and now ’e was back again carterin’ at Smalldene. No odds to me _’ow_ it ’ad ’appened--’slong’s it _’ad_. But I dunno as my ten shillin’s eased me much. ’Arry bein’ _dead_, like, ’e’d ha’ been mine, till Judgment. ’Arry bein’ alive, ’e’d like as not pick up with some woman middlin’ quick. I raged over that. Come spring, I ’ad somethin’ else to rage for. I’d growed a nasty little weepin’ boil, like, on me shin, just above the boot-top, that wouldn’t heal no shape. It made me sick to look at it, for I’m clean-fleshed by nature. Chop me all over with a spade, an’ I’d heal like turf. Then Mrs. Marshall she set ’er own doctor at me. ’E said I ought to ha’ come to him at first go-off, ’stead o’ drawin’ all manner o’ dyed stockin’s over it for months. ’E said I’d stood up too much to me work, for it was settin’ very close atop of a big swelled vein, like, behither the small o’ me ankle. ‘Slow come, slow go,’ ’e says. ‘Lay your leg up on high an’ rest it,’ he says, ‘an’ ’twill ease off. Don’t let it close up too soon. You’ve got a very fine leg, Mrs. Ashcroft,’ ’e says. An’ he put wet dressin’s on it.”

“’E done right.” Mrs. Fettley spoke firmly. “Wet dressin’s to wet wounds. They draw de humours, same’s a lamp-wick draws de oil.”

“That’s true. An’ Mrs. Marshall was allus at me to make me set down more, an’ dat nigh healed it up. An’ then after a while they packed me off down to Bessie’s to finish the cure; for I ain’t the sort to sit down when I ought to stand up. You was back in the village then, Liz.”

“I was. I was, but--never did I guess!”

“I didn’t desire ye to.” Mrs. Ashcroft smiled. “I saw ’Arry once or twice in de street, wonnerful fleshed up an’ restored back. Then, one day I didn’t see ’im, an’ ’is mother told me one of ’is ’orses ’ad lashed out an’ caught ’im on the ’ip. So ’e was abed an’ middlin’ painful. An’ Bessie, she says to his mother, ’twas a pity ’Arry ’adn’t a woman of ’is own to take the nursin’ off ’er. And the old lady _was_ mad! She told us that ’Arry ’ad never looked after any woman in ’is born days, an’ as long as she was atop the mowlds, she’d contrive for ’im till ’er two ’ands dropped off. So I knowed she’d do watch-dog for me, ’thout askin’ for bones.”

Mrs. Fettley rocked with small laughter.

“That day,” Mrs. Ashcroft went on, “I’d stood on me feet nigh all the time, watchin’ the doctor go in an’ out; for they thought it might be ’is ribs, too. That made my boil break again, issuin’ an’ weepin’. But it turned out ’twadn’t ribs at all, an’ ’Arry ’ad a good night. When I heard that, nex’ mornin’, I says to meself, ‘I won’t lay two an’ two together _yit_. I’ll keep me leg down a week, an’ see what comes of it.’ It didn’t hurt me that day, to speak of--’seemed more to draw the strength out o’ me like--an’ ’Arry ’ad another good night. That made me persevere; but I didn’t dare lay two an’ two together till the week-end, an’ then, ’Arry come forth e’en a’most ’imself again--na’un hurt outside ner in of him. I nigh fell on me knees in de wash-house when Bessie was up-street. ‘I’ve got ye now, my man,’ I says, ‘You’ll take your good from me ’thout knowin’ it till my life’s end. O God send me long to live for ’Arry’s sake!’ I says. An’ I dunno that didn’t still me ragin’s.”

“For good?” Mrs. Fettley asked.

“They come back, plenty times, but, let be how ’twould, I knowed I was doin’ for ’im. I _knowed_ it. I took an’ worked me pains on an’ off, like regulatin’ my own range, till I learned to ’ave ’em at my commandments. An’ that was funny, too. There was times, Liz, when my trouble ’ud all s’rink an’ dry up, like. First, I used to try an’ fetch it on again; bein’ fearful to leave ’Arry alone too long for anythin’ to lay ’old of. Prasin’ly I come to see that was a sign he’d do all right awhile, an’ so I saved myself.”

“’Ow long for?” Mrs. Fettley asked, with deepest interest.

“I’ve gone de better part of a year onct or twice with na’un more to show than the liddle weepin’ core of it, like. _All_ s’rinked up an’ dried off. Then he’d inflame up--for a warnin’--an’ I’d suffer it. When I couldn’t no more--an’ I _’ad_ to keep on goin’ with my Lunnon work--I’d lay me leg high on a cheer till it eased. Not too quick. I knowed by the feel of it, those times, dat ’Arry was in need. Then I’d send another five shillin’s to Bess, or somethin’ for the chillern, to find out if, mebbe, ’e’d took any hurt through my neglects. ’Twas _so_! Year in, year out, I worked it dat way, Liz, an’ ’e got ’is good from me ’thout knowin’--for years and years.”

“But what did _you_ get out of it, Gra’?” Mrs. Fettley almost wailed. “Did ye see ’im reg’lar?”

“Times--when I was ’ere on me ’ol’days. An’ more, now that I’m ’ere for good. But ’e’s never looked at me, ner any other woman ’cept ’is mother. ’Ow I used to watch an’ listen! So did she.”

“Years an’ years!” Mrs. Fettley repeated. “An’ where’s ’e workin’ at now?”

“Oh, ’e’s give up carterin’ quite a while. He’s workin’ for one o’ them big tractorisin’ firms--ploughin’ sometimes, an’ sometimes off with lorries--fur as Wales, I’ve ’eard. He comes ’ome to ’is mother ’tween whiles; but I don’t set eyes on him now, fer weeks on end. No odds! ’Is job keeps ’im from continuin’ in one stay anywheres.”

“But--just for de sake o’ saying’ somethin’--s’pose ’Arry _did_ get married?” said Mrs. Fettley.

Mrs. Ashcroft drew her breath sharply between her still even and natural teeth. “_Dat_ ain’t been required of me,” she answered. “I reckon my pains ’ull be counted agin that. Don’t _you_, Liz?”

“It ought to be, dearie. It ought to be.”

“It _do_ ’urt sometimes. You shall see it when Nurse comes. She thinks I don’t know it’s turned.”

Mrs. Fettley understood. Human nature seldom walks up to the word “cancer.”

“Be ye certain sure, Gra’?” she asked.

“I was sure of it when old Mr. Marshall ’ad me up to ’is study an’ spoke a long piece about my faithful service. I’ve obliged ’em on an’ off for a goodish time, but not enough for a pension. But they give me a weekly ’lowance for life. I knew what _that_ sinnified--as long as three years ago.”

“Dat don’t _prove_ it, Gra’.”

“To give fifteen bob a week to a woman ’oo’d live twenty year in the course o’ nature? It _do_!”

“You’re mistook! You’re mistook!” Mrs. Fettley insisted.

“Liz, there’s _no_ mistakin’ when the edges are all heaped up, like--same as a collar. You’ll see it. An’ I laid out Dora Wickwood, too. _She_ ’ad it under the arm-pit, like.”

Mrs. Fettley considered awhile, and bowed her head in finality.

“’Ow long d’you reckon ’twill allow ye, countin’ from now, dearie?”

“Slow come, slow go. But if I don’t set eyes on ye ’fore next hoppin’, this’ll be good-bye, Liz.”

“Dunno as I’ll be able to manage by then--not ’thout I have a liddle dog to lead me. For de chillern, dey won’t be troubled, an’--O Gra’!--I’m blindin’ up--I’m blindin’ up!”

“Oh, _dat_ was why you didn’t more’n finger with your quilt-patches all this while! I was wonderin’.... But the pain _do_ count, don’t ye think, Liz? The pain _do_ count to keep ’Arry--where I want ’im. Say it can’t be wasted, like.”

“I’m sure of it--sure of it, dearie. You’ll ’ave your reward.”

“I don’t want no more’n this--_if_ de pain is taken into de reckonin’.”

“’Twill be--’twill be, Gra’.”

There was a knock on the door.

“That’s Nurse. She’s before ’er time,” said Mrs. Ashcroft. “Open to ’er.”

The young lady entered briskly, all the bottles in her bag clicking. “Evenin’, Mrs. Ashcroft,” she began. “I’ve come raound a little earlier than usual because of the Institute dance to-na-ite. You won’t ma-ind, will you?”

“Oh, no. Me dancin’ days are over.” Mrs. Ashcroft was the self-contained domestic at once. “My old friend, Mrs. Fettley ’ere, has been settin’ talkin’ with me a while.”

“I hope she ’asn’t been fatiguing you?” said the Nurse a little frostily.

“Quite the contrary. It ’as been a pleasure. Only--only--just at the end I felt a bit--a bit flogged out, like.”

“Yes, yes.” The Nurse was on her knees already, with the washes to hand. “When old ladies get together they talk a deal too much, I’ve noticed.”

“Mebbe we do,” said Mrs. Fettley, rising. “So, now, I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Look at it first, though,” said Mrs. Ashcroft feebly. “I’d like ye to look at it.”

Mrs. Fettley looked, and shivered. Then she leaned over, and kissed Mrs. Ashcroft once on the waxy yellow forehead, and again on the faded grey eyes.

“It _do_ count, don’t it--de pain?” The lips that still kept trace of their original moulding hardly more than breathed the words.

Mrs. Fettley kissed them and moved towards the door.

[2] Hop-picking.

RAHERE

Rahere, King Henry’s Jester, feared by all the Norman Lords
For his eye that pierced their bosoms, for his tongue that shamed
their swords;
Feed and flattered by the Churchmen--well they knew how deep he stood
In dark Henry’s crooked counsels--fell upon an evil mood.

Suddenly, his days before him and behind him seemed to stand
Stripped and barren, fixed and fruitless, as those leagues of naked
sand
When St. Michael’s ebb slinks outward to the bleak horizon-bound,
And the trampling wide-mouthed waters are withdrawn from sight and
sound.

Then a Horror of Great Darkness sunk his spirit and, anon,
(Who had seen him wince and whiten as he turned to walk alone)
Followed Gilbert the Physician, and muttered in his ear,
“Thou hast it, O my brother?” “Yea, I have it,” said Rahere.

“So it comes,” said Gilbert smoothly, “man’s most immanent distress.
’Tis a humour of the Spirit which abhorreth all excess;
And, whatever breed the surfeit--Wealth, or Wit, or Power, or Fame
(And thou hast each) the Spirit laboureth to expel the same.

“Hence the dulled eye’s deep self-loathing--hence the loaded leaden
brow;
Hence the burden of Wanhope that aches thy soul and body now.
Ay, the merriest fool must face it, and the wisest Doctor learn;
For it comes--it comes,” said Gilbert, “as it passes--to return.”

But Rahere was in his torment, and he wandered, dumb and far,
Till he came to reeking Smithfield where the crowded gallows are.
(Followed Gilbert the Physician) and beneath the wry-necked dead,
Sat a leper and his woman, very merry, breaking bread.

He was cloaked from chin to ankle--faceless, fingerless, obscene--
Mere corruption swaddled man-wise, but the woman whole and clean;
And she waited on him crooning, and Rahere beheld the twain,
Each delighting in the other, and he checked and groaned again.

“So it comes,--it comes,” said Gilbert, “as it came when Life began.
’Tis a motion of the Spirit that revealeth God to man.
In the shape of Love exceeding, which regards not taint or fall,
Since in perfect Love, saith Scripture, can be no excess at all.

“Hence the eye that sees no blemish--hence the hour that holds no
shame.
Hence the Soul assured the Essence and the Substance are the same.
Nay, the meanest need not miss it, though the mightier pass it by;
For it comes--it comes,” said Gilbert, “and, thou seest, it does not
die!”

THE JANEITES

THE SURVIVAL

Horace, Ode 22, Bk. V.

Securely, after days
Unnumbered, I behold
Kings mourn that promised praise
Their cheating bards foretold.

Of earth-constricting wars,
Of Princes passed in chains,
Of deeds out-shining stars,
No word or voice remains.

Yet furthest times receive
And to fresh praise restore,
Mere flutes that breathe at eve,
Mere seaweed on the shore.

A smoke of sacrifice;
A chosen myrtle-wreath;
An harlot’s altered eyes;
A rage ’gainst love or death;

Glazed snow beneath the moon;
The surge of storm-bowed trees--
The Caesars perished soon,
And Rome Herself: But these

Endure while Empires fall
And Gods for Gods make room ...
Which greater God than all
Imposed the amazing doom?

THE JANEITES

Jane lies in Winchester--blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made!
And while the stones of Winchester, or Milsom Street, remain,
Glory, love, and honour unto England’s Jane!

In the Lodge of Instruction attached to “Faith and Works No. 5837 E. C.,” which has already been described, Saturday afternoon was appointed for the weekly clean-up, when all visiting Brethren were welcome to help under the direction of the Lodge Officer of the day: their reward was light refreshment and the meeting of companions.

This particular afternoon--in the autumn of ’20--Brother Burges, P. M., was on duty and, finding a strong shift present, took advantage of it to strip and dust all hangings and curtains, to go over every inch of the Pavement--which was stone, not floorcloth--by hand; and to polish the Columns, Jewels, Working outfit and organ. I was given to clean some Officer’s Jewels--beautiful bits of old Georgian silver-work humanised by generations of elbow-grease--and retired to the organ loft; for the floor was like the quarter-deck of a battleship on the eve of a ball. Half-a-dozen brethren had already made the Pavement as glassy as the aisle of Greenwich Chapel; the brazen chapiters winked like pure gold at the flashing Marks on the Chairs; and a morose one-legged brother was attending to the Emblems of Mortality with, I think, rouge.

“They ought,” he volunteered to Brother Burges as we passed, “to be betwixt the colour of ripe apricots an’ a half-smoked meerschaum. That’s how we kept ’em in my Mother-Lodge--a treat to look at.”

“I’ve never seen spit-and-polish to touch this,” I said.

“Wait till you see the organ,” Brother Burges replied. “You could shave in it when they’ve done. Brother Anthony’s in charge up there--the taxi-owner you met here last month. I don’t think you’ve come across Brother Humberstall, have you?”

“I don’t remember----” I began.

“You wouldn’t have forgotten him if you had. He’s a hairdresser now, somewhere at the back of Ebury Street. ’Was Garrison Artillery. ’Blown up twice.”

“Does he show it?” I asked at the foot of the organ-loft stairs.

“No-o. Not much more than Lazarus did, I expect.” Brother Burges fled off to set some one else to a job.

Brother Anthony, small, dark, and hump-backed, was hissing groom-fashion while he treated the rich acacia-wood panels of the Lodge organ with some sacred, secret composition of his own. Under his guidance Humberstall, an enormous, flat-faced man, carrying the shoulders, ribs, and loins of the old Mark ’14 Royal Garrison Artillery, and the eyes of a bewildered retriever, rubbed the stuff in. I sat down to my task on the organ-bench, whose purple velvet cushion was being vacuum-cleaned on the floor below.

“Now,” said Anthony, after five minutes’ vigorous work on the part of Humberstall. “_Now_ we’re gettin’ somethin’ worth lookin’ at! Take it easy, an’ go on with what you was tellin’ me about that Macklin man.”

“I--I ’adn’t anything against ’im,” said Humberstall, “excep’ he’d been a toff by birth; but that never showed till he was bosko absoluto. Mere bein’ drunk on’y made a common ’ound of ’im. But when bosko, it all came out. Otherwise, he showed me my duties as mess-waiter very well on the ’ole.”

“Yes, yes. But what in ’ell made you go _back_ to your Circus? The Board gave you down-an’-out fair enough, you said, after the dump went up at Eatables?”

“Board or no Board, _I_ ’adn’t the nerve to stay at ’ome--not with mother chuckin’ ’erself round all three rooms like a rabbit every time the Gothas tried to get Victoria; an’ sister writin’ me aunts four pages about it next day. Not for _me_, thank you! till the war was over. So I slid out with a draft--they wasn’t particular in ’17, so long as the tally was correct--and I joined up again with our Circus somewhere at the back of Lar Pug Noy, I think it was.” Humberstall paused for some seconds and his brow wrinkled. “Then I--I went sick, or somethin’ or other, they told me; but I know _when_ I reported for duty, our Battery Sergeant Major says that I wasn’t expected back, an’--an’, one thing leadin’ to another--to cut a long story short--I went up before our Major--Major--I shall forget my own name next--Major----”

“Never mind,” Anthony interrupted. “Go on! It’ll come back in talk!”

“’Alf a mo’. ’Twas on the tip o’ my tongue then.”

Humberstall dropped the polishing-cloth and knitted his brows again in most profound thought. Anthony turned to me and suddenly launched into a sprightly tale of his taxi’s collision with a Marble Arch refuge on a greasy day after a three-yard skid.

“’Much damage?” I asked.

“Oh no! Ev’ry bolt an’ screw an’ nut on the chassis strained; _but_ nothing carried away, you understand me, an’ not a scratch on the body. You’d never ’ave guessed a thing wrong till you took ’er in hand. It _was_ a wop too: ’ead-on--like this!” And he slapped his tactful little forehead to show what a knock it had been.

“Did your Major dish you up much?” he went on over his shoulder to Humberstall who came out of his abstraction with a slow heave.

“We-ell! He told me I wasn’t expected back either; an’ he said ’e couldn’t ’ang up the ’ole Circus till I’d rejoined; an’ he said that my ten-inch Skoda which I’d been Number Three of, before the dump went up at Eatables, had ’er full crowd. But, ’e said, as soon as a casualty occurred he’d remember me. ‘Meantime,’ says he, ‘I particularly want you for actin’ mess-waiter.’

“’Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ I says perfectly respectful; ‘but I didn’t exactly come back for _that_, sir.’”

“‘Beggin’ _your_ pardon, ’Umberstall,’ says ’e, ‘but I ’appen to command the Circus! Now, you’re a sharp-witted man,’ he says; ‘an’ what we’ve suffered from fool-waiters in Mess ’as been somethin’ cruel. You’ll take on, from now--under instruction to Macklin ’ere.’ So this man, Macklin, that I was tellin’ you about, showed me my duties.... ’Ammick! I’ve got it! ’Ammick was our Major, an’ Mosse was Captain!” Humberstall celebrated his recapture of the name by labouring at the organ-panel on his knee.

“Look out! You’ll smash it,” Anthony protested.

“Sorry! Mother’s often told me I didn’t know my strength. Now, here’s a curious thing. This Major of ours--it’s all comin’ back to me--was a high-up divorce-court lawyer; an’ Mosse, our Captain, was Number One o’ Mosse’s Private Detective Agency. You’ve heard of it? ’Wives watched while you wait, an’ so on. Well, these two ’ad been registerin’ together, so to speak, in the Civil line for years on end, but hadn’t ever met till the War. Consequently, at Mess their talk was mostly about famous cases they’d been mixed up in. ’Ammick told the Law-courts’ end o’ the business, an’ all what had been left out of the pleadin’s; an’ Mosse ’ad the actual facts concernin’ the errin’ parties--in hotels an’ so on. I’ve heard better talk in our Mess than ever before or since. It comes o’ the Gunners bein’ a scientific corps.”

“That be damned!” said Anthony. “If anythin’ ’appens to ’em they’ve got it all down in a book. There’s no book when your lorry dies on you in the ’Oly Land. _That’s_ brains.”

“Well, _then_,” Humberstall continued, “come on this secret society business that I started tellin’ you about. When those two--’Ammick an’ Mosse--’ad finished about their matrimonial relations--and mind you, they weren’t radishes--they seldom or ever repeated--they’d begin, as often as not, on this Secret Society woman I was tellin’ you of--this Jane. She was the only woman I ever ’eard ’em say a good word for. ’Cordin’ to them Jane was a none-such. _I_ didn’t know then she was a Society. ’Fact is, I only ’ung out ’arf an ear in their direction at first, on account of bein’ under instruction for mess-duty to this Macklin man. What drew _my_ attention to her was a new Lieutenant joinin’ up. We called ’im ‘Gander’ on account of his profeel, which was the identical bird. ’E’d been a nactuary--workin’ out ’ow long civilians ’ad to live. Neither ’Ammick nor Mosse wasted words on ’im at Mess. They went on talking as usual, an’ in due time, _as_ usual, they got back to Jane. Gander cocks one of his big chilblainy ears an’ cracks his cold finger-joints. ‘By God! Jane?’ says ’e. ‘Yes, Jane,’ says ’Ammick pretty short an’ senior. ‘Praise ’Eaven!’ says Gander. ‘It was “Bubbly” where I’ve come from down the line.’ (Some damn review or other, I expect.) Well, neither ’Ammick nor Mosse was easy-mouthed, or for that matter mealy-mouthed; but no sooner ’ad Gander passed that remark than they both shook ’ands with the young squirt across the table an’ called for the port back again. It _was_ a password, all right! Then they went at it about Jane--all three, regardless of rank. That made me listen. Presently, I ’eard ’Ammick say----”

“’Arf a mo’,” Anthony cut in. “But what was _you_ doin’ in Mess?”

“Me an’ Macklin was refixin’ the sand-bag screens to the dug-out passage in case o’ gas. We never knew when we’d cop it in the ’Eavies, don’t you see. But we knew we ’ad been looked for for some time, an’ it might come any minute. But, as I was sayin’, ’Ammick says what a pity ’twas Jane ’ad died barren. ‘I deny that,’ says Mosse. ‘I maintain she was fruitful in the ’ighest sense o’ the word.’ An’ Mosse knew about such things, too. ‘I’m inclined to agree with ’Ammick,’ says young Gander. ‘Any’ow, she’s left no direct an’ lawful prog’ny.’ I remember every word they said, on account o’ what ’appened subsequently. I ’adn’t noticed Macklin much, or I’d ha’ seen he was bosko absoluto. Then _’e_ cut in, leanin’ over a packin’-case with a face on ’im like a dead mackerel in the dark. ‘Pahardon me, gents,’ Macklin says, ‘but this _is_ a matter on which I _do_ ’appen to be moderately well-informed. She _did_ leave lawful issue in the shape o’ one son; an’ ’is name was ’Enery James.’

“‘By what sire? Prove it,’ says Gander, before ’is senior officers could get in a word.

“‘I will,’ says Macklin, surgin’ on ’is two thumbs. _An’_, mark you, none of ’em spoke! I forget whom he said was the sire of this ’Enery James-man; but ’e delivered ’em a lecture on this Jane-woman for more than a quarter of an hour. I know the exact time, because my old Skoda was on duty at ten-minute intervals reachin’ after some Jerry formin’-up area; and her blast always put out the dug-out candles. I relit ’em once, an’ again at the end. In conclusion, this Macklin fell flat forward on ’is face, which was how ’e generally wound up ’is notion of a perfect day. Bosko absoluto!

“‘Take ’im away,’ says ’Ammick to me. ‘’E’s sufferin’ from shell-shock.’

“To cut a long story short, _that_ was what first put the notion into my ’ead. Wouldn’t it you? Even ’ad Macklin been a ’igh-up Mason----”

“Wasn’t ’e, then?” said Anthony, a little puzzled.

“’E’d never gone beyond the Blue Degrees, ’e told me. Any’ow, ’e’d lectured ’is superior officers up an’ down; ’e’d as good as called ’em fools most o’ the time, in ’is toff’s voice. I ’eard ’im an’ I saw ’im. An’ all he got was--me told off to put ’im to bed! And all on account o’ Jane! Would _you_ have let a thing like that get past you? Nor me, either! Next mornin’, when his stummick was settled, I was at him full-cry to find out ’ow it was worked. Toff or no toff, ’e knew his end of a bargain. First, ’e wasn’t takin’ any. He said I wasn’t fit to be initiated into the Society of the Janeites. That only meant five bob more--fifteen up to date.

“‘Make it one Bradbury,’ ’e says. ‘It’s dirt-cheap. You saw me ’old the Circus in the ’ollow of me ’and?’

“No denyin’ it. I _’ad_. So, for one pound, he communicated me the Pass-word of the First Degree which was _Tilniz an’ trap-doors_.

“‘I know what a trap-door is,’ I says to ’im, ‘but what in ’ell’s _Tilniz_?’

“‘You obey orders,’ ’e says, ‘an’ next time I ask you what you’re thinkin’ about you’ll answer, “_Tilniz an’ trap-doors_,” in a smart and soldierly manner. I’ll spring that question at me own time. All you’ve got to do is to be distinck.’

“We settled all this while we was skinnin’ spuds for dinner at the back o’ the rear-truck under our camouflage-screens. Gawd, ’ow that glue-paint did stink! Otherwise, ’twasn’t so bad, with the sun comin’ through our pantomime-leaves, an’ the wind marcelling the grasses in the cutting. Well, one thing leading to another, nothin’ further ’appened in this direction till the afternoon. We ’ad a high standard o’ livin’ in Mess--an’ in the Group, for that matter. I was takin’ away Mosse’s lunch--dinner ’e would never call it--an’ Mosse was fillin’ ’is cigarette-case previous to the afternoon’s duty. Macklin, in the passage, comin’ in as if ’e didn’t know Mosse was there, slings ’is question at me, an’ I give the countersign in a low but quite distinck voice, makin’ as if I ’adn’t seen Mosse. Mosse looked at me through and through, with his cigarette-case in his ’and. Then ’e jerks out ’arf a dozen--best Turkish--on the table an’ exits. I pinched ’em an’ divvied with Macklin.

“‘You see ’ow it works,’ says Macklin. ‘Could you ’ave invested a Bradbury to better advantage?’

“‘So far, no,’ I says. ‘Otherwise, though, if they start provin’ an’ tryin’ me, I’m a dead bird. There must be a lot more to this Janeite game.’

“’Eaps an’ ’eaps,’ he says. ‘But to show you the sort of ’eart I ’ave, I’ll communicate you all the ’Igher Degrees among the Janeites, includin’ the Charges, for another Bradbury; but you’ll ’ave to work, Dobbin.’”

“’Pretty free with your Bradburys, wasn’t you?” Anthony grunted disapprovingly.

“What odds? _Ac-tually_, Gander told us, we couldn’t expect to av’rage more than six weeks’ longer apiece, an’, any’ow, _I_ never regretted it. But make no mistake--the preparation was somethin’ cruel. In the first place, I come under Macklin for direct instruction _re_ Jane.”

“Oh! Jane _was_ real, then?” Anthony glanced for an instant at me as he put the question. “I couldn’t quite make that out.”

“Real!” Humberstall’s voice rose almost to a treble. “Jane? Why, she was a little old maid ’oo’d written ’alf a dozen books about a hundred years ago. ’Twasn’t as if there was anythin’ _to_ ’em either. _I_ know. I had to read ’em. They weren’t adventurous, nor smutty, nor what you’d call even interestin’--all about girls o’ seventeen (they begun young then, I tell you), not certain ’oom they’d like to marry; an’ their dances an’ card-parties an’ picnics, and their young blokes goin’ off to London on ’orseback for ’air-cuts an’ shaves. It took a full day in those days, if you went to a proper barber. They wore wigs, too, when they was chemists or clergymen. All that interested me on account o’ me profession, an’ cuttin’ the men’s ’air every fortnight. Macklin used to chip me about bein’ an ’airdresser. ’E _could_ pass remarks, too!”

Humberstall recited with relish a fragment of what must have been a superb commination-service, ending with, “You lazy-minded, lousy-headed, long-trousered, perfumed perookier.”

“An’ you took it?” Anthony’s quick eyes ran over the man.

“Yes. I was after my money’s worth; an’ Macklin, havin’ put ’is ’and to the plough, wasn’t one to withdraw it. Otherwise, if I’d pushed ’im, I’d ha’ slew ’im. Our Battery Sergeant Major nearly did. For Macklin had a wonderful way o’ passing remarks on a man’s civil life; an’ he put it about that our B. S. M. had run a dope an’ dolly-shop with a Chinese woman, the wrong end o’ Southwark Bridge. Nothin’ you could lay ’old of, o’ course; but----” Humberstall let us draw our own conclusions.

“That reminds me,” said Anthony, smacking his lips. “I ’ad a bit of a fracas with a fare in the Fulham Road last month. He called me a parastit-ic Forder. I informed ’im I was owner-driver, an’ ’e could see for ’im-self the cab was quite clean. That didn’t suit ’im. ’E said it was crawlin’.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“One o’ them blue-bellied Bolshies of post-war Police (neglectin’ point-duty, as usual) asked us to flirt a little quieter. My joker chucked some Arabic at ’im. That was when we signed the Armistice. ’E’d been a Yeoman--a perishin’ Gloucestershire Yeoman--that I’d helped gather in the orange crop with at Jaffa, in the ’Oly Land!”

“And after that?” I continued.

“It ’ud be ’ard to say. I know ’e lived at Hendon or Cricklewood. I drove ’im there. We must ’ave talked Zionism or somethin’, because at seven next mornin’ him an’ me was tryin’ to get petrol out of a milkshop at St. Albans. They ’adn’t any. In lots o’ ways this war has been a public noosance, as one might say, but there’s no denyin’ it ’elps you slip through life easier. The dairyman’s son ’ad done time on Jordan with camels. So he stood us rum an’ milk.”

“Just like ’avin’ the Password, eh?” was Humberstall’s comment.

“That’s right! Ours was _Imshee kelb_.[3] Not so ’ard to remember as your Jane stuff.”

“Jane wasn’t so very ’ard--not the way Macklin used to put ’er,” Humberstall resumed. “I ’ad only six books to remember. I learned the names by ’eart as Macklin placed ’em. There was one, called _Persuasion_, first; an’ the rest in a bunch, except another about some Abbey or other--last by three lengths. But, as I was sayin’, what beat me was there was nothin’ _to_ ’em nor _in_ ’em. Nothin’ at all, believe me.”

“You seem good an’ full of ’em, any’ow,” said Anthony.

“I mean that ’er characters was no _use_! They was only just like people you run across any day. One of ’em was a curate--the Reverend Collins--always on the make an’ lookin’ to marry money. Well, when I was a Boy Scout, ’im or ’is twin brother was our troop-leader. An’ there was an upstandin’ ’ard-mouthed Duchess or a Baronet’s wife that didn’t give a curse for any one ’oo wouldn’t do what she told ’em to; the Lady--Lady Catherine (I’ll get it in a minute) De Bugg. Before Ma bought the ’airdressin’ business in London I used to know of an ’olesale grocer’s wife near Leicester (I’m Leicestershire myself) that might ’ave been ’er duplicate. And--oh yes--there was a Miss Bates; just an old maid runnin’ about like a hen with ’er ’ead cut off, an’ her tongue loose at both ends. I’ve got an aunt like ’er. Good as gold--but, _you_ know.”

“Lord, yes!” said Anthony, with feeling. “An’ did you find out what _Tilniz_ meant? I’m always huntin’ after the meanin’ of things meself.”

“Yes, ’e was a swine of a Major-General, retired, and on the make. They’re all on the make, in a quiet way, in Jane. ’E was so much of a gentleman by ’is own estimation that ’e was always be’avin’ like a hound. _You_ know the sort. ’Turned a girl out of ’is own ’ouse because she ’adn’t any money--_after_, mark you, encouragin’ ’er to set ’er cap at his son, because ’e thought she had.”

“But that ’appens all the time,” said Anthony. “Why, me own mother----”

“That’s right. So would mine. But this Tilney was a man, an’ some’ow Jane put it down all so naked it made you ashamed. I told Macklin that, an’ he said I was shapin’ to be a good Janeite. ’Twasn’t _his_ fault if I wasn’t. ’Nother thing, too; ’avin’ been at the Bath Mineral Waters ’Ospital in ’Sixteen, with trench-feet, was a great advantage to me, because I knew the names o’ the streets where Jane ’ad lived. There was one of ’em--Laura, I think, or some other girl’s name--which Macklin said was ’oly ground. ‘If you’d been initiated _then_,’ he says, ‘you’d ha’ felt your flat feet tingle every time you walked over those sacred pavin’-stones.’

“‘My feet tingled right enough,’ I said, ‘but not on account of Jane. Nothin’ remarkable about that,’ I says.

“‘’Eaven lend me patience!’ he says, combin’ ’is ’air with ’is little hands. ‘Every dam’ thing about Jane is remarkable to a pukka Janeite! It was there,’ he says, ‘that Miss What’s-her-Name’ (he had the name; I’ve forgotten it), ‘made up ’er engagement again, after nine years, with Captain T’other Bloke.’ An’ he dished me out a page an’ a half of one of the books to learn by ’eart--_Persuasion_, I think it was.”

“’You quick at gettin’ things off by ’eart?” Anthony demanded.

“Not as a rule. I was then, though, or else Macklin knew ’ow to deliver the Charges properly. ’E said ’e’d been some sort o’ schoolmaster once, and he’d make my mind resume work or break ’imself. That was just before the Battery Sergeant Major ’ad it in for him on account o’ what he’d been sayin’ about the Chinese wife an’ the dolly-shop.”

“What did Macklin really say?” Anthony and I asked together. Humberstall gave us a fragment. It was hardly the stuff to let loose on a pious post-war world without revision.

“And what had your B. S. M. been in civil life?” I asked at the end.

“’Ead-embalmer to an ’olesale undertaker in the Midlands,” said Humberstall; “but, o’ course, _when_ he thought ’e saw his chance he naturally took it. He came along one mornin’ lickin’ ’is lips. ‘You don’t get past me this time,’ ’e says to Macklin. ‘You’re for it, Professor.’

“‘’Ow so, me gallant Major,’ says Macklin; ’an’ what for?’

“‘For writin’ obese words on the breech o’ the ten-inch,’ says the B. S. M. She was our old Skoda that I’ve been tellin’ you about. We called ’er ‘Bloody Eliza.’ She ’ad a badly wore obturator an’ blew through a fair treat. I knew by Macklin’s face the B. S. M. ’ad dropped it somewhere, but all he vow’saifed was, ‘Very good, Major. We will consider it in Common Room.’ The B. S. M. couldn’t ever stand Macklin’s toff’s way o’ puttin’ things; so he goes off rumblin’ like ’ell’s bells in an ’urricane, as the Marines say. Macklin put it to me at once, what had I been doin’? Some’ow he could read me like a book.

“Well, all _I_’d done--an’ I told ’im _he_ was responsible for it--was to chalk the guns. ’Ammick never minded what the men wrote up on ’em. ’E said it gave ’em an interest in their job. You’d see all sorts of remarks chalked on the side-plates or the gear-casin’s.”

“What sort of remarks?” said Anthony, keenly.

“Oh! ’Ow Bloody Eliza, or Spittin’ Jim--that was our old Mark Five Nine-point-two--felt that morning, an’ such things. But it ’ad come over me--more to please Macklin than anythin’ else--that it was time we Janeites ’ad a look in. So, as I was tellin’ you, I’d taken an’ rechristened all three of ’em, on my own, early that mornin’. Spittin’ Jim I ’ad chalked ‘The Reverend Collins’--that Curate I was tellin’ you about; an’ our cut-down Navy Twelve, ‘General Tilney,’ because it was worse wore in the groovin’ than anything _I_’d ever seen. The Skoda (an’ that was where _I_ dropped it) I ’ad chalked up ‘The Lady Catherine De Bugg.’ I made a clean breast of it all to Macklin. He reached up an’ patted me on the shoulder. ‘You done nobly,’ he says. ‘You’re bringin’ forth abundant fruit, like a good Janeite. But I’m afraid your spellin’ has misled our worthy B. S. M. _That’s_ what it is,’ ’e says, slappin’ ’is little leg. ‘’Ow might you ’ave spelt De Burgh, for example?’

“I told ’im. ’Twasn’t right; an’ ’e nips off to the Skoda to make it so. When ’e comes back, ’e says that the Gander ’ad been before ’im an’ corrected the error. But we two come up before the Major, just the same, that afternoon after lunch; ’Ammick in the chair, so to speak, Mosse in another, an’ the B. S. M. chargin’ Macklin with writin’ obese words on His Majesty’s property, on active service. When it transpired that me an’ not Macklin was the offendin’ party, the B. S. M. turned ’is hand in and sulked like a baby. ’E as good as told ’Ammick ’e couldn’t hope to preserve discipline unless examples was made--meanin’, o’ course, Macklin.”

“Yes, I’ve heard all that,” said Anthony with a contemptuous grunt. “The worst of it is, a lot of it’s true.”

“’Ammick took ’im up sharp about Military Law, which he said was even more fair than the civilian article.”

“My Gawd!” This came from Anthony’s scornful mid-most bosom.

“’Accordin’ to the unwritten law of the ’Eavies,’ says ’Ammick, ‘there’s no objection to the men chalkin’ the guns, if decency is preserved. On the other ’and,’ says he, ‘we ’aven’t yet settled the precise status of individuals entitled so to do. I ’old that the privilege is confined to combatants only.’

“‘With the permission of the Court,’ says Mosse, who was another born lawyer, ‘I’d like to be allowed to join issue on that point. Prisoner’s position is very delicate an’ doubtful, an’ he has no legal representative.’

“‘Very good,’ says ’Ammick. ‘Macklin bein’ acquitted----’

“‘With submission, me lud,’ says Mosse. ‘I hope to prove ’e was accessory before the fact.’

“‘_As_ you please,’ says ’Ammick. ‘But in that case, ’oo the ’ell’s goin’ to get the port I’m tryin’ to stand the Court?’

“‘I submit,’ says Mosse, ‘prisoner, bein’ under direct observation o’ the Court, could be temporarily enlarged for that duty.’

“So Macklin went an’ got it, an’ the B. S. M. had ’is glass with the rest. Then they argued whether mess servants an’ non-combatants was entitled to chalk the guns (’Ammick _versus_ Mosse). After a bit, ’Ammick as C. O. give ’imself best, an’ me an’ Macklin was severely admonished for trespassin’ on combatants’ rights, an’ the B. S. M. was warned that if we repeated the offence ’e could deal with us summ’rily. He ’ad some glasses o’ port an’ went out quite ’appy. Then my turn come, while Macklin was gettin’ them their tea; an’ one thing leadin’ to another, ’Ammick put me through all the Janeite Degrees, you might say. ’Never ’ad such a doin’ in my life.”

“Yes, but what did you tell ’em?” said Anthony. “I can’t ever _think_ my lies quick enough when I’m for it.”

“No need to lie. I told ’em that the back-side view o’ the Skoda, when she was run up, put Lady De Bugg into my ’ead. They gave me right there, but they said I was wrong about General Tilney. ’Cordin’ to them, our Navy twelve-inch ought to ’ave been christened Miss Bates. I said the same idea ’ad crossed my mind, till I’d seen the General’s groovin’. Then I felt it had to be the General or nothin’. But they give me full marks for the Reverend Collins--our Nine-point-two.”

“An’ you fed ’em _that_ sort o’ talk?” Anthony’s fox-coloured eyebrows climbed almost into his hair.

“While I was assistin’ Macklin to get tea--yes. Seein’ it was an examination, I wanted to do ’im credit as a Janeite.”

“An’--an’ what did they say?”

“They said it was ’ighly creditable to us both. I don’t drink, so they give me about a hundred fags.”

“Gawd! What a Circus you must ’ave been,” was Anthony’s gasping comment.

“It _was_ a ’appy little Group. I wouldn’t ’a changed with any other.”

Humberstall sighed heavily as he helped Anthony slide back the organ-panel. We all admired it in silence, while Anthony repocketed his secret polishing mixture, which lived in a tin tobacco-box. I had neglected my work for listening to Humberstall. Anthony reached out quietly and took over a Secretary’s Jewel and a rag. Humberstall studied his reflection in the glossy wood.

“Almost,” he said critically, holding his head to one side.

“Not with an Army. You could with a Safety, though,” said Anthony. And, indeed, as Brother Burges had foretold, one might have shaved in it with comfort.

“Did you ever run across any of ’em afterwards, any time?” Anthony asked presently.

“Not so many of ’em left to run after, now. With the ’Eavies it’s mostly neck or nothin’. We copped it. In the neck. In due time.”

“Well, _you_ come out of it all right.” Anthony spoke both stoutly and soothingly; but Humberstall would not be comforted.

“That’s right; but I almost wish I ’adn’t,” he sighed. “I was ’appier there than ever before or since. Jerry’s March push in ’Eighteen did us in; an’ yet, ’ow could we ’ave expected it? ’Ow _could_ we ’ave expected it? We’d been sent back for rest an’ runnin’-repairs, back pretty near our base; an’ our old loco’ that used to shift us about o’ nights, she’d gone down the line for repairs. But for ’Ammick we wouldn’t even ’ave ’ad our camouflage-screens up. He told our Brigadier that, whatever ’e might be in the Gunnery line, as a leadin’ Divorce lawyer he never threw away a point in argument. So ’e ’ad us all screened in over in a cuttin’ on a little spur-line near a wood; an’ ’e saw to the screens ’imself. The leaves weren’t more than comin’ out then, an’ the sun used to make our glue-paint stink. Just like actin’ in a theatre, it was! But ’appy. _But_ ’appy! I expect if we’d been caterpillars, like the new big six-inch hows, they’d ha’ remembered us. But we was the old La Bassee ’15 Mark o’ Heavies that ran on rails--not much more good than scrap-iron that late in the war. An’, believe me, gents--or Brethren, as I should say--we copped it cruel. Look ’ere! It was in the afternoon, an’ I was watchin’ Gander instructin’ a class in new sights at Lady Catherine. All of a sudden I ’eard our screens rip overhead, an’ a runner on a motor-bike come sailin’, sailin’ through the air--like that bloke that used to bicycle off Brighton Pier--and landed one awful wop almost atop o’ the class. ‘’Old ’ard,’ says Gander. ‘That’s no way to report. What’s the fuss?’ ‘Your screens ’ave broke my back, for one thing,’ says the bloke on the ground; ‘an’ for another, the ’ole front’s gone.’ ‘Nonsense,’ says Gander. ’E ’adn’t more than passed the remark when the man was vi’lently sick an’ conked out. ’E ’ad plenty papers on ’im from Brigadiers and C. O.’s reporting ’emselves cut off an’ askin’ for orders. ’E was right both ways--his back an’ our front. The ’ole Somme front washed out as clean as kiss-me-’and!” His huge hand smashed down open on his knee.

“We ’eard about it at the time in the ’Oly Land. Was it reelly as quick as all that?” said Anthony.

“Quicker! Look ’ere! The motor-bike dropped in on us about four pip-emma. After that, we tried to get orders o’ some kind or other, but nothin’ came through excep’ that all available transport was in use and not likely to be released. _That_ didn’t ’elp us any. About nine o’clock comes along a young Brass ’At in brown gloves. We was quite a surprise to ’im. ’E said they were evacuating the area and we’d better shift. ‘Where to?’ says ’Ammick, rather short.

“‘Oh, somewhere Amiens way,’ he says. ‘Not that I’d guarantee Amiens for any length o’ time; but Amiens might do to begin with.’ I’m giving you the very words. Then ’e goes off swingin’ ’is brown gloves, and ’Ammick sends for Gander and orders ’im to march the men through Amiens to Dieppe; book thence to New’aven, take up positions be’ind Seaford, an’ carry on the war. Gander said ’e’d see ’im damned first. ’Ammick says ’e’d see ’im court-martialled after. Gander says what ’e meant to say was that the men ’ud see all an’ sundry damned before they went into Amiens with their gun-sights wrapped up in their putties. ’Ammick says ’e ’adn’t said a word about putties, an’ carryin’ off the gun-sights was purely optional. ‘Well, anyhow,’ says Gander, ’putties _or_ drawers, they ain’t goin’ to shift a step unless you lead the procession.’

“‘Mutinous ’ounds,’ says ’Ammick. ‘But we live in a democratic age. D’you suppose they’d object to kindly diggin’ ’emselves in a bit?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Gander. ‘The B. S. M.’s kept ’em at it like terriers for the last three hours.’ ‘That bein’ so,’ says ’Ammick, ‘Macklin’ll now fetch us small glasses o’ port.’ Then Mosse comes in--he could smell port a mile off--an’ he submits we’d only add to the congestion in Amiens if we took our crowd there, whereas, if we lay doggo where we was, Jerry might miss us, though he didn’t seem to be missin’ much that evenin’.