MVD LARKS 
 
 ■ B 
 
 CROSBIE GARSTIN
 
 Q
 
 The Old Corner Book
 
 THE MUD LARKS 
 
 CROSBIE GARSTIN
 
 MUD LARKS 
 
 BY 
 
 CROSBIE GARSTIN 
 
 LIEUTENANT, Isr KING EDWARD'S HORSE 
 
 NEW XSF YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1919, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 FBIKTED IN THE XTNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY BROTHER 
 
 CAPTAIN DENIS NORMAN GARSTIN, 
 
 D.S.O., M.C. 
 
 ORDER OF ST. ANNE OF RUSSIA 
 
 (lOTH ROYAL HUSSARS) 
 
 KILLED IN ACTION 
 
 NEAR ARCHANGEL, RUSSIA 
 
 AUGUST 17TB, 1918 
 
 "You gallop on unfooted asphodel . . . 
 And wave beyond the stars that all is well."
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 I. 
 
 The "Ferts" ...... 
 
 PAGB 
 
 13 
 
 IT. 
 
 Otto 
 
 17 
 
 III. 
 
 A. E.'s Bath and Brock's Benefit 
 
 23 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Messless Mess 
 
 28 
 
 V. 
 
 Climate at the Front . . . , 
 
 32 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Padre 
 
 35 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Eiding-Master 
 
 44 
 
 VIII. 
 
 National Anthem . . . . 
 
 50 
 
 IX. 
 
 Horse Sense 
 
 55 
 
 X. 
 
 
 . 61 
 
 XI. 
 
 Our Mess President .... 
 
 67 
 
 XII. 
 
 Funny Cuts ...... 
 
 . 73 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Leave ;. . 
 
 . 78 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "Harmony, Gents!" 
 
 . 85 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Mule and the Tank 
 
 . 91 
 
 XVI. 
 
 War Paint 
 
 . 96 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The Pinch of War .... 
 
 . 100 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The Regimental Mascot . 
 
 . 103 
 
 XIX. 
 
 War Vegetation 
 
 . 109 
 
 XX. 
 
 A Change of Front .... 
 
 . 115 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Antonio Giuseppe .... 
 
 . 121 
 
 XXII. 
 
 «I Spy" ...... 
 
 . 127 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 A Faux Pas ..... 
 
 . 136 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Mon Eepos . . . t., !. 
 ▼a 
 
 . 143
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXV. "Fly, Gentle Dove" 
 
 XXVI. There and Back 
 
 XXVII. Hot Air . . 
 
 XXVIII. The Convert . 
 
 XXIX. A Eest Cure . 
 
 XXX. The Harriers (I) 
 
 XXXI. The Harriers (II) 
 
 XXXII. The Camera Cannot Lie 
 
 XXXIII. Lionel Trelavpney 
 
 XXXIV. The Booby Trap 
 XXXV. The Phantom Army 
 
 pias 
 
 147 
 
 154 
 158 
 164 
 171 
 179 
 186 
 193 
 199 
 205 
 209 
 
 J
 
 THE MUD LARKS
 
 THE MUD LARKS 
 
 THE " FERTS " 
 
 WHEN" I was young, mj parents sent me to a board- 
 ing school, not in any hopes of getting me edu- 
 cated, but because they wanted a quiet home. 
 
 At that boarding school I met one Frederick Delane 
 Milroy, a chubby flame-coloured brat who had no claims 
 to genius, excepting as a litterateur. 
 
 The occasion that established his reputation with the 
 pen was a Natural History essay. We were given five 
 sheets of foolscap, two hours and our own choice of 
 subject. I chose the elephant, I remember, having once 
 been kind to one through the medium of a bag of nuts. 
 
 Frederick D. Milroy headed his effort " The Fert " 
 in large capitals, and began, " The fert is a noble ani- 
 mal " He got no further, the extreme nobility of 
 
 the ferret having apparently blinded him to its other 
 characteristics. 
 
 The other day, as I was wandering about on the 
 " line," dodging Boche crumps with more agility than 
 grace, I met Milroy (Frederick Delane) once more. 
 
 He was standing at the entrance of a cosy little funk- 
 hole, his boots and tunic undone, sniffing the morning 
 nitro-glycerine. He had swollen considerably since our 
 
 13
 
 14 The Mud Larks 
 
 literary days, but was wearing his hair as red as ever, 
 and I should have known it anywhere — on the darkest 
 night. I dived for him and his hole, pushed him into 
 it, and re-introduced myself. He remembered me quite 
 well, shook my chilblains heartily, and invited me 
 further underground for tea and talk. 
 
 It was a nice hole, cramped and damp, but very 
 deep, and with those Boche love-tokens thudding away 
 upstairs I felt that the nearer Australia the better. 
 But the rats! K'ever before have I seen rats in such 
 quantities; they flowed unchidden all over the dug-out, 
 rummaged in the cupboards, played kiss-in-the-ring in 
 the shadows, and sang and bawled behind the old oak 
 panelling until you could barely hear yourself shout. 
 I am fond of animals, but I do not like having to share 
 my tea with a bald-headed rodent who gets noisy in 
 his cups, or having a brace of high-spirited youngsters 
 wrestle out the championship of the district on my 
 bread-and-butter. 
 
 Freddy apologised for them ; they were getting a bit 
 above themselves, he was afraid, but they were seldom 
 dangerous, seldom attacked one unprovoked. " Live 
 and let live " was their motto. For all that they did 
 get a trifle de trop sometimes; he himself had lost his 
 temper when he awoke one morning to find a brawny 
 rat sitting on his face combing his whiskers in mistake 
 for his own (a pardonable error in the dark) ; and, 
 determining to teach them a lesson, had bethought him 
 of his old friend, the noble fert. He therefore sent 
 home for two of the best. 
 
 I
 
 The "Ferts" 15 
 
 The ferrets arrived in due course, received the names 
 Burroughs and Welcome, were blessed and turned loose. 
 
 They had had a rough trip over at the bottom of the 
 mail sack, and were looking for trouble. An old rat 
 strolled out of his club to see what all the noise was 
 about, and got the excitement he needed. Seven 
 friends came to his funeral and never smiled again. 
 There was great rejoicing in that underground Mess 
 that evening; Burroughs and Welcome were feted on 
 bully beef and condensed milk, and made honorary 
 members. 
 
 For three days the good work went on; there was 
 weeping in the cupboards and gnashing of teeth behind 
 the old oak panelling. Then on the fourth day Bur- 
 roughs and Welcome disappeared, and the rats swarmed 
 to their own again. The deserters were found a week 
 later; they had wormed through a system of rat-holes 
 into the next dug-out, inhabited by the Atkinses, and 
 had remained there, honoured guests. 
 
 It is the nature of the British Atkins to make a pet 
 of anything, from a toad to a sucking-pig — he cannot 
 help it. The story about St. George, doyen of British 
 soldiers, killing that dragon — nonsense ! He would have 
 spanked it, maybe, until it promised to reform, then 
 given it a cigarette, and taken it home to amuse the 
 children. To return to our ferrets, Burroughs and Wel- 
 come provided no exception to the rule ; they were taught 
 to sit up and beg, and lie down and die, to turn hand- 
 springs and play the mouth-organ; they were gorged 
 with Maconochie, plum jam and rum ration; it was
 
 i6 The Mud Larks 
 
 doubtful if they ever went to bed sober. Times out of 
 number they were borne back to the Officers' Mess and 
 exhorted to do their bit, but they returned immediately 
 to their friends the Atkinses, via their private route, 
 not unnaturally preferring a life of continuous carousal 
 and vaudeville among the flesh-pots, to sapping and 
 mining down wet rat-holes. 
 
 Freddy was of opinion that, when the battalion pro- 
 ceeded up Unter den Linden, Burroughs and Welcome 
 would be with it as regimental mascots, marching be- 
 hind the band, bells on their fingers, rings on their 
 toes. lie also assured me that if he ever again has to 
 write an essay on the Fert, its characteristics, the ad* 
 jective " noble " will not figure so prominently. 
 
 I
 
 Otto 17 
 
 II 
 
 OTTO 
 
 IiSr the long long ago, Frobisher and I, assisted by a 
 handful of native troopers, kept the flag flying at 
 M'Vini. 
 
 We hoisted it to the top of a tree at sun-up, where 
 it remained, languidly flapping its tatters over leagues 
 of Central Africa bush till sunset, when we hauled it 
 down again — an arduous life. After we had been at 
 M'Vini about six months, had shot everything worth 
 shooting, and knew one another's funny stories off by 
 heart, Frobisher and I grew bored with each other, 
 hated in fact the sight, sound and mere propinquity of 
 each other, and, shutting ourselves up in our separate 
 huts, communicated only on occasions of the direst 
 necessity, and then by the curtest of official notes. Thus 
 a further three months dragged on. 
 
 Then one red-hot afternoon came Frobisher's boy 
 to my wattle-and-dab, bearing a note. 
 
 " Visitor approaching from S.W. got up like a May 
 Queen ; think it must be the Kaiser. Lend me a bottle 
 of whisky, and mount a guard — must impress the 
 blighter." 
 
 I attached my last bottle of Scotch to the messenger 
 and sallied forth to mount a guard, none too easy a job, 
 as the Army had gone to celebrate somebody's birth-
 
 1 8 The Mud Larks 
 
 day in the neighbouring village. However, I discovered 
 one remaining trooper lying in the shade of a loquat- 
 tree. He was sick — dying, he assured me; but I per- 
 suaded him to postpone his demise for at least half an 
 hour, requisitioned his physician (the local witch 
 doctor) and two camp followers, and, leaving my cook- 
 boy to valet them, dashed to my hut to make my own 
 toilet. A glimpse through the cane mats five minutes 
 later showed me that our visitors had arrived. 
 
 A fruity German officer in full gala rig (white 
 gloves and all) was cruising about on mule-back before 
 our camp, trying to discover whether it was inhabited 
 or not. We let him cruise for a quarter of an hour with- 
 out taking any steps to enlighten him. Then, at a given 
 signal, Frobisher, caparisoned in every fal-lal he could 
 collect, issued from his hut, and I turned out the im- 
 provised guard. A stirring spectacle; and it had the 
 desired effect, for the German afterwards admitted to 
 being deeply impressed, especially by the local wizard, 
 who paraded in his professional regalia, and, coming to 
 cross-purposes with his rifle, bayoneted himself and wept 
 bitterly. The ceremonies over and the casualty re- 
 moved, we adjourned to Frobisher's hya, broached the 
 whisky and sat about in solemn state, stiff with accoutre- 
 ments, sodden with perspiration. Our visitor kept the 
 Red, White and Black flying on a tree over the border, 
 he explained ; this was his annual ceremonial call. He 
 sighed and brushed the sweat from his nose with the 
 tips of a white glove — " the weather was warm, nicM 
 wahr? " I admitted that ^^e dabbled in flag-flying our-
 
 Otto 19 
 
 selves and that the weather was all he claimed for it 
 (which effort cost me about four pounds in weight). 
 Tongues lolling, flanks heaving, we discussed the hut 
 tax, the melon crop, the monkey-nut market, the nigger 
 — and the weather again. 
 
 Suddenly Frobisher sprang up, cast loose the shack- 
 les of his Sam Browne, hurled it into a corner, and 
 began tearing at his tunic hooks. I stared at him in 
 amazement — such manners before visitors ! But our 
 immaculate guest leapt to his feet with a roar like a 
 freed lion, and, stripping his white gloves, flung them 
 after the Sam Browne, whereupon a fury of undressing 
 came upon us. Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were piled 
 into the corner, until at length we stood in our under- 
 clothes, laughing and unashamed. After that we got 
 on famously, that Teuton and we, and three days later, 
 when he swarmed aboard his mule and left for home 
 (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we 
 waved him farewell. 
 
 But not for long. Within a month we were sur- 
 prised by a hail from the bush, and there was Otto, 
 mule, pyjamas and all. 
 
 "'Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo!" he carolled. "'Ere gomes ze 
 Sherman invasion! Burn out ze guard! He roared 
 with laughter, fell off his palfrey and bawled for his 
 batman, who ambled up, balancing a square box on 
 his woolly pate. 
 
 His mother in Munich had sent him a case of Lion 
 Brew, Otto explained, so he had brought it along. 
 
 We wassailed deep into that night and out the other
 
 20 The Mud Larks 
 
 side, and we liked our Otto more than ever. We had 
 plenty in common, the same loneliness, fevers, climate, 
 and niggers t<D wrestle with; moreover he had heen in 
 England, and liked it; he smoked a pipe; he washed. 
 Also, as he privily confided to us in the young hours 
 of one morning, he had his douhts as to the divinity of 
 the Kaiser, and was not quite convinced that Richard 
 Strauss had composed the music of the spheres. 
 
 He was a bad Hun (which probably accounted for 
 his presence at the uttermost, hottermost edge of the 
 All-Highest's dominions), but a good fellow. Anyhow, 
 we liked him, Frobisher and I ; liked his bull-mouthed 
 laughter, his drinking songs and full-blooded anecdotes, 
 and, on the occasions of his frequent visits, put our 
 boredom from ns, pretended to be on the most affec- 
 tionate terms, and even laughed uproariously at each 
 other's funny stories. Up at M'Vini, in the long long 
 ago, the gleam of pyjamas amongst the loquats, and 
 " 'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion ! " booming through 
 the bush, became a signal for general goodwill. 
 
 In the fullness of time Otto went home on leave, 
 and, shortly afterwards, the world blew up. 
 
 And now I have met him again, a sodden, muddy, 
 bloody, shrunken, saddened Otto, limping through a 
 snow-storm in the custody of a Canadian corporal. He 
 was the survivor of a rear-guard, the Canuck explained, 
 and had " scrapped like a bag of wild-cats " until 
 knocked out by a rifle butt. As for Otto himself, he 
 hadn't much to say; he looked old, cold, sick and in- 
 finitely disgusted. He had always been a poor Hon.
 
 Otto 21 
 
 Only once did he show a gleam of his ancient form 
 of those old hot, happy, pyjama days on the Equator. 
 
 A rabble of prisoners — Jagers, Grenadiers, Uhlans, 
 whatnots — came trudging down the road, an unshorn, 
 dishevelled herd of cut-throats, propelled by a brace 
 of diminutive kilties, who paused occasionally to treat 
 them to snatches of flings and to hoot triumphantly. 
 
 Otto regarded his fallen compatriots with disgusted 
 lack-lustre eyes, then turning to me with a ghost of 
 his old smile, " 'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion," said 
 he.
 
 22 The Mud Larks 
 
 III 
 A. E.'S BATH AND BKOCK'S BENEFIT 
 
 NEVER have I seen a kiltie platoon wading through 
 the cold porridge of snow and slush of which our 
 front used to be composed, but I have said, with my 
 French friend, " Mon Dieu les currents d'air!" and 
 thank Fate that I belong to a race which reserves its 
 national costume for fancy-dress balls. 
 
 It is very well for MacAlpine of Ben Lomond, who 
 has stalked his haggis and devoured it raw, who beds 
 down on thistles for preference and grows his own fur ; 
 but it is very hard on Smith of Peckham, who through 
 no fault of his own finds himself in a Highland regi- 
 ment, trying to make his shirt-tails do where his trous- 
 ers did before. But the real heather-mixture, double^ 
 distilled Scot is a hardy bird with different ideas from 
 nous autres as to what is cold: also as to what is hot. 
 Witness the trying experience of our Albert Edward. 
 
 Our Albert Edward and a Hun rifle grenade arrived 
 at the same place at the same time, intermingled and 
 went down to the Base to be sifted. In the course of 
 time came a wire from our Albert Edward, saying he 
 had got the grenade out of his system and was at that 
 moment at the railhead; were we going to send him 
 a horse or weren't we ? 
 
 Emma was detailed for the job, which was a mis-
 
 A. E.'s Bath and Brock's Benefit 23 
 
 take, because Emma was not the mount for a man who 
 had been softening for five months in hospital. She 
 had only two speeds in her repertoire, a walk which 
 slung you up and down her back from her ears to her 
 croup, and a trot which jarred your teeth loose and 
 rattled the buttons off your tunic. However, she went 
 to the railhead and Albert Edward mounted her, threw 
 the clutch into the first speed and hammered out the 
 ten miles to our camp, arriving smothered in snow and 
 so stiff we had to lift him down, so raw it was a mock- 
 ery to offer him a chair, and therefore he had to take 
 his tea off the mantelpiece. 
 
 We advised a visit to Sandy. Sandy was the hot- 
 bath merchant. He lurked in a dark barn at the end 
 of the village, and could be found there at any time 
 of any day, brooding over the black cauldrons in which 
 the baths were brewed, his Tam-o'shanter drooped over 
 one eye, steam condensing on his blue nose. Theoretic- 
 ally the hot baths were free, but in practice a franc 
 pressed into Sandy's forepaw was found to have a 
 strong calorific effect on the water. 
 
 So down the village on all fours, groaning like a 
 Dutch brig in a cross sea, went our Albert Edward. 
 He crawled into the dark barn and, having no smaller 
 change, contributed a two-franc bill to the forepaw and 
 told Sandy about his awful stiffness. His eloquence 
 and the double fee broke Sandy's heart. "With great 
 tears in his eyes he assured Albert Edward that the 
 utmost resources of his experience and establishment 
 should be mobilised on his (Albert Edward's) behalf.
 
 24 The Mud Larks 
 
 and ushered him tenderly into that hidden chamber, 
 constructed of sacking screens, which was reserved for 
 officers. Albert Edward peeled his clothes gingerly 
 from him, and Sandy returned to his cauldrons. 
 
 The peeling complete, Albert Edward sat in the 
 draughts of the inner chamber and waited for the bath. 
 The outer chamber was filled with smoke, and the 
 flames were leaping six feet above the cauldrons; but 
 every time Albert Edward holloaed for his bath Sandy 
 implored another minute's grace. 
 
 Finally Albert Edward could stand the draughts no 
 longer and ordered Sandy, on pain of court martial 
 and death, to bring the water, hot or not. 
 
 Whereupon Sandy reluctantly brought his buckets 
 along, and, grumbling that neither his experience nor 
 establishment had had a fair chance, emptied them into 
 the tub. Albert Edward stepped in without further 
 remark and sat down. 
 
 The rest of the story I had from my groom and 
 countryman, who, along with an odd hundred other 
 people, happened to be patronising the outer chamber 
 tubs at the time. He told me that suddenly they heard 
 " a yowl like a man that's afther bein' bit be a mad 
 dog," and over the screen of the inner chamber came 
 our Albert Edward in his birthday dress. " Took it 
 in his sthride, Sor, an' coursed three laps round the 
 bathhouse cursin' the way he'd wither the Divil," said 
 my groom and countryman ; " then he ran out of the 
 door into the snow an' lay down in it." He likewise 
 told ni" that Albert Edward's performance had caused
 
 A. E.'s Bath and Brock's Benefit 25 
 
 a profound sensation among the other bathers, and they 
 inquired of Sandy as to the cause thereof; but Sandy 
 shook his Tam-o' shanter and couldn't tell them ; hadn't 
 the vaguest idea. The water he had given Albert Ed- 
 ward was hardly scalding, he said; hardly scalding, 
 with barely one packet of mustard dissolved in it. 
 
 Our Albert Edward is still taking his meals oflF the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 I met my friend, the French battery commander, 
 yesterday. He was cantering a showy chestnut mare 
 over the turf, humming a tune aloud. He looked very 
 fit and very much in love with the world. I asked him 
 what he meant by it. He replied that he couldn't help 
 it; everybody was combining to make him happy; his 
 CO. had fallen down a gun-pit and broken a leg; he 
 had won two hundred francs from his pet enemy; he 
 had discovered a jewel of a cook; and then there was 
 always the Boche, the perfectly priceless, absolutely 
 ridiculous, screamingly funny little Boche. The 
 Boche, properly exploited, was a veritable fount of 
 joy. He dreaded the end of the War, he assured me, 
 for a world without Boches would be a salad sans the 
 dressing. 
 
 I inquired as to how the arch-humorist had been 
 excelling himself lately. 
 
 The Captain passaged his chestnut alongside my 
 bay, chuckled and told me all about it. It appeared 
 that one wet night he was rung up by the Infantry to 
 say that the neighbouring Hun was up to some funny
 
 26 The Mud Larks 
 
 business, and would he stand by for a barrage, please? 
 
 What sort of funny business was the Hun putting 
 up? 
 
 Oh, a rocket had gone up over the way and they 
 thought it was a signal for some frightfulness or other. 
 
 He stood by for half an hour, and then, as nothing 
 happened, turned in. Ten minutes later the Infantry 
 rang up again. More funny business; three rockets 
 had gone up. 
 
 He stood by for an hour with no result, then sought 
 his bunk once more, cursing all men. Confound the 
 Infantry getting the jumps over a rocket or two! Con- 
 found them two times ! Then a spark of inspiration 
 glowed within him, glowed and flamed brightly. If 
 his exalted poilus got the wind up over a handful of 
 rockets, how much more also would the deteriorating 
 Boche ? 
 
 Gurgling happily, he brushed the rats off his chest 
 and the beetles off his face, turned over and went to 
 sleep. lN"ext morning he wrote a letter to his " god- 
 mother " in Paris (" une petite femme, ires intel- 
 ligente, vous savez^^), and ten days later her parcels 
 came tumbling in. The first night (a Monday) he 
 gave a modest display, red and white rockets bursting 
 into green stars every five minutes. Tuesday night 
 more rockets, with a few Catherine-wheels thrown in. 
 Wednesday night, Catherine-wheels and golden rain, 
 and so on until the end of the week, when they finished 
 up with a grand special attraction and all-star pro- 
 gramme, squibs, Catherine-wheels, Roman candles,
 
 A. E.'s Bath and Brock's Benefit 27 
 
 Prince of Wales' feathers, terminating in a blinding, 
 fizzing barrage of coloured rockets, and " God bless our 
 Home " in golden stars. 
 
 " All very pretty," said I, " but what were the 
 results ? " 
 
 " Precisely what I anticipated. A deserter came 
 over yesterday who was through it all and didn't intend 
 to go through it again. They had got the wind up 
 properly, he said, hadn't had a wink of sleep for a week. 
 His officers had scratched themselves bald-headed trying 
 to guess what it was all about. All ranks stood to con- 
 tinuously, up to their waists in mud, frozen stiff and 
 half drowned, while my brave little rogues of ■poilus, 
 mark you, slept in their dug-outs, and the only man on 
 duty was the lad who was touching the fireworks off. 
 O friend of mine, there is much innocent fun to be got 
 out of the Boche if you'll only give him a chance! "
 
 28 The Mud Larks 
 
 IV 
 
 THE MESSLESS MESS 
 
 /'^UR mess was situated on the crest of a ridge, and 
 ^^ enjoyed an uninterrupted view of rolling leagues 
 of mud J it had the appearance of a packing-case float- 
 ing on an ocean of ooze. 
 
 We and our servants, and our rats and our cock- 
 roaches, and our other bosom-companions slept in tents 
 pitched round and about the mess. 
 
 The whole camp was connected with the outer world 
 by a pathway of ammunition boxes, laid stepping- 
 stonewise; we went to and fro, leaping from box to 
 box as leaps the chamois from Alp to Alp. Should you 
 miss your leap there would be a swirl of mud, a gulping 
 noise, and that was the end of you; your sorrowing 
 comrades shed a little chloride of lime over the spot 
 where you were last seen, posted you as " Believed 
 missing " and indented for another Second Lieutenant 
 (or Field-Marshal, as the case might be). 
 
 Our mess was constructed of loosely piled shell boxes, 
 and roofed by a tin lid. We stole the ingredients box 
 by box, and erected the house with our own fair hands, 
 so we loved it with parental love ; but it had its little 
 drawbacks. Whenever the field guns in our neighbour- 
 hood did any business, the tin lid rattled madly and the 
 shell boxes jostled each other all over the place. It was
 
 The Messless Mess 29 
 
 quite possible to leave our mess at peep 0' day severely 
 Gothic in design, and to return at dewy eve to find it 
 rakishly Rococo. 
 
 William, our Transport Officer and Mess President, 
 was everlastingly piping all hands on deck at unseemly 
 hours to save the home and push it back into shape ; we 
 were householders in the fullest sense of the term. 
 
 Before the War, William assures us, he was a bright 
 young thing, full of merry quips and jolly practical 
 jokes, the life and soul of any party, but what with the 
 contortions of the mess and the vagaries of the transport 
 mules he had become a saddened man. 
 
 Between them — the mules and the mess — he never got 
 a whole night in bed ; either the mules were having bad 
 dreams, sleep-walking into strange lines and getting 
 themselves abhorred, or the field guns were on the job 
 and the mess had the jumps. If Hans, the Hun, had 
 not been the perfect little gentleman he is, and had 
 dropped a shell anpvhere near us (instead of assid- 
 uously spraying a distant ridge where nobody ever was, 
 is, or will be) our mess would have been with Tyre and 
 Sidon ; but Hans never forgot himself for a moment ; it 
 was our own side we distrusted. The Heavies, for in- 
 stance. The Heavies warped themselves laboriously 
 into position behind our hill, disguised themselves as 
 gooseberry bushes, and gave an impression of the crack 
 of doom at 2 a.m. one snowy morning. 
 
 Our mess immediately broke out into St. Vitus's 
 dance, and William piped all hands on deck. 
 
 The Skipper, picturesquely clad in boots (gum, high)
 
 30 The Mud Larks 
 
 and a goat's skin, flung himself on the east wing, and 
 hecame an animated huttress. Albert Edward climbed 
 aloft and sat on the tin lid, which was opening and 
 shutting at every pore. Mactavish put his shoulder to 
 the south wall to keep it from working round to the 
 north. I clung to the pantry, which was coming adrift 
 from its parent stem, while William ran about every- 
 where, giving advice and falling over things. The mess 
 passed rapidly through every style of architecture, from 
 a Chinese pagoda to a Swiss chalet, and was on the point 
 of confusing itself with a Spanish castle when the 
 Heavies switched off their hate and went to bed. And 
 not a second too soon. Another moment and I should 
 have dropped the pantry, Albert Edward would have 
 been sea-sick, and the Skipper would have let the east 
 wing go west. 
 
 We pushed the mess back into shape, and went inside 
 it for a peg of something and a consultation. Next 
 evening William called on the Heavies' commander and 
 decoyed him up to dine. We regaled him with wassail 
 and gramophone and explained the situation to him. 
 The Lord of the Heavies, a charming fellow, nearly 
 burst into tears when he heard of the ill he had unwit- 
 tingly done us, and was led home by William at 1.30 
 a.m., swearing to withdraw his infernal machines, or 
 beat them into ploughshares, the very next day. The 
 very next night our mess, without any sort of prelimi- 
 nary warning, lost its balance, sat down with a crash, and 
 lay littered about a quarter of an acre of ground. We 
 all turned out and miserably surveyed the ruins. What
 
 The Messless Mess 31 
 
 had done it? We couldn't guess. The field guns had 
 gone to bye-bye, the Heavies had gone elsewhere. Hans, 
 the Hun, couldn't have made a mistake and shelled iis ? 
 l!^ever ! It was a mystery ; so we all lifted up our 
 voices and wailed for William. He was Mess President; 
 it was his fault, of course. 
 
 At that moment William hove out of the night, driv- 
 ing his tent before him by bashing it with a mallet. 
 
 According to William there was one " Sunny Jim," 
 a morbid transport mule, inside the tent, providing the 
 motive power. " Sunny Jim " had always been some- 
 thing of a somnambulist, and this time he had sleep- 
 walked clean through our mess and on into W^illiam's 
 tent, where the mallet woke him up. He was then mak- 
 'ing the best of his way home to lines again, expedited 
 by William and the mallet. 
 
 So now we are messless ; now we crouch shivering in 
 tents and talk lovingly of the good old times beneath our 
 good old tin roof-tree, of the wonderful view of the mud 
 we used to get from our window, and of the homely tune 
 our shell boxes used to perform as they jostled together 
 of a stormy night. 
 
 And sometimes, as we crouch shivering in our tents, 
 we hear a strange sound stealing uphill from the lines. 
 It is the mules laughing.
 
 32 The Mud Larks 
 
 y. 
 
 CLIMATE AT THE FROITT 
 
 T F there is one man in France whom I do not envy it 
 ■*" is the G.H.Q. Weather Prophet. I can picture the 
 unfortunate wizard sitting in his bureau gazing into a 
 crystal, Old Moore's Almanack in one hand, a piece of 
 seaweed in the other, trying to guess what tricks the 
 weather will be up to next. 
 
 For there is nothing this climate cannot do. As a 
 quick-change artist it stands sanspareil (French) and 
 nulli secundus (Latin). 
 
 And now it seems to have mislaid the Spring alto- 
 gether. Summer has come at one stride. Yesterday the 
 staff-cars smothered one with mud as they whirled 
 past; to-day they choke one with dust. Yesterday the 
 authorities were issuing precautions against frostbite; 
 to-day they are issuing precautions against sunstroke. 
 Nevertheless we are not complaining. It will take a lot 
 of sunshine to kill us; we like it, and we don't mind 
 saying so. 
 
 The B.E.F. has cast from it its mitts and jerkins and 
 whale-oil, emerged from its subterranean burrows into 
 the open, and in every wood a mushroom town of 
 bivouacs has sprung up over-night. Here and there 
 amateur gardeners have planted flower-beds before their 
 tents; one of my corporals is nursing some radishes in
 
 Climate at the Front 33 
 
 an ammunition box and talks crop prospects by the hour. 
 My troop-sergeant found two palm plants in the ruins 
 of a chateau glass-house, and now has them standing 
 sentry at his bivouac entrance. He sits between them 
 after evening stables, smoking his pipe and fancying 
 himself back in Zanzibar; he expects the coker-nuts 
 along about August, he tells me. 
 
 Summer has come, and on every slope graze herds of 
 winter-worn gun horses and transport mules. The new 
 grass has gone to the heads of the latter and they make 
 continuous exhibitions of themselves, gambolling about 
 like ungainly lambkins and roaring with unholy laugh- 
 ter. Summer has come, and my groom and countryman 
 has started to whistle again, sure sign that Winter is 
 over, for it is only during the Summer that he reconciles 
 himself to the War. War, he admits, serves very well as 
 a light gentlemanly diversion for the idle months, but 
 with the first yellow leaf he grows restless and hints 
 indirectly that both ourselves and the horses would be 
 much better employed in the really serious business of 
 showing the little foxes some sport back in our own 
 green isle. " That Paddy," says he, slapping the bay 
 with a hay wisp, " he wishes he was back in the county 
 Kildare, he does so, the dear knows. Pegeen, too, if 
 she would be hearin' the houn's shoutin' out on her from 
 the kennels beyond in Jigginstown she'd dhrop down 
 dead wid the pleasure wid'in her, an' that's the thrue 
 word," says he, presenting the chestnut lady with a 
 grimy army biscuit. " Och musha, the poor foolish cra- 
 tures," he says and sighs.
 
 34 The Mud Larks 
 
 However, Summer has arrived, and by the sound of 
 his cheery whistle at early stables shrilling " Flan- 
 nigan's Wedding," I understand that the horses are 
 settling down once more and we can proceed with the 
 battle. 
 
 If my groom and countryman is not an advocate of 
 war as a winter sport, our Mr. Mactavish, on the other 
 hand, is of the directly opposite opinion. " War," he 
 murmured dreamily to me yesterday as we lay on our 
 backs beneath a spreading parasol of apple-blossom and 
 watched our troop-horses making pigs of themselves in 
 the young clover — " war ! don't mention the word to me. 
 Maidenhead, Canader, cushions, cigarettes, only girl in 
 the world doing all the heavy paddle- work — that's the 
 game in the good ole summer-time. Call round again 
 about October and I'll attend to your old war." It is 
 fortunate that these gentlemen do not adorn any higher 
 positions than those of private soldier and second lieu- 
 tenant, else, between them, they would stop the War 
 altogether and we should all be out of jobs.
 
 The Padre 35 
 
 VI 
 THE PADRE 
 
 YOU have all seen it in the latest V.C. list—" The 
 Reverend Paul Grajne, Chaplain to the Forces, 
 for conspicuous bravery and gallant example in the face 
 of desperate circumstances." 
 
 You have all pictured him, the beau-ideal of muscular 
 Christian, the Fighting Parson, eighteen hands high, 
 terrific in wind and limb, with a golden mane and a 
 Greek profile; a Pekinese in the drawing-room, a bull- 
 dog in the arena; a soupgon of Saint Francis with a dash 
 of John L. Sullivan — and all that. 
 
 But we who have met heroes know that they are very 
 seldom of the type which achieves the immortality of 
 the picture post card. 
 
 The stalwart with pearly teeth, lilac eyes and curly 
 lashes is C3 at Lloyd's (Sir Francis), and may be 
 heard twice daily at the Frivolity singing, " My Goo- 
 goo Girl from Honolulu" to entranced flappers; while 
 the lad who has Fritzie D. Hun backed on the ropes, 
 clinching for time, is usually gifted with bow legs, 
 freckles, a dented proboscis and a coiffure after the 
 manner of a wire-haired terrier. 
 
 The Reverend Paul Grayne, v.c, sometime curate of 
 Thorpington Parva, in the county of Hampshire, was 
 no exception to this rule, ^sthetically he was a blot
 
 36 The Mud Larks 
 
 on the landscape; among all the heroes I have met I 
 never saw anything less heroically moulded. 
 
 He stood about five feet nought and tipped the beam 
 at seven stone nothing. He had a mild chinless face, 
 and his long beaky nose, round large spectacles, and [ 
 trick of cocking his head sideways when conversing, 
 gave him the appearance of an intelligent little dicky- 
 bird. 
 
 I remember very well the occasion of our first meet- 
 ing. I Avas in my troop lines one afternoon, blackguard- 
 ing a farrier, when a loud nicker sounded on the road 
 and a black cob, bearing a feebly protesting Padre upon 
 his fat back, trotted through the gate, up to the lines and 
 began to swop How d'y' do's with my hairies. The 
 little Padre cocked his head on one side and oozed 
 apologies from every pore. 
 
 He hadn't meant to intrude, he twittered ; Peter had 
 brought him; it was Peter's fault; Peter was very 
 eccentric. 
 
 Peter, I gathered, was the fat cob, who by this time 
 had butted into the lines and was tearing at a hay net 
 as if he hadn't had a meal for years. 
 
 His alleged master looked at me hopeless, helpless. 
 What was he to do ? " Well, since Peter is evidently 
 stopping to tea with my horses," said I, " the only thing 
 you can do is to come to tea with us." So I lifted him 
 down and bore him off to the cowshed inhabited by our 
 mess at the time and regaled him on chlorinated Maza- 
 wattee, marmalade and dog biscuit. An hour later, 
 Peter willing, he left us.
 
 The Padre 37 
 
 We saw a lot of the Padre after that. Peter, it 
 appeared, had taken quite a fancy to us and frequently 
 brought him round to meals. The Padre had no word of 
 say in the matter. He confessed that, when he embarked 
 upon Peter in the morning, he had not the vaguest idea 
 where mid-day would find him. ^Nothing but the black 
 cob's fortunate rule of going home to supper saved the 
 Padre from being posted as a deserter. 
 
 He had an uneasy feeling that Peter would one day 
 suddenly sicken of the War and that he would find him- 
 self in Paris or on the Piviera. We had an uneasy 
 feeling that Peter would one day develop a curiosity as 
 to the Boche horse rations, and stroll across the line, 
 and we should lose the Padre, a thing we could ill afford 
 to do, for by this time he had taken us under his wing 
 spiritually and bodily. On Sundays he would appear in 
 our midst dragging a folding harmonium and hold 
 Church Parade, leading the hymns in his twittering 
 bird-like voice. 
 
 Then the spinster ladies of his old parish of Thorp- 
 ington Parva gave him a Ford car, and with this he 
 scoured back areas for provisions and threaded his tin 
 buggy in and out of columns of dusty infantry and 
 clattering ammunition limbers, spectacles gleaming, cap 
 slightly awry, while his batman (a wag) perched pre- 
 cariously atop of a rocking pile of biscuit tins, cigarette 
 cases and boxes of tinned fruit, and shouted after the 
 fashion of railway porters, " By your leave ! Fags 
 for the firin' line. Way for the Woodbine Ex- 
 press."
 
 38 The Mud Larks 
 
 But if we saw a lot of the Padre it was the Antrims 
 who looked upon him as their special property. They, 
 were line infantry, of the type which gets most of the 
 work and none of the Press notices, a hard-hitten, un- 
 regenerate crowd, who cared not a whit whether Bel- 
 gium bled or not, but loved fighting for its own sake 
 and put their faith in bayonet and butt. And wherever 
 these Antrims went, thither went the Padre also, 
 harmonium and his Woodbines. I have a story that, 
 when they were in a certain part of the line where the 
 trenches were only thirty yards apart (so close indeed 
 that the opposing forces greeted each other by their first 
 names and borrowed one another's wiring tools), the 
 Padre dragged the harmonium into the front line and 
 held service there, and the Germans over the way joined 
 lustily in the hymns. He kept the men of the Antrims 
 going on canteen delicacies and their officers in a con- 
 stant bubble of joy. He swallowed their tall stores 
 without a gulp ; they pulled one leg and he oifered the 
 other; he fell headlong into every silly trap they set 
 for him. Also they achieved merit in other messes by 
 peddling yarns of his wonderful innocence and his 
 incredible absent-mindedness. 
 
 " Came to me yesterday, the Dicky Bird did," one of 
 them would relate ; " wanted advice about that fat 
 fraud of his, Peter. ' He's got an abrasion on the knob 
 of his right-hand front paw/ says he. ' Dicky Bird,' 
 says I, ' that is no way to describe the anatomy of a 
 horse after all the teaching I've given you.* ' I am so 
 forgetful and horsy terras are so confusing,' he moans.
 
 The Padre 39 
 
 ' Oh, I recollect now — his starboard ankle ! ' The dear 
 babe! " 
 
 In the course of time the Antrims went into the 
 Push, but on this occasion thej refused to take the 
 Padre with them, explaining that Pushes were noisy 
 affairs, with messy accidents happening in even the 
 best regulated battalions. 
 
 The Padre was up at midnight to see them go, his 
 spectacles misty. They went over the bags at dawn, 
 reached their objective in twenty minutes and scratched 
 themselves in. The Padre rejoined them ten minutes 
 later, very badly winded, but bringing a case of Wood- 
 bines along with him. 
 
 My friend Patrick grabbed him by the leg and 
 dragged him into a shell-hole, iRothing but an inherent 
 respect for his cloth restrained Patrick from giving the 
 Dicky Bird the spanking of his life. At 8 a.m. the 
 Hun countered heavily and hove the Antrims out. Pat- 
 rick retreated in good order, leading the Padre by an 
 ear. The Antrims sat down, licked their cuts, puffed 
 some of the Woodbines, then went back and pitchforked 
 the Boche in his tender spots. The Boche collected fresh 
 help and bobbed up again. Business continued brisk 
 all day, and when night fell the Antrims were left 
 masters of the position. 
 
 At 1 a.m. they were relieved by the Rutland Rifles, 
 and a dog-weary battered remnant of the battalion 
 crawled back to camp in a sunken road a mile in the 
 rear. One or two found bivouacs left by the Rutlands, 
 but the majority dropped where they halted. My friend
 
 40 The Mud Larks 
 
 Patrick found a bivouac, wormed into it and went to 
 sleep. The next thing he remembers was the roof of 
 his abode caving in with the weight of two men strug- 
 gling violently. Patrick extricated himself somehow 
 and rolled out into the grey dawn to find the sunken 
 road filled with grey figures, in among the bivouacs 
 and shell-holes, stabbing at the sleeping Antrims. Here 
 and there men were locked together, struggling tooth 
 and claw; the air was vibrant with a ghastly pande- 
 monium of grunts and shrieks ; the sunken road ran like 
 a slaughter-house gutter. There was only one thing 
 to do, and that was to get out, so Patrick did so, driving 
 before him what men he could collect. 
 
 A man staggered past him, blowing like a walrus. 
 It was the Padre's batman, and he had his master 
 tucked under one arm, in his underclothes, kicking 
 feebly. 
 
 Patrick halted his men beyond the hill crest, and 
 there the Colonel joined him, trotting on his stockinged 
 feet. Other officers arrived, herding men. " They must 
 have rushed the Ruts., Sir," Patrick panted ; " must 
 be after those guns just behind us." " They'll get 'em 
 too," said the Colonel grimly. " We can't stop 'em," 
 said the Senior Captain. " If we counter at once we 
 might give the Loamshires time to come up — they're in 
 support, Sir — but — but, if they attack us, they'll get 
 those guns — run right over us." 
 
 The Colonel nodded. "Man, I know, I know; but 
 look at 'em " — he pointed to the pathetic remnant of his 
 battalion lying out behind the crest — " they're dropping 
 
 I
 
 The Padre 41 
 
 asleep where tbey lie — they're beat to a finish — not 
 another kick left in 'em." 
 
 He sat down and buried his face in his hands. The 
 redoubtable Antrims had come to the end. 
 
 Suddenly came a shout from the Senior Captain, 
 " Good Lord, what's that fellow after ? Who the devil 
 is it ? " 
 
 They all turned and saw a tiny figure, clad only in 
 underclothes, marching deliberately over the ridge to- 
 wards the Germans. 
 
 " Who is it ? " the Colonel repeated. " Beggin' your 
 pardon, the Reverend, Sir," said the Padre's batman as 
 he strode past the group of officers. " 'E give me the 
 slip. Sir. Gawd knows wot 'e's up to now." He lifted 
 up his voice and wailed after his master, " 'Ere, you 
 come back this minute, Sir. You'll get yourself in 
 trouble again. Do you 'ear me. Sir ? " But the Padre 
 apparently did not hear him, for he plodded steadily on 
 his way. The batman gave a sob of despair and broke 
 into a double. 
 
 The Colonel sprang to his feet. " Hey, sto^^ him, 
 somebody ! Those swine'll shoot him in a second — child 
 murder ! " 
 
 Two subalterns ran forward, followed by a trio of 
 N.C.O.'s. All along the line men lifted their weary 
 heads from the ground and saw the tiny figure on the 
 ridge silhouetted against the red east. 
 
 "Go's that blinkin' fool?" 
 
 " The Padre." 
 
 "Wot's'edoin'of?"
 
 42 The Mud Larks 
 
 " Gawd knows." 
 
 A man rose to his knees, from his knees to his feet, 
 and stumbled forward, mumbling, " 'E give me a packet 
 of fags when I was broke." " Me too," growled another, 
 and followed his chum. " They'll shoot 'im in a min- 
 ute," a voice shouted, suddenly frightened. " 'Ere, this 
 ain't war, this is blasted baby-killin'." 
 
 In another five seconds the whole line was up and 
 jogging forAvard at a lurching double. " And a little 
 child shall lead them," murmured the Colonel happily, 
 as he put his best sock forwards; a miracle had 
 happened, and his dear ruffians would go down in 
 glory. 
 
 But as they topped the hill crest, came the shrill of 
 a whistle from the opposite ridge, and there was half a 
 battalion of the Rutlands back casting for the enemy 
 that had broken through their posts. With wild yells 
 both parties charged downwards into the sunken road. 
 
 When the tumult and shouting had died Patrick 
 went in quest of the little Padre. 
 
 He discovered him sitting on the wreck of his bivouac 
 of the night ; he was clasping some small article to his 
 bosom, and the look on his face was that of a man who 
 had found his heart's desire. 
 
 Patrick sat himself down on a box of bombs, and 
 looked humbly at the Reverend Paul. It is an awful 
 thing for a man suddenly to find he has been entertain- 
 ing a hero unawares. 
 
 " Oh, Dicky Bird, Dicky Bird, why did you do it ? " 
 he inquired softly.
 
 The Padre 43 
 
 The Padre cocked his head on one side and com- 
 menced to ooze apologies from every pore. 
 
 " Oh dear — you know how absurdly absent-minded I 
 am; well, I suddenly remembered I had left my teeth 
 behind."
 
 44 The Mud Larks 
 
 VII 
 THE EIDIl^G-MASTER 
 
 THE scene is a School of Instruction at tlie back of 
 the Western Front set in a valley of green meadows 
 bordered by files of plumy poplars, and threaded through 
 by a silver ribbon of water. 
 
 On the lazy afternoon breeze come the concerted yells 
 of a bayonet class, practising frightfulness further down 
 the valley ; also the staccato chatter of Lewis guns punch- 
 ing holes in the near hillside. 
 
 In the centre of one meadow is a turf manege. In 
 the centre of the manege stands the villain of the piece, 
 the Riding-Master. 
 
 He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jack- 
 boots, vicious spurs and sable moustachios. His right 
 hand toys with a long, long whip, his left with his sable 
 moustachios. He looks like Diavolo, the lion-tamer, 
 about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of fire. 
 
 His victims, a dozen infantry officers, circle slowly 
 round the manege. They are mounted on disillusioned 
 cavalry horses who came out with Wellington and know 
 a thing or two. iNow and again they wink at the Riding- 
 Master and he winks back at them. 
 
 The audience consists of an ancient Gaul in pictur- 
 esque blue pants, whose metier is to totter round the 
 meadows brushing flies off a piebald cow; the School
 
 The Riding-Master 45 
 
 Padre, who keeps at long range so that he may see the 
 sport without hearing the language, and ten little 
 gamins, who have been splashing in the silver stream 
 and are now sitting drying on the bank like ten little 
 toads. 
 
 They come every afternoon, for never have they seen 
 such fun, never since the great days before the War 
 when the circus with the boxing kangaroo and the edu- 
 cated porks came to town. 
 
 Suddenly the Kiding-Master clears his throat. At 
 the sound thereof the horses coek their ears and their 
 riders grab handfulls of leather and hair. 
 
 R.-M. " Now, gentlemen, mind the word. Gently 
 away — tra-a-a-at." The horses break into a slow jog- 
 trot and the cavaliers into a cold perspiration. The ten 
 little gamins cheer delightedly. 
 
 R.-M. " Sit down, sit up, 'ollow yer backs, keep 
 the hands down, backs foremost, even pace. Number 
 Two, Sir, 'ollow yer back; don't sit 'unched up like 
 you'd over-ate yourself. Number Seven, don't throw 
 yerself about in that drunken manner, you'll miss the 
 saddle altogether presently, coming down — can't expect 
 the 'orse to catch you every time. 
 
 " Number Three, don't flap yer helbows like an 'en; 
 you ain't laid an hegg, 'ave you ? 
 
 " 'Ollow yer backs, 'eads up, 'eels down ; four feet 
 from nose to croup. 
 
 " Number One, keep yer feet back, you'll be kickin' 
 that mare's teeth out, you will.
 
 46 The Mud Larks 
 
 " Come down off 'is 'ead, Number Seven ; this ain't 
 a monkey-'ouse. 
 
 " Keep a light an' even feelin' of both reins, backs 
 of the 'ands foremost, four feet from nose to croup. 
 
 " Leggo that mare's tail, iNumber Seven ; you're 
 goin', not comin', and any'ow that mare likes to keep 
 'er tail to 'erself. You've upset 'er now, the tears is 
 fair streamin' down 'er face — 'ave a bit of feelin' for 
 a pore dumb beast. 
 
 " 'Ollow yer backs, even pace, grip with the knees, 
 shorten yer reins, four feet from nose to croup. Num- 
 ber Eight, restrain yerself, me lad, restrain yerself, you 
 ain't shadow-sparrin', you know. 
 
 " You too. Number Nine ; if you don't calm yer 
 action a bit you'll burst somethin'. 
 
 " Now, remember, a light feelin' of the right rein 
 and pressure of the left leg. Ride — ^wa-a-alk! Ri' — 
 tur-r-rn ! 'Alt — 'pare to s'mount — s'mount ! Dis- 
 mount, I said. Number Five; that means get down. 
 No, don't dismount on the flat of yer back, me lad, it 
 don't look nice. Try to remember you're an horfficer 
 and be more dignified. 
 
 " Now listen to me while I enumerate the parts of a 
 norse in language so simple any bloomin' fool can under- 
 stand. This'll be useful to you, for if you ever 'ave a 
 norse to deal with and he loses one of 'is parts you'll 
 know 'ow to indent for a new one. 
 
 " The 'orse 'as two ends, a fore-end — so called from 
 its tendency to go first, and an 'ind-end or rear rank. 
 The 'orse is provided with two legs at each end, which
 
 The Riding-Master 47 
 
 can be easily distinguished, the fore legs being straight 
 and the 'ind legs 'avin' kinks in 'em. 
 
 " As the 'orse does seventy-five per cent of 'is dirty 
 work with 'is 'ind-legs it is advisable to keep clear of 
 'em, rail 'em off or strap boxing-gloves on 'em. The legs 
 of the 'orse is very delicate and liable to crock up, so do 
 not try to trim off any unsightly knobs that may appear 
 on them with a hand-axe — a little of that 'as been known 
 to sour a norse for good. 
 
 " Next we come to the 'ead. On the south side of 
 the 'ead we discover the mouth. The 'orse's mouth was 
 constructed for mincing 'is victuals, also for 'is rider 
 to 'ang on by. As the 'orse does the other forty-five 
 per cent of 'is dirty work with 'is mouth it is advisable 
 to stand clear of that as well. In fact, what with his 
 mouth at one end and 'is 'ind-legs at t'other, the middle 
 of the 'orse is about the only safe spot, and that is why 
 we place the saddle there. Everything in the Harmy is 
 done with a reason, gentlemen. 
 
 " And now, Number ten, tell me what coloured 'orse 
 you are ridin' ? 
 
 " A chestnut ? No, 'e ain't no chestnut and never was, 
 no, nor a raspberry roan neither ; 'e's a bay. 'Ow often 
 must I tell you that a chestnut 'orse is the colour of 
 lager beer, a brown 'orse the colour of draught ale, and 
 a black 'orse the colour of stout. 
 
 " And now, gentlemen, stan' to yer 'orses, 'pare to 
 mount — mount ! 
 
 " There you go, Number Seven, up one side and 
 down the other. Try to stop in the saddle for a minute
 
 48 The Mud Larks 
 
 if only for the view. You'll get yourself 'urted one 
 of these days dashing about all over the 'orse like that; 
 and s'posing you was to break your neck, who'd get into 
 trouble ? Me, not you. 'Ave a bit of consideration for 
 other people, please. 
 
 " Now mind the word. Ride — ri' — tur-r-rn. Walk 
 march. Tr-a-a-at. Helbows slightly brushing the ribs 
 — your ribs, not the 'orse's, Number Three. 
 
 " Shorten yer reins, 'eels down, 'eads up, 'ollow yer 
 backs, four feet from nose to croup. 
 
 " Get off that mare's neck, Number Seven, and try 
 ridin' in the saddle for a change ; it'll be more comfort- 
 able for everybody. 
 
 " You oughter do cowboy stunts for the movin' pic- 
 tures. Number Six, you ought really. People would pay 
 money to see you ride a norse upside down like that. 
 Got a strain of wild Cossack blood in you, eh ? 
 
 " There you are, now you've been and fell off. Nice 
 way to repay me for all the patience an' learning I've 
 given you ! 
 
 " What are you lyin' there for ? Day dreaming ? I 
 s'pose you're goin' to tell me you're 'urted now? Be 
 writing 'ome to Mother about it next: 'Dear Ma, — A 
 mad mustang 'as trod on me stummick. Please send me 
 a gold stripe. Your loving child, Algy.' 
 
 " Now mind the word. Eide — can — ter ! " 
 
 He cracks his whip ; the horses throw up their heads 
 and break into a canter; the cavaliers turn pea-green 
 about the chops, let go the reins and clutch saddle- 
 pommels. 
 
 I
 
 The Riding-Master 49 
 
 The leading horse, a rakish chestnut, finding his head 
 free at last and being heartily fed-up with the whole 
 business, suddenly bolts out of the manege and legs it 
 across the meadow, en route for stables and tea. His 
 eleven mates stream in his wake, emptying saddles as 
 they go. 
 
 The ten little gamins dance ecstatically upon the bank, 
 waving their shirts and shrilling "A Berlin! A Ber- 
 lin!" 
 
 The ancient Gaul props himself up against the pie- 
 bald cow and shakes his ancient head. " C'est la 
 guerre/' he croaks. 
 
 The deserted Riding-Master damns his eyes and 
 blesses his soul for a few moments; then sighs re- 
 signedly, takes a cigarette from his cap lining, lights it 
 and waddles o£F towards the village and his favourite 
 estaminet.
 
 50 The Mud Larks 
 
 VIII 
 NATIONAL ANTHEM 
 
 OUT here the telephone exists largely as a vehicle 
 for the jeux d^ esprit of the Brass Lids. It is a one- 
 way affair, working only from the inside out, for if you 
 have a trifle of repartee to impart to the Brazen Ones, 
 the apparatus is either indefinitely engaged, or Na poo 
 (as the French say). If you are one of these bulldog 
 lads and are determined to make the thing talk from 
 the outside in, you had better migrate cliez Signals, tak- 
 ing your bed, blankets, beer, tobacco and the unexpired 
 portion of next week's ration, and camp at the telephone 
 orderly's elbow. After a day or two it will percolate 
 through to the varlet's intelligence that you are a des- 
 perate dog in urgent need of something, and he will 
 bestir himself, and mayhap in a further two or three 
 days' time he will wind a crank, pull some strings, and 
 announce that you are " on," and you will find yourself 
 in animated conversation with an inspector of cemeter- 
 ies, a jam expert at the Base, or the Dalai Lama. If 
 you want to give back-chat to the Staff you had best 
 take it there by hand. 
 
 A friend of mine by name of Patrick once got the 
 job of Temporary Assistant Deputy Lance Staff Cap- 
 tain (unpaid), and before he tumbled to the one-way 
 idea, his telephone worked both ways and gave him a
 
 National Anthem 51 
 
 lot of trouble. People were always calling him up and 
 asking him questions, which of course wasn't playing 
 the game at all. Sometimes he never got to bed before 
 10 p.m., answering questions; often he was up again at 
 9 a.m., answering more questions — and such questions! 
 
 A sample. On one occasion he rang up his old bat- 
 talion. One Jimmy was then Acting Assistant Vice- 
 Adjutant. " Hello, wazzeraiatter ? " said Jimmy. 
 " Staff Captain speaking," said Patrick sternly. 
 " Please furnish a return of all cooks, smoke-helmets, 
 bombs, mules, Yukon packs, tin bowlers, grease-traps 
 and Plymouth Brothers you have in the field ! " 
 
 " Easy — beg pardon, yes. Sir," said Jimmy and 
 hung up. 
 
 Presently the 'phone buzzed and there was Jimmy 
 again. 
 
 " Excuse me. Sir, but you wanted a return of various 
 commodities we have in the field. What field ? " 
 
 " Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head ! " Patrick snapped 
 and rang off. A quarter of an hour later he was called 
 to the 'phone once more and the familiar bleat of 
 Jimmy tickled his ear. " Excuse me, Sir — whose 
 mother ? '" 
 
 On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and 
 makes a slip, a clerical error, now and again, sufficient 
 to expose his flank. And then the humble fighting man 
 can draw his drop of blood if he is quick about it. To 
 this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the 
 heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it. He got a 
 chit from H.Q., dated 6/7/17, which ran thus: —
 
 52 The Mud Larks 
 
 " In reference to 17326 Pte. Hogan we note that his 
 date of birth is 10/7/17. Please place him in his 
 proper category/' 
 
 To which Jimmy replied : — 
 
 " As according to your showing 17326 Pte. Hogan 
 will not be born for another four days we are placed 
 in a position of some difficulty. 
 
 Signed 
 
 " P.S. — ^What if, when the interesting event occurs 
 17326 Pte. Hogan should be a girl ? 
 
 "P.S.S.— Or twins?" 
 
 Our Albert Edward is just back from one of those 
 Army finishing schools where the young subaltern's 
 knowledge of Shakespeare and the use of the globes is 
 given a final shampoo before he is pushed over the top. 
 Albert Edward's academy was situated in a small town 
 where schools are maintained by all our brave Allies ; it 
 is an educational centre. The Erench school does the 
 honours of the place and keeps a tame band, which 
 gives tongue every Sunday evening in the Grand Place. 
 Thither repair all the young ladies of the town to hear 
 the music. Thither also repair all the young subalterns, 
 also for the purpose of hearing the music. 
 
 At the end of every performance the national an- 
 thems of all our brave Allies are played, each brave 
 Ally standing rigidly to attention the while, in compli- 
 ment to the others. As we have a lot of brave Allies 
 these days, all with long national war-whoops, this be- 
 comes somewhat of a strain.
 
 National Anthem 53 
 
 One morning the French bandmaster called on the 
 Commandant of the English school. 
 
 " Some Americans have arrived," said he. " They 
 are naturally as welcome as the sunshine, but " (he 
 sighed) " it means yet another national anthem." 
 
 The Commandant sighed and said he supposed so. 
 
 " By the way," said the chef d'orchestre, " what is 
 the American national anthem ? " 
 
 " ' Yankee Doodle,' " replied the Commandant. 
 
 The Chief Instructor said he'd always understood it 
 was " Hail, Columbia." 
 
 The Adjutant was of the opinion that " The Star- 
 Spangled Banner " filled the bill, while the Quarter- 
 master cast his vote for " My Country, 'tis of thee." 
 
 The chef d'orchestre thrashed his bosom and rent his 
 coiffure. " Dieu! " he wailed, " I can't play all of them 
 — figurez-vous I " 
 
 Without stopping to do any figuring they heartily 
 agreed that he couldn't. " Tell you what," said the 
 Commandant at length, " write to your music merchant 
 in Paris and leave it to him." 
 
 The chef d'orchestre said he would, and did so. 
 
 ^ext Sunday evening, as the concert drew to a close, 
 the band flung into the Marseillaise, and the subalterns 
 of all nations leapt to attention. They stood to attention 
 through " God Save the King," through the national 
 anthems of Russia, Italy, Portugal, Rumania, Serbia, 
 Belgium, Montenegro and Monte Carlo, all our 
 brave Allies. Then the chef d'orchestre suddenly sprang 
 upon a stool and waved above his head the stripes and
 
 54 The Mud Larks 
 
 stars, of our newest brave Ally, while the band crashed 
 into the opening strains of " When the midnight choo- 
 choo starts for Alabam." It speaks volumes for the 
 discipline of the Allied armies that their young subal- 
 terns stood to attention even through that.
 
 Horse Sense 55 
 
 IX 
 
 HOESE SENSE 
 
 Time — ISTight 
 
 Scene. — A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment 
 under canvas thereon. It is not yet " Lights out" 
 and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents 
 and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns in- 
 habited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess 
 tent comes the twinkle of a gramophone, rendering 
 classics from " Keep Smiling," In a bivouac an 
 opposition mouth-organ saws at " The Rosary." 
 On the left hand is a darh mass of horses, picketed 
 in parallel lines. They lounge, hips drooping, 
 heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The 
 Chiard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, dron- 
 ing a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth- 
 organ. " The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart, 
 are — Stan' still. Ginger — like a string of pearls ter 
 me — ee . . . Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin' ! " The 
 range of desolate hills in the background is flicker- 
 ing with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire 
 — the Boche evensong. 
 
 A bay horse {shifting his weight from one leg to the 
 other). Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night.
 
 56 The Mud Larks 
 
 A chestnut. Yep. l!^ow if this was 1914, with that 
 racket loose, we'd be standing to. 
 
 A gunpack horse. Why ? 
 
 Chestnut. "Wind up, sonny. "Why in 1914 our sad- 
 dles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 
 1914 
 
 A Hack horse. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; 
 tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to 
 let "William's own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over 
 you. 
 
 A hay horse. Yes, and how you gave the field ten 
 stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna. What 
 are your personal recollections of Xapoleon, Rufus ? 
 
 Chestnut. You blinkin' conscripts, you ! 
 
 Black. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus — ^ladies 
 present. 
 
 Chestnut. Ladies, huh. Behave nice and ladylike 
 when they catch sight of the nosebags, don't they ? 
 
 A skewbald mare. Well, we gotta stand up for our 
 rights. 
 
 Chestnut. 'Struth you do, tooth and hoof. What 
 Were you in civil life, Baby ? A Suffragette ? 
 
 Skeivhald. 'No, I wasn't, so there. 
 
 Bay. ISTo, she was a footlights favourite; wore her 
 mane in plaits and a star-spangled bearing-rein and 
 surcingle to improve her fig-u-are; did pretty parlour 
 tricks to the strains of the banjo and psaltery. N'est- 
 ce pas, cherie? 
 
 Skeivhald. Well, what if I did ? There's scores of
 
 Horse Sense 57 
 
 circus gals is puffect Ijdies. I don't require none of 
 your familiarity any'ow, Mister. 
 
 Bay. Beg pardon. Excuse my bluff soldierly ways ; 
 but nevertheless take your nose out of my bay net, please. 
 
 A Canadian dun. Gee ! quit weavin' about like that, 
 Tubby. Can't you let a guy get some sleep. I'll hand 
 you a cold rebuff in the ribs in a minute. Wazzer mat- 
 ter with you, anyhow ? 
 
 Tubby. Had a bad dream. 
 
 Black. Don't wonder, the way you over-eat yourself. 
 
 Bay. 'Ever know a Quartermaster's horse that didn't? 
 He's the only one that gets the chance. 
 
 Skewbald. And the Officers' chargers. 
 
 Voice from over the way. Well, we need it, don't we ? 
 We do all the bally headwork. 
 
 Bay. Hearken even unto the Honourable Mont- 
 morency. Hello, Monty there ! l^ever mind about the 
 bally headwork, but next time you're out troop-leading 
 try to steer a course somewhat approaching the straight. 
 You had the line opening and shutting like a concertina 
 this morning. 
 
 An iron-grey. Begob, and that's the holy truth ! I 
 thought my ribs was goin' ivery minnut, an' me man 
 was cursin' nndher his breath the way you'd hear him 
 a mile away. Ye've no more idea of a straight line, 
 Monty avic, than a crab wid dhrink taken. 
 
 Monty. Sorry, but the flies were giving me gyp. 
 
 Canadian dun. Flies ? Say, but you greenhorns make 
 me smile. Why, out West we got flies that 
 
 Iron grey. Och sure we've heard all about thim.
 
 58 The Mud Larks 
 
 'Tis as big as bulldogs they are; iverj time they bite 
 you you lose a limb. Many a time the traveller has 
 observed thim flyin' away wid a foal in their jaws, the 
 rapparees ! P' all that I do be remarkin' that whin one 
 of the effete European variety is afther ticklin' you in 
 the short hairs you step very free an' flippant, Johnny, 
 acushla. 
 
 A brown horse. Say, Monty, old top, any news? 
 You've got a pal at G.H.Q., haven't you ? 
 
 Monti/. Oh, yes, my young brother. He's got a job 
 on Haig's personal Staif now, wears a red brow-band 
 and all that — ahem ! Of course he tells me a thing or 
 two when we meet, but in the strictest confidence, you 
 understand. 
 
 Brown. Quite; but did he say anything about the 
 end of the War ? 
 
 Monty. Well, not precisely, that is not exactly, ex- 
 cepting that he says that it's pretty certain now that it 
 — er — well, that it will end. 
 
 Brown. That's good news. Thanks, Monty. 
 
 Monty. Not a bit, old thing. Don't mention it. 
 
 Iron-grey. 'Tis a great comfort to us to know that 
 the War will ind, if not in our day, annyway sometime. 
 
 Canadian dun. You bet. Gee, I wish it was all 
 over an' I was home in the foothills with the brown 
 wool and pink prairie roses underfoot, and the Chinook 
 layin' my mane over. 
 
 Iron-grey. Faith, but the County Cork would suit 
 me completely; a roomy loose-box wid straw litter an' 
 a leak-proof roof.
 
 Horse Sense 59 
 
 Tubhrj. Yes, with full meals coming regularly. 
 
 A hay mare. I've got a two-year-old in Devon I'd 
 like to see again. 
 
 Monty. I've no quarrel with Leicestershire myself. 
 
 Gunpack horse. Garn ! Wot abaht good old London ? 
 
 Chestnut. Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about ? 
 You never had a full meal in your life until Lord 
 Derby pulled you out of that coster barrow and pushed 
 you into the Army. 
 
 Tubhy. A full meal in the Army — help! 
 
 Brown. Listen to our living skeleton. Do you chaps 
 remember that afternoon he had to himself in an oat 
 field up Plug Street way? When the grooms found 
 him he was lying on his back, legs in the air, blown 
 up like a poisoned pup. " Blimy," says one lad to 
 t'other, " 'ere's one of our observation bladders the 
 'Un 'as brought down." 
 
 Chestnut. I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop 
 Sergeant that he'd buy a haystack some day and try to 
 burst you, Tubby. The Sergeant bet him a month's 
 pay it couldn't be done. 
 
 Tubhy. Just because I've got a healthy appetite 
 
 Brown. Healthy appetites aren't being worn this 
 season. Sir — bad form. How are the politicians' park 
 hacks to be kept sleek if the troop-horse don't tighten 
 his girth a bit? Be patriotic, old dear; eat less 
 oats. 
 
 Chestnut. That mess gramophone must be redhot by 
 now. It's been running continuous since First Post. 
 I suppose somebody's mamma has sent him a bottle of
 
 6o The Mud Larks 
 
 ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the bubbles 
 last. 
 
 Monty. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will 
 be parading to-morrow morning with a camouflage tunic 
 over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through 
 squadron drill. 
 
 Iron-grey. God save us, thin ! 
 
 A Mexican roan. Buenas noches! 
 
 OunpacTc horse. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in 
 the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' 
 as he trips over the heel shackles. 
 
 Monty. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. Bong 
 swar. 
 
 Once more Tieads and hips droop. They pose in 
 attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small hoys 
 on the approach of a prefect. The line Guard 
 comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to 
 march up and down as if salvation depended on 
 his getting in so many laps to the hour. From the 
 guard-tent a trumpet wails, ''Lights out."
 
 '' Convey," the Wise It Call 6i 
 
 " CONVEY," THE WISE IT CALL 
 
 I AM living at present in one of those villages in 
 which the retreating Hun has left no stone unturned. 
 With characteristic thoroughness he fired it first, then 
 blew it up, and has been shelling it ever since. What 
 with one thing and another, it is in an advanced state of 
 dilapidation; in fact, if it were not that one has the 
 map's word for it, and a notice perched on a heap of 
 brick-dust saying that the Towti Major may be found 
 within, the casual wayfarer might imagine himself in 
 the Sahara, Kalahari, or the south end of Kingsway. 
 
 Some of these French towns are very diflScult to 
 recognise as such; only the trained detective can do it. 
 A certain Irish regiment was presented with the job 
 of capturing one. The scheme was roughly this. They 
 were to climb the parapet at 5.25 a.m. and rush a quarry 
 some one hundred yards distant. After half an hour's 
 breather they were to go on to some machine-gun em- 
 placements, dispose of these, wait a further twenty 
 minutes, and then take the town. Distance barely one 
 thousand yards in all. Promptly at zero the whole field 
 spilled over the bags, as the field spills over the big 
 double at Punchestown, paused at the quarry only long 
 enough to change feet on the top, and charged yelling 
 at the machine-guns. Then being still full of fun and
 
 62 The Mud Larks 
 
 joie de vivre, and having no officers left to hamper their 
 fine flowing style, they ducked through their own bar- 
 rage and raced all out for the final objective. Twenty 
 minutes later, tw'o miles further on, one perspiring 
 private turned to his panting chum, " For the love or 
 Grod, Mike, aren't we getting in the near of this damn 
 town yet ? " 
 
 I have a vast respect for Hindenburg (a man who can 
 drink the mixtures he does, and still sit up and smile 
 Bunnily into the jaws of a camera ten times a day, is 
 worthy of anybody's veneration), but if he thought that 
 by blowing these poor little French villages into small 
 smithereens he would deprive the B.E.F. of head-cover 
 and cause it to catch cold and trot home to mother, he 
 will have to sit up late and do some more thinking. For 
 Atkins of to-day is a knowing bird ; he can make a little 
 go the whole distance and conjure plenty out of nothing- 
 ness. As for cover, two bricks and his shrapnel hat 
 make a very passable pavilion. Goodness knows it 
 would puzzle a guinea-pig to render itself inconspicuous 
 in our village, yet I have watched battalion after battal- 
 ion march into it and be halted and dismissed. Half 
 an hour later there is not a soul to be seen. They have 
 all gone to ground. My groom and countryman went in 
 search of wherewithal to build a shelter for the horses. 
 He saw a respectable plank sticking out of a heap of 
 debris, laid hold on it and pulled. Then — to quote him 
 vei-haiim — " there came a great roarin' from in under- 
 nath of it, Sor, an' a black divil of an infantryman 
 shoved his head up through the bricks an' drew down
 
 " Convey," the Wise It Call 63 
 
 sivin curses on me for pullin' the roof off his house. 
 Then he's afther throwin' a bomb at me, Sor, so I came 
 away. Ye wouldn't be knowin' where to put your fut 
 dowTi in this place, Sor, for the dhread of treadin' in the 
 belly of an officer an' him aslape." 
 
 Some people have the bungalow mania and build 
 them hijoux maisonettes out of biscuit tins, sacking and 
 whatnot, but the majority go to ground. I am one of 
 the majority; I go to ground like a badger, for experi- 
 ence has taught me that a dug-out — cramped, damp, 
 dark though it may be — cannot be stolen from you w^hile 
 you sleep ; that is to say, thieves cannot come along in 
 the middle of the night, dig it up bodily by the roots 
 and cart it away in a G.S. waggon without you, the 
 occupant, being aware that some irregularity is occur- 
 ring to the home. On the other hand, in this country, 
 where the warrior, when he falls on sleep suffers a sort 
 of temporary death, bungalows can be easily purloined 
 from round about him without his knowledge ; and what 
 is more, frequently are. 
 
 For instance, a certain bungalow in our village was 
 stolen as frequently as three times in one night. This 
 was the way of it. One Todd, a foot-slogging lieuten- 
 ant, foot-slogged into our midst one day, borrowed a hole 
 from a local rabbit, and took up his residence therein. 
 Now this mud-pushing Todd had a cousin in the same 
 division, one of those highly trained specialists who 
 trickle about the country shedding coils of barbed wire 
 and calling them " dumps " — a sapper, in short. One 
 afternoon the sapping Todd, finding some old sheets of
 
 64 The Mud Larks 
 
 corrugated iron that he had neglected to dump, sent 
 them over to his gravel-grinding cousin with his love and 
 the request of a loan of a dozen of soda. The earth- 
 pounding Todd came out of his hole, gazed on the cor- 
 rugated iron and saw visions, dreamed dreams. He 
 handed the hole back to the rabbit and set to work to 
 evolve a bungalow. By evening it was complete. He 
 crawled within and went to sleep, slept like a drugged 
 dormouse. At 10 p.m. a squadron of the Shetland 
 ponies (for the purpose of deceiving the enemy all names 
 in this article are entirely fictitious) made our village. 
 It was drizzling at the time, and the Field Officer in 
 charge was getting most of it in the neck. He howled 
 for his batman, and told the varlet that if there wasn't 
 a drizzle-proof bivouac ready to enfold him by the time 
 he had put the ponies to bye-byes, there would be no 
 leave for ten years. The batman scratched his head, 
 then slid softly away into the night. By the time the 
 ponies were tilting the last drops out of their nosebags 
 the faithful servant had scratched together a few sheets 
 of corrugated, and piled them into a rough shelter. 
 The Major wriggled beneath it and was presently put- 
 ting up a barrage of snores terrible to hear. At mid- 
 night a battalion of the Loamshire Light Infantry 
 trudged into the village. It was raining in solid chunks, 
 and the Colonel Commanding looked like Victoria Falls 
 and felt like a submarine. He gave expression to his 
 sentiments in a series of spluttering bellows. His bat- 
 man trembled and faded into the darkness a pas de loup. 
 By the time the old gentleman had halted his command
 
 " Convey," the Wise It Call 65 
 
 and cursed them " good night " his resourceful retainer 
 had found a sheet or two of corrugated iron somewhere 
 and assembled them into some sort of bivouac for the 
 reception of his lord. His lord fell inside, kicked off 
 his boots and slept instantly, slept like a wintering bear. 
 
 At 2 a.m. three Canadian privates blundered against 
 our village and tripped over it. They had lost their 
 way, were mud from hoofs to horns, dead beat, soaked 
 to the skin, chilled to the bone, fed up to the back teeth. 
 They were not going any further, neither were they 
 going to be deluged to death if there was any cover to 
 be had anywhere. They nosed about, and soon dis- 
 covered a few sheets of corrugated iron, bore them 
 privily hence and weathered the night out under some 
 logs further down the valley. My batman trod me 
 underfoot at seven next morning. " Goin' to be blinkin' 
 murder done in this camp presently, Sir," he announced 
 cheerfully. " Three oflScers went to sleep in bivvies 
 larst night, but somebody's souvenired 'em since, an' 
 they're all lyin' hout in the hopen now. Sir. Their 
 blokes daresent wake 'em an' break the noos. All very 
 'asty-tempered gents, so I'm told. The Colonel is 
 pertickler mustard. There'll be some fresh faces on 
 the Roll of Honour when 'e comes to." 
 
 I turned out and took a look at the scene of im- 
 pending tragedy. The three unconscious officers on 
 three camp beds were lying out in the middle of a sea 
 of mud like three lone islets. Their shuddering sub- 
 ordinates were taking cover at long range, whispering 
 among themselves and crouching in attitudes of dread-
 
 66 The Mud Larks 
 
 ful expectancy like men awaiting the explosion of a 
 mine or the cracking of Doom. As explosions of those 
 dimensions are liable to be impartial in their attentions 
 I took horse and rode afield. But according to my bat- 
 man, who braved it out, the Lieutenant woke up first, 
 exploded noisily and detonated the Field Officer who in 
 turn detonated the Colonel. In the words of my bat- 
 man — " They went orf one, two, three. Sir, for orl the 
 world like a machine-gun, an eighteen-pounder and an 
 How-pop-pop! Whizz-bang! Boom! — ^very 'eavy cas- 
 u-alities, Sir."
 
 Our Mess President 67 
 
 XI 
 
 OUR MESS PRESIDENT 
 
 NOBODY out here seems exactly infatuated with the 
 politicians nowadays. The Front Trenches have 
 about as much use for the Front Benches as a big-game 
 hunter for mosquitoes. The bayonet professor indicates 
 his row of dummies and says to his lads, " Just imagine 
 they are Cabinet Ministers — go ! " and in a clock-tick 
 the heavens are raining shreds of sacking and particles 
 of straw. The demon bomber fancies some prominent 
 Parliamentarian is lurking in the opposite sap, grits his 
 teeth, and gets an extra five yards into his bowling. 
 
 But I am not entirely of the vulgar opinion. The 
 finished politician may not be a subject for odes, but a 
 political education is a great asset to any man. Our 
 Mess President, "William, once assisted a friend to lose a 
 parliamentary election, and his experience has been in- 
 valuable to us. The moment we are tired of fighting 
 and want billets, the Squadron sits down where it is and 
 the Skipper passes the word along for William. Will- 
 iam dusts his boots, adjusts his tie and heads for tlie 
 most prepossessing farm in sight. Arrived there, he 
 takes off his hat to the dog, pats the pig, asks the cow 
 after the calf, salutes the farmer, curtsies to the farmer- 
 ess, then turning to the inevitable baby, exclaims in the 
 language of the country, " Mong Jew, kell jolly ong-
 
 68 The Mud Larks 
 
 fong" (Gosh, what a topping kid!), and bending tend- 
 erly over it imprints a lingering kiss upon its india- 
 rubber features and wins the freedom of the farm. 
 The Mess may make use of the kitchen ; the spare bed is 
 at the Skipper's disposal; the cow will move up and 
 make room for the First Mate; the pig will be only 
 too happy to welcome the Subalterns to its modest 
 abode. 
 
 Ordinary billeting officers stand no chance against 
 our William and his political education. " That fel- 
 low," I heard one disgruntled competitor remark to him, 
 " would hug the devil for a knob of coke." Once 
 only did he meet his match, and a battle of Titans 
 resulted. 
 
 In pursuit of his business he entered a certain farm- 
 house, to find the baby already in possession of another 
 officer, a heavy red creature with a monocle, who was 
 rocking the infant's cradle seventy-five revolutions per 
 minute and making dulcet noises on a moustache comb. 
 
 William's heart fell to his field boots; he recognised 
 the red creature's markings immediately. This was 
 another politician; no bloodless victory would be his; 
 fur would fly first, powder burn — Wow ! 
 
 The red person must have tumbled to William as 
 well, for he increased the revolutions to one hundred 
 and forty per minute and broke into a shrill lullaby of 
 his own impromptu composition: 
 
 "Go to sleep, Mummy's liddle Did-iuns; 
 Go to sleep, Daddy's liddle Thing-me-jig."
 
 Our Mess President 69 
 
 Nevertheless this did not baffle our William. He 
 approached from a flank, deftly fwitched the infant out 
 of its cradle by the scruff of its neck, and commenced 
 to plaster it with tender kisses. However the red man 
 tailed it as it went past and hung on, kissing any bits he 
 could reach. "When the mother reappeared they were 
 worrying the baby between them as a couple of hound 
 puppies worry the hind leg of a cub. She beat them 
 faithfully with a broom and hove both of them out 
 into the wide wet world, and we all slept in a bog that 
 night, and William was much abused and loathed. But 
 that was his only failure. 
 
 If getting billets is William's job, getting rid of them 
 is the Babe's affair. William, like myself, has far too 
 great a mastery of the patois to handle delicate situa- 
 tions with success. For instance, when the farmer ap- 
 proaches me with tidings that my troopers have burnt 
 two ploughshares and a crowbar, and my troop-horses 
 have masticated a brick wall, I engage him in palaver, 
 with the result that we eventually part, I under the im- 
 pression that the incident is closed, and he under the im- 
 pression that I have promised to buy him a new farm. 
 This leads to all sorts of international complications. 
 
 The Babe, on the other hand, regards a knowledge of 
 French as immoral and only knows enough of it to order 
 himself a drink. He is also gifted with a slight stutter, 
 which under the stress of a foreign language becomes 
 chronic. So when we evacuate a billet William fur- 
 nishes the Babe with enough money to compensate the 
 farmer for all damages we have not committed, and then
 
 70 The Mud Larks 
 
 effaces himself. Donning a bright smile the Babe ap- 
 proaches the farmer and presses the lucre into his honest 
 palm. 
 
 "Hi," says the worthy fellow, "what is this, then? 
 One hundred francs ! ^Yhere is the seventy-four francs, 
 six centimes for the fleas your dog stole ? The two hun- 
 dred francs, three centimes for the indigestion your 
 rations gave my pig? The eight thousand and ninety- 
 nine francs, five centimes insurance money I should 
 have collected if your brigands had not stopped my 
 barn from burning? — and all the other little damages, 
 three million, eight hundred thousand and forty-four 
 francs, one centime in all — where is it, hein ? "" 
 
 " Ec-c-coutez une moment," the Babe begins. 
 " Jer p-p-poovay expliquay tut — tut — tut — tut — sh-sh- 
 
 shiss " says he, loosening his stammer at rapid fire, 
 
 popping and hissing, rushing and hitching like a red- 
 hot machine-gun with a siphon attachment. In five 
 minutes the farmer is white in the face and imploring 
 the Babe to let bygones be bygones. " N-n-not a b-bit of 
 it, old t-top," says the Babe. " Jer p-p-poovay exp-p- 
 
 pliquay b-b-bub-bub-bub " and away it goes again 
 
 like a combined steam riveter and shower bath, like the 
 water coming down at Lodore. No farmer however 
 hardy has been known to stand more than twenty min- 
 utes of this. A quarter of an hour usually sees him bolt- 
 ing and barring himself into the cellar, with the Babe 
 blowing him kisses of fond farewell through the key- 
 hole. 
 
 We are billeted on a farm at the present moment.
 
 Our Mess President 71 
 
 The Skipper occupies the best bed; the rest of us are 
 doing the al fresco touch in tents and bivouacs scattered 
 about the surrounding landscape. We are on very inti- 
 mate terms with the genial farmyard folk. Every morn- 
 ing I awake to find half a dozen hens and their gentle- 
 man friend roosting along my anatomy. One of the hens 
 laid an egg in my ear this morning. William says she 
 mistook it for her nest, but I take it the hen, as an 
 honest bird, was merely paying rent for the roost. 
 
 The Babe turned up at breakfast this morning wear- 
 ing only half a moustache. He said a goat had browsed 
 off the other half while he slept. The poor beast has 
 been having fits of giggles ever since — a moustache 
 must be very ticklish to digest. 
 
 Yesterday MacTavish, while engaged in taking his 
 tub in the open, noticed that his bath-water was mys- 
 teriously sinking lower and lower. Turning round to 
 investigate the cause of the phenomenon he beheld a 
 gentle milch privily sucking it up behind his back. 
 There was a strong flavour of Coal Tar soap in the 
 cafe au hit to-day. 
 
 This morning at dawn I was aroused by a cold foot 
 pawing at my face. Blinking awake, I observed Albert 
 Edward in rosy pyjamas capering beside my bed. 
 " Show a leg, quick," he whispered. " Kouse out, and 
 Uncle will show boysey pretty picture." 
 
 Brushing aside the coverlet of fowl, I followed him 
 tiptoe across the dewy mead to the tarpaulin which he 
 and MacTavish call " home." 
 
 Albert Edward lifted a flap and signed me to peep
 
 72 The Mud Larks 
 
 witliin. It was, as he had promised, a pretty picture. 
 
 At the foot of our MacTavish's mattress, under a 
 spare blanket lifted from that warrior in his sleep, lay 
 a large pink pig. Both were occupied in peaceful and 
 stertorous repose. 
 
 " Heads of Angels, by Sir Joshua Reynolds," 
 breathed Albert Edward in my ear.
 
 Funny Cuts 73 
 
 XII 
 
 FUNNY CUTS 
 
 ALL the world has marvelled at " the irrepressible 
 -^~*- good humour " of old Atkins. Every distinguished 
 tripper who comes Cook's touring to the Front for a 
 couple of days devotes at least a chapter of his resultant 
 book to it. " How in thunder does Thomas do it ? " 
 they ask. " What the mischief does he find to laugh 
 at ? " Listen. 
 
 Years ago, when the well-known War was young, 
 a great man sat in his sanctum exercising his grey 
 matter. He said to himself, " There is a war on. Men, 
 amounting to several, will be prised loose from comfort- 
 able surroundings and condemned to get on with it for 
 the term of their unnatural lives. They will be shelled, 
 gassed, mined and bombed, smothered in mud, worked 
 to the bone, bored stiff and scared silly. Fatigues will 
 be unending, rations short, rum diluted, reliefs late and 
 leave nil. Their girls will forsake them for diamond- 
 studded munitioneers. Their wives will write saying, 
 ' Little Jimmie has the mumps ; and what about the 
 rent? You aren't spending all of five bob a week on 
 yourself, are you ? ' This is but a tithe (or else a 
 tittle) of the things that will occur to them, and their 
 sunny natures will sour and sicken if something isn't 
 done about it."
 
 74 The Mud Larks 
 
 The great mau sat up all night chewing penholders 
 and pondering on the problem. The Big Idea came 
 with the end of the eighth penholder. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, fires of inspiration flashing 
 from his eyes, and boomed, " Let there be Funny 
 Cuts!" — then went to bed. Next morning he created 
 " 1.'* (which stands for Intelligence), carefully selected 
 his Staff, arrayed them in tabs of appropriate hue, and 
 told them to go the limit. And they have been going it 
 faithfully ever since. "What the Marines are to the 
 Senior Service, " I." is to us. Should a Subaltern come 
 in with the yarn that the spook of Hindenburg accosted 
 him at Bloody Corner and offered him a cigar, or a 
 balloon cherub buttonhole you with the story of a Boche 
 tank fitted with rubber tyres, C-springs and hot and 
 cold water, that he has seen climbing trees behind St. 
 Quentin, we retort, " Oh, go and tell it to ' I.' " and then 
 sit back and see what the inspired official organ of the 
 green tabs will make of it. A hint is as good as a wink 
 to them, a nudge ample. Under the genius of these 
 imaginative artists the most trivial incident bourgeons 
 forth into a Le Queux spell-binder, and the whole Brit- 
 ish Army, mustering about its Sergeant-Majors, gets 
 selected cameos read to it every morning at roll-call, 
 laughs brokenly into the jaws of dawn and continues 
 chuckling to itself all day. Now you know. 
 
 Our Adjutant had a telephone call not long ago. 
 " Army speaking," said a voice. " Will you send some- 
 body over to Courcelles and see if there is a Town Major 
 there ? "
 
 Funny Cuts 75 
 
 The Adjutant said he would, and a N.C.O. was des- 
 patched forthwith. He returned later, reporting no 
 symptoms of one, so the Adjutant rang up Exchange and 
 asked to be hooked on to Army Headquarters. " Which 
 branch ? " Exchange inquired. " Why, really I don't 
 know — forgot to ask," the Adjutant confessed. " I'll 
 have a try at ' A.' " 
 
 " Hello," said " A." " There is no Town Major at 
 Courcelles," said the Adjutant. " You astound me, 
 Fair Unkno^vn," said " A." ; " but what about it, any- 
 way ? " The Adjutant apologised and asked Exchange 
 for " Q." department. " Hello," said " Q." " There 
 is no Town Major at Courcelles," said the Adjutant. 
 " Sorry, old thing, whoever you are," said " Q.," " but 
 we don't stock 'era. Eations, iron; perspirators, box; 
 oil, whale, delivered with promptitude and civility, but 
 not Town Majors — sorry." The Adjutant sighed and 
 consulted with Exchange as to who possibly could have 
 rung him up. 
 
 Exchange couldn't guess unless it was " I." — no harm 
 in trying, anyhow. 
 
 " Hello ! " said " I." " There is no Town Major at 
 Courcelles," the Adjutant droned somewhat wearily. 
 " Wha-t ! " " I." exclaimed, suddenly interested. " Say 
 it again, clearer." " Cour-celles — No — Town — Major," 
 the Adjutant repeated. There was a pause; then he 
 heard the somebody give off an awed " Good Lord ! '* 
 and drop the receiver. Next morning in Funny Cuts 
 (the organ of Intelligence) we learned that " Corps 
 Headquarters was heavily Shelled last night. The
 
 76 The Mud Larks 
 
 Town Major is missing. This is evidence that the 
 enemy has brought long-range gims into the opposite 
 sector." Followed masses of information as to the prob- 
 able make of the guns, the size of shell they preferred, 
 the life-story of the Battery Commander, his favourite 
 flower and author. 
 
 The Boche, always on the alert to snaffle the paying 
 devices of an opposition firm, now has his " I." staff 
 and Funny Cuts as well. From time to time we cap- 
 ture a copy and read this sort of thing: 
 
 " From agonised screeches heard by one of our in- 
 trepid airmen while patrolling over the enemy's lines 
 yesterday, it is evident that the brutal and relentless 
 British are bayoneting their prisoners." 
 
 A Highland Division, whose star pipers were hold- 
 ing a dirge and lament contest on that date, are now 
 ticking off the hours to the next offensive. 
 
 The Antrims had a cordon hleu by the name of 
 Michael O'Callagan. He was a sturdy rogue, having 
 retreated all the way from Mons, and subsequently ad- 
 vanced all the way back to the Yser with a huge stock- 
 pot on his back, from which he had furnished mysterious 
 stews to all comers, at all hours, under any conditions. 
 For this, and for the fact that he could cook under 
 water, and would turn out hot meals when other chefs 
 were committing suicide, much was forgiven him, but 
 he was prone to look upon the vin when it was rouge 
 and was habitually coated an inch thick with a varnish 
 of soot and pot-black. One morning he calmly hove 
 himself over the parapet and, in spite of the earnest at-
 
 Funny Cuts "j^ 
 
 tentions of Hun snipers, remained there long enough to 
 collect sufficient debris to boil his dixies. !Next day the 
 Boche Funny Cuts flared forth scareheads : 
 
 " Savages on the Somme. 
 
 " The desperate and unprincipled British are em- 
 ploying black cannibal Zulus in the defence of their 
 system. Yesterday one of them, a chief of incredibly 
 depraved appearance, "was observed scouting in the 
 open." 
 
 The communique ended ^\\h. a treatise on the Zulu, 
 its black man-eating habits, and an exhortation to " our 
 old Brandenburgers " not to be dismayed.
 
 78 The Mud Larks 
 
 XIII 
 LEAVE 
 
 THE Babe went to England on leave. I^ot that this 
 was any new experience for him ; he usually pulled 
 it off every twelve months — influence, and that sort of 
 thing, you know. He went down to the coast in a car- 
 riage containing seventeen other men, but he got a fat 
 sleepy youth to sit on, and was passably comfortable. 
 He crossed over in a wobbly boat packed from cellar to 
 attic with Eed Tabs invalided with shell shock, Blue 
 Tabs with trench fever, and Green Tabs with brain-fag ; 
 Mechanical Transporters in spurs and stocks, jam mer- 
 chants in revolvers and bowie-knives, Military Police 
 festooned with pickelhaubes, and here and there a fur- 
 tive fighting man who had got away by mistake, and 
 would be recalled as soon as he landed. 
 
 The leave train rolled into Victoria late in the after- 
 noon. Cab touts buzzed about the Babe, but he would 
 have none of them ; he would go afoot the better to see 
 the sights of the village — a leisurely sentimental pilgrim- 
 age. He had not covered one hundred yards when a 
 ducky little thing pranced up to him, squeaking, " "Where 
 are your gloves, Sir ? " "I always put 'em in cold 
 storage during summer along with my muff and boa, 
 dear," the Babe replied pleasantly. " Moreover, my 
 mother doesn't like me to talk to strangers in the streets,
 
 Leave 79 
 
 so ta-ta." The little creature blushed like a tea-rose and 
 stamped its little hoof. " Insolence ! " it squeaked. 
 " You — you go back to France by the next boat ! " and 
 the Babe perceived to his horror that he had been witty 
 to an Assistant Provost-Marshal ! He flung himself 
 down on his knees, licking the A.P.M.'s boots and cry- 
 ing in a loud voice that he would be good and never do it 
 again. 
 
 The A.P.M. pardoned the Babe (he wanted to save 
 the polish on his boots) on condition that he immediately 
 purchased a pair of gloves of the official cut and hue. 
 The Babe did so forthwith and continued on his way. 
 He had not continued ten yards when another A.P.M. 
 tripped him up. " That cap is a disgrace, Sir ! " he 
 barked. " I know it, Sir," the Babe admitted, " and 
 I'm awfully sorry about it; but that hole in it only 
 arrived last night — shrapnel, you know — and I haven't 
 had time to buy another yet. I don't care for the style 
 they sell in those little French shops — do you ? " 
 
 The A.P.M. didn't know anything about France or 
 its little shops, and didn't intend to investigate ; at any 
 rate not while there was a war on there. " You will 
 return to the Front to-morrow," said he. The Babe 
 grasped his hand from him and shook it warmly. 
 " Thank you — thank you, Sir," he gushed ; " I didn't 
 want to come, but they made me. I'm from Fiji; have 
 no friends here, and London is somehow so different 
 from Suva it makes my head ache. I am broke and 
 couldn't afford leave, anyway. Thank you. Sir — thank 
 you."
 
 8o The Mud Larks 
 
 " Ahem — in that case I will revoke my decision/' 
 said the A.P.M. " Buy yourself an officially-sanctioned 
 cap and carry on." 
 
 The Babe bought one with alacrity; then, having 
 tasted enough of the dangers of the streets for one after- 
 noon, took a taxi, and, lying in the bottom, well out of 
 sight, sped to his old hotel. When he reached his old 
 hotel he found it had changed during his absence, and 
 was now headquarters of the Director of Bones and 
 Dripping. He abused the taxi-driver, who said he was 
 sorry, but there was no telling these days ; a hotel was a 
 hotel one moment, and the next it was something entirely 
 different. Motion pictures weren't in it, he said. 
 
 Finally they discovered a hotel which was still be- 
 having as such, and the Babe got a room. He remained 
 in that room all the evening, beneath the bed, having 
 his meals pushed in to him under the door. A prowling 
 A.P.M. sniffed at the keyhole, but did not investigate 
 further, which was fortunate for the Babe, who had no 
 regulation pyjamas. 
 
 'Next morning, crouched on the bottom boards of 
 another taxi, he was taken to his tailor, poured himself 
 into the faithful fellow's hands, and only departed when 
 guaranteed to be absolutely A.P.M. -proof. He went to 
 the " Bolero " for lunch, ordered some oysters for a 
 start, polished them off and bade the waiter trot up the 
 consomme. The waiter shook his head. " Can't be 
 done, Sir. Subaltern gents are only allowed three and 
 six-pence worth of food and you've already had that, Sir. 
 If we was to serve you with a crumb more, we'd be
 
 Leave 8i 
 
 persecuted under the Trading with the Enemy Act, Sir. 
 There's an A.P.M. sitting in the corner this very 
 moment, Sir, his eyeglass fixed on your every mouth- 
 ful, very suspicious-like " 
 
 '' Good Lord! " said the Babe, and bolted. He bolted 
 as far as the next restaurant, had a three-and-sixpenny 
 entree there, went on to another for sweets, and yet 
 another for coffee and trimmings. These short bursts 
 between courses kept his appetite wonderfully alive. 
 
 That afternoon he ran across a lady friend in Bond 
 Street, " a War Toiler enormously interested in the 
 War" (see the current number of Social Snaps). She 
 had been at Yvonne's trying on her gauze for the Boc- 
 caccio Tableaux in aid of the Armenians and needed 
 some relaxation. So she engaged the Babe for the play, 
 to be followed by supper with herself and her civilian 
 husband. The play (a War drama) gave the Babe a 
 fine hunger, but the Commissionaire (apparently a 
 Major-General) who does odd jobs outside the Blitz 
 took exception to him. " Can't go in. Sir." " Why 
 not ? " the Babe inquired ; " my friends have gone in." 
 " Yessir, but no hofficers are allowed to obtain nourish- 
 ment after 10 p.m. under Defence of the Realm Act, 
 footnote (a) to para. 14004." He leaned forward and 
 whispered behind his glove, " There's a Hay Pee Hem 
 under the portico watching your movements. Sir." The 
 Babe needed no further warning; he dived into his 
 friend's Limousine and burrowed under the rug. 
 
 Some time later the door of the car was opened 
 cautiously and the moon-face of the Major-General in-
 
 82 The Mud Larks 
 
 sorted itself through the crack. " Hall clear for the 
 moment, Sir; the Hay Pee Hem 'as gorn orf dahn the 
 street, chasin' a young hofficer in low shoes. 'Ere, tyke 
 this; I'm a hold soldier meself." He thrust a 
 damp banana in the Babe's hand and closed the door 
 softly. 
 
 ^ext morning the Babe dug up an old suit of 1914 
 " civies " and put them on. A woman in the Tube 
 called him " Cuthbert " and informed him gratuitously 
 that her husband, twice the Babe's age, had volunteered 
 the moment Conscription was declared and had been 
 fighting bravely in the Army Clothing Department ever 
 since. Further she supposed the Babe's father was in 
 Parliament and that he was a Conscientious Objector. 
 In Hyde Park one urchin addressed him as " Daddy " 
 and asked him what he was doing in the Great War; 
 another gambolled round and round him making noises 
 like a rabbit. In Knightsbridge a Military Policeman 
 wanted to arrest him as a deserter. The Babe hailed a 
 taxi and, cowering on the floor, fled back to his hotel and 
 changed into uniform again. 
 
 That night, strolling homewards in the dark, im- 
 mersed in thought, he inadvertently took a pipe out of 
 his pocket and lit it. An A.P.M. who had been sleuth- 
 ing him for half a mile leapt upon him, snatched the 
 pipe and two or three teeth out of his mouth and re- 
 turned him to France by the next boat. 
 
 His groom, beaming welcome, met him at the rail- 
 head with the horses.
 
 Leave 83 
 
 " Hello, old thing, cheerio and all the rest of it," 
 Huntsman whinnied lovingly. 
 
 Miss Muffet rubbed her velvet muzzle against his 
 pocket. " Brought a lump of sugar for a little girl ? " 
 she rumbled. 
 
 He mounted her and headed across country, Miss 
 Muffet pig-jumping and capering to show what excellent 
 spirits she enjoyed. 
 
 Two brigades of infantry were under canvas in Mud 
 Gully, their cook fires winking like red eyes. The 
 guards clicked to attention and slapped their butts as 
 the Babe went by. A subaltern, bobbed out of a tent and 
 shouted to him to stop to tea. " We've got cake," he 
 lured, but the Babe went on. 
 
 A red-hat cantered across the stubble before him 
 waving a friendly crop, " Pip " Vibart the A.P.M. 
 homing to H.Q. " Evening, boy ! " he holloaed ; " come 
 up and Bridge to-morrow night," and swept on over the 
 hillside. A flight of aeroplanes, like flies in the amber 
 of sunset, droned overhead en route for Hunland. The 
 Babe waved his official cap at them : " Good hunting, old 
 dears." 
 
 They had just started feeding up in the regimental 
 lines when he arrived ; the excited neighing of five hun- 
 dred horses was music to his ears. His brother subal- 
 terns hailed his return with loud and exuberant noises, 
 made disparaging remarks about the smartness of his 
 clothes, sat on him all over the floor and rumpled him. 
 On sighting the Babe, The O'Murphy went mad and 
 careered round the table wriggling like an Oriental
 
 84 The Mud Larks 
 
 dancer, uttering shrill yelps of delight; presently he 
 bounced out of the window, to enter some minutes later 
 by the same route, and lay the offering of a freshly slain 
 rat at his best beloved's feet 
 
 At this moment the skipper came in plastered thick 
 with the mud of the line, nodded cheerfully to his junior 
 sub and instantaneously fell upon the buttered toast. 
 
 " Have a good time, Son ? " he mumbled. " How's 
 merrie England ? " 
 
 " Oh, England's all right, Sir," said the Babe, tick- 
 ling The O'Murphy's upturned tummy — " quite all 
 right ; but it's jolly to be home again among one's ain 
 folk.''
 
 " Harmony, Gents!" 85 
 
 XIV 
 " HARMOIS^Y, GENTS ! " 
 
 NO one, with the exception of the Boche, has a higher 
 admiration for the scrapping abilities of the Scot 
 than I have, but in matters musical we do not hear ear 
 to ear. It is not that I have no soul ; I have. I fairly 
 throb with it I rise in the mornings trilling trifles of 
 Monckton and croon myself to sleep 0' nights with 
 snatches of Novello. 
 
 I do not wish to boast, but to hear me pick the " Moon- 
 light Sonata " out of a piano with one hand (the other 
 strapped behind my back) is an unforgettable experi- 
 ence. 
 
 I would not yield to Paderewski himself on the comb, 
 bones or Jew's harp, and I could give A. Gabriel a run 
 for his money on the coachhorn. But these bagpipes ! 
 
 It is not so much the execution of the bagpiper that 
 I object to as his restricted repertoire. He can only play 
 one noise. It is quite useless a Scot explaining to me 
 that this is the '' Lament of Sandy Macpherson " and 
 that the " Dirge of Hamish MacNish " ; it all sounds 
 the same to me. 
 
 The brigade of infantry that is camped in front of 
 my dug-out (" Mon Repos") is a Scots brigade. Not 
 temporary Scots from the Highlands of Commissioner 
 Street, Jo'burg, and Hastings Street, Vancouver (about
 
 86 The Mud Larks 
 
 whom I have nothing to say) , but real puJcJca, law-abid- 
 ing, kirk-going, God-fearing, bayonet-pushing Gaels, 
 bred among the crags of the Grampians and reared on 
 thistles and illicit whuskey. And every second man in 
 this brigade is a confirmed bagpiper. 
 
 They have massed pipes for breakfast, lunch, tea and 
 dinner ; pipes solos before, during, and after drinks. If 
 one of them goes across the road to borrow a box of 
 matches, a piper goes with him raising Cain. Their 
 Officers' Mess is situated just behind " Mon Eepos," so 
 we live in the orchestra stalls, so to speak, and hear all 
 there is to be heard. 
 
 One evening, while Sandy Macpherson's (or Hamish 
 MaclSTish's) troubles were being very poignantly aired 
 next door, Albert Edward came to the conclusion that 
 the limit had been reached. " They've been killing the 
 pig steadily for ten days and nights now," said he; 
 " something's got to be done about it." 
 
 " I'm with you," said I ; " but what are we two 
 against a whole brigade? If they were to catch you 
 pushing an impious pin into one of their sacred joy- 
 bags there'd be another Second Lieutenant missing." 
 
 " Desist and let me think," said Albert Edward, and 
 for the next hour he lay on his bed rolling and groan- 
 ing — the usual signs that his so-called brain is active. 
 
 The following morning he rode over to the squadron, 
 returning later with the Mess gramophone and a certain 
 record. There are records and records, but for high 
 velocity, armour-piercing and range this one bangs 
 Eanagher. It is a gem out of that " sparkling galaxy
 
 '' Harmony, Gents! " 87 
 
 of melody, mirth and talent" (Press Agent speaking), 
 "I Don't Think" which scintillates nightly at the 
 Frivolity Theatre. 
 
 " When the Humming-birds are singing " is the title 
 thereof, and Miss Birdie de Maie renders it — renders it 
 as she alone can, in a voice like a file chafing corrugated 
 iron. 
 
 We started the birds humming at 4 p.m., and let it 
 rip steadily until 11.15 p.m., only stopping to change 
 needles. 
 
 Albert Edward's batman unleashed the hub-bub again 
 at six next morning; my batman relieved him at eight, 
 and so on throughout the day in two-hour shifts. At 
 night the line guards carried on. The following morn- 
 ing, as our batmen threatened to report sick, we crimed 
 a trooper for " dumb insolence " and made him expiate 
 his sin by tending the gramophone. O'Dwyer, of one 
 of the neighbouring ammunition columns, came over in 
 the afternoon to complain that his mules couldn't get 
 a wink of sleep and were muttering among themselves ; 
 but we gave him a bottle of whiskey and he went away 
 quietly. 
 
 Monk of the other column called an hour later to 
 ask if we wanted to draw shell-fire; but we bought him 
 off with a snaffle bit and a bottle of hair lotion. 
 
 The whole neighbourhood grew restive. Somebody 
 under cover of the dark took a pot at the gramophone 
 with a revolver and winged it in the trumpet. Even the 
 placid observation balloon which floats above our camp 
 grew nasty and dropped binoculars and sextants on us.
 
 88 The Mud Larks 
 
 We built a protective breastwork of sandbags about it 
 and carried on. As for ourselves we didn't mind the 
 racket in the least, having taken the precaution of cork- 
 ing our ears with gunners' wax. 
 
 Then one evening we discovered a Highland bomber 
 worming up a drain on his stomach towards our instru- 
 ment. Cornered, he excused himself on the plea that 
 it was a form of Swedish exercise he always took at 
 twilight for the benefit of his digestion. An ingenious 
 explanation, but it hardly covered the live Mills bomb he 
 was endeavouring to conceal in a fold of his kilt. We 
 drove him away with a barrage of peg-mallets; but 
 secretly we were very elated, for it was clear that the 
 strain was telling on the hardy Scot. 
 
 As a precautionary measure we now surrounded the 
 gramophone with a barbed-wire entanglement, and so 
 we carried on. 
 
 Next day we saw a score of kiltie ofiicers grouped out- 
 side their Mess, heads together, apparently in earnest- 
 consultation. Every now and again they would turn 
 and glare darkly in our direction. 
 
 " The white chiefs hold heap big palaver over 
 yonder," Albert Edward remarked. " They're tossing 
 up now to decide who shall come over and beard us. 
 The braw bairn with the astrakhan knees has lost ; he's 
 cocking his bonnet and asking his pals if he's got his 
 sporran on straight. Behold he approacheth, stepping 
 delicately. I leave it to you, partner." 
 
 I lay in the grass and waited for the deputation. The 
 gramophone, safe behind its sandbags and wire, was
 
 "Harmony, Gents!" 89 
 
 doing busines as usual, Miss Birdie yowling away like 
 a wild cat on hot cinders. The deputation picked his 
 way round the horse lines, nodded to me and sat down 
 on the oil-drum we keep for the accommodation of 
 guests. He nervously opened the ball by remarking 
 that the weather was fine. 
 
 I did not agree with him, but refused to argue. That 
 baffled him for some seconds, but he recovered by main- 
 taining that it was anyway finer than it had been in 
 1915. After that outburst he seemed at a loss for a 
 topic of conversation, and sat scratching his ear as if 
 he expected to get inspiration out of it as a conjurer gets 
 rabbits. 
 
 " Ye seem verra pairtial to music ? " he ventured 
 presently. 
 
 " Passionately," said I. 
 
 " Ah — hem ! Ye seem verra pairtial to that one 
 selection," he continued. 
 
 " Passionately devoted to it," said I. " Lovely little 
 thing ; I adore its sentiment, tempo, tremolo and timbre, 
 its fortissimo and allegro. Just listen to the part that's 
 coming now — 
 
 ' When the humming birds are singing 
 And the old church bells are ringing 
 We'll canoodle, we'll canoodle 'neath the moon. 
 Down in Alabama 
 You'll be my starry-eyed charmer; 
 On my white-haired kitten's grave we'll sit and spoon, spoon, 
 spoo-00-oon.' 
 
 !N'ifty bit of allegro work that — eh, what ? " 
 
 He nodded politely. "Ay — of course, sairtainly;
 
 90 The Mud Larks 
 
 but — er — er — don't ye find it grows a wee monotonous 
 in time ? " 
 
 " N'ever," I retorted stoutly. " l^ot in the least. Ko 
 more than you find the Lament or Dirge of Sandy Mac- 
 pherson or Hamish MaclSTish monotonous." 
 
 He cocked his ears suddenly and stared at me. Then 
 his chubby face split slowly from ear to ear in the widest 
 grin I ever saw, and up went both his hands. 
 
 " Kamerad ! " said he.
 
 The Mule and the Tank 91 
 
 XV 
 THE MULE A:N'D THE TANK 
 
 THE ammunition columns on either flank provide us 
 with, plenty of amusement. They seem to live by 
 stealing each other's mules. My line-guards tell me that 
 stealthy figures leading shadowy donkeys are crossing to 
 and fro all night long through my lines. The respective 
 C.O.'s, an Australian and an Irishman, drop in on us 
 from time to time and warn us against each other. I 
 remain strictly neutral, and so far they have respected 
 my neutrality. I have taken steps toward this end by 
 surrounding my horses with barbed wire and spring 
 guns, tying bells on them and doubling the guard. 
 
 Monk, the Australian, dropped in on us two or three 
 days ago. " That dam Sinn Feiner is the limit," said 
 he; " lifted my best moke off me last night while I was 
 up at the batteries. He'd pinch Balaam's ass." "We 
 murmured condolences, but Monk waved them aside. 
 " Oh, it's quite all right. I wasn't bom yesterday, or 
 the day before for that matter. I'll make that merry 
 Eenian weep tears of blood before I've finished. Just 
 you watch." 
 
 O'Dwyer, the merry Fenian, called next day. 
 
 " Give us a dhrink, brother-officers," said he. " I'm 
 wake wid laughter." 
 
 We asked what had happened.
 
 92 The Mud Larks 
 
 " Ye know that lierrin'-gutted bushranger over 
 yonder ? He'd stale the milk out of your tea, he would, 
 be the same token. Well, last night he got vicious and 
 took a crack at my lines. I had rayson to suspect he'd 
 be afther tryin' somethin' on, so I laid for him. I 
 planted a certain mule where he could stale it an' 
 guarded the rest four deep. Begob, will ye believe me, 
 but he fell into the thrap head first — the poor simple 
 divil." 
 
 " But he got your mule," said Albert Edward, per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " Shure an' he did, you bet he did — he got old Lyd- 
 dite." 
 
 Albert Edward and I were still puzzled. 
 
 " Very high explosive — hence name," O'Dwyer ex- 
 plained. 
 
 " Dear hearrts," he went on, " he's got my stunt mule, 
 my family assassin! That long-ear has twenty-three 
 casualties to his credit, including a Brigadier. I have 
 to twitch him to harness him, side-line him to groom 
 him, throw him to clip him, and dhrug him to get him 
 shod. Perceive the jest now? Esteemed comrade Monk 
 is afther pinchin' an infallible packet o' sudden death, 
 an' he don't know it — yet." 
 
 " What's the next move ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I'm going to lave him there. Mind you I don't 
 want to lose the old moke altogether, because, to tell the 
 truth, I'm a biteen fond of him now that I know his 
 thricks, but I figure Mr, Monk will be a severely cured
 
 The Mule and the Tank 93 
 
 character inside a week, an' return the beastie himself 
 with tears an' apologies on vellum so long." 
 
 I met O'Dwyer again two days later on the mud track. 
 He reined up his cob and begged a cigarette. 
 
 " Been havin' the fun 0' the worrld down at the 
 dressin'-station watchin' Monk's casualties rollin' in," 
 said he. " Terrible spectacle, 'nough to make a sthrong 
 man weep. Mutual friend Monk look in' 'bout as genial 
 as a wet hen. This is goin' to be a wondherful lesson to 
 him. See you later." He nudged his plump cob and 
 ambled off, whistling merrily. 
 
 But it was Monk we saw later. He wormed his long 
 corpse into " Mon Repos " and sat on Albert Edward's 
 bed laughing like a tickled hyena. " Funniest thing on 
 earth," he spluttered. " A mule strayed into my lines 
 t'other night and refused to leave. It was a rotten 
 beast, a holy terror; it could kick a fly off its ears and 
 bite a man in half. I don't mind admitting it played 
 battledore and what's-'is-name with my organisation for 
 a day or two, but out of respect for O'Dwyer, blackguard 
 though he is, I . . . " 
 
 " Oh, so it was O'Dwyer's mule ? " Albert Edward 
 cut in innocently. 
 
 Monk nodded hastily. " Yes, so it turned out. Well, 
 out of respect for O'Dwyer I looked after it as far as it 
 would allow me, naturally expecting he'd come over and 
 claim it — but he didn't. On the fourth day, after it had 
 made a light breakfast off a bombardier's ear and kicked 
 a gap in a farrier, I got absolutely fed up, turned the 
 damn cannibal loose and gave it a cut with a whip for
 
 94 The Mud Larks 
 
 God-speed. It made off due east, cavorting and snorting 
 until it reached the tank track; there it stopped and 
 picked a bit of grass. Presently along comes a tank, 
 proceeding to the fray, and gives the mule a poke in the 
 rear. The mule lashes out, catching the tank in the 
 chest, and then goes on with his grazing without looking 
 round, leaving the tank for dead, as by all human stand- 
 ards it should have been, of course. But instead of 
 being dead the box of tricks ups and gives the donk 
 another butt and moves on. That roused the mule 
 properly. He closed his eyes and laid into the tank for 
 dear life ; you could hear it clanging a mile away. 
 
 " After delivering two dozen of the best, the moke 
 turned round to sniff the cold corpse, but the corpse 
 was still warm and smiling. Then the mule went mad 
 and set about the tank in earnest. He jabbed it in the 
 eye, upper-cut it on the point, hooked it behind the ear, 
 banged its slats, planted his left on the mark and his 
 right on the solar plexus, but still the tank sat up and 
 took nourishment. 
 
 " Then the donkey let a roar out of him and closed 
 with it; tried the half Nelson, the back heel, the scis- 
 sors, the roll, and the flying-mare; tried Westmorland 
 and Cumberland style, collar and elbow, Cornish, 
 Grffico-Eoman, seratch-as-scratch-can and Ju-jitsu. 
 Nothing doing. Then as a last despairing effort he tried 
 to charge it over on its back and rip the hide off it with 
 his teeth. 
 
 " But the old tank gave a ' good-by-ec ' cough of its 
 exhaust and rumbled off as if nothing had happened,
 
 The Mule and the Tank 95 
 
 nothing at all. I have never seen such a look of sur- 
 prise on any living creature's face as was on that donk's. 
 He sank down on his tail, gave a hissing gasp and rolled 
 over stone dead. Broken heart." 
 
 " Is that the end ? " Albert Edv^ard inquired. 
 
 " It is," said Monk ; " and if you go outside and look 
 half-right you'll see the bereaved Mr. O'Dwyer, all got 
 up in sackcloth, cinders and crepe rosettes, mooning over 
 the deceased like a dingo on an ash heap."
 
 96 The Mud Larks 
 
 XVI 
 WAE PAINT 
 
 AFTER the 53rd Lancers had been in the trenches 
 '^ for seven days — during which period the Boches 
 hated them ceaselessly with whizz-bangs, tear-shells, 
 snipers, coal-boxes, hand and rifle grenades, spring guns, 
 rifle batteries, machine-guns, gas and liquid fire; and 
 something celestial leaked badly so that the front line 
 gave a muddy imitation of the Grand Canal, Venice — 
 the infantry relieved them and they came out looking 
 like nothing on earth. 
 
 They were marched into an ex-dye factory, boiled, 
 fourteen in a vat, issued with a change of underclothes 
 and marched on to billets. 
 
 The 53rd being a smart regiment, they were given 
 twenty-four hours to lick and polish themselves like 
 unto the stars of the firmament for brightness, or never 
 hear the last of it. 
 
 In twenty-four hours they paraded again, according 
 unto orders, and the stars of the firmament also ran. 
 
 At noon the same day the party proceeding on Blighty 
 leave was paraded for inspection by the Orderly OflScer. 
 
 Pending the aiTival of the O.O., the Eegimental Ser- 
 geant-lVTajor gave them a preliminary look over. 
 
 They were dressed by the right in file, chests thrown 
 in the air, faces shiny with soap and pink from razor-
 
 War Paint 97 
 
 ing. Every badge, buckle and button twinkled a chal- 
 lenge back at the sun, every spur shone like a bar of 
 silver, their leatherwork gleamed with the polish bloom 
 of a plum, their puttees and tunics were without spot or 
 blemish, every cap raked slightly over every right ear. 
 They were smart men of a smart regiment, whose boast 
 it was that they lived and died glitteringly. 
 
 The K.S.M. ran a grey foxy eye over and through 
 them. At the sixth file from the right he paused, stag- 
 gered, blanched, and broke into tears. 
 
 The Regiment was disgraced, the name gloriously 
 won by dashing generations of light cavalry men was 
 gone for ever. Here was a Fifty-third proposing to go 
 home and swank about England practically naked. 
 Blankety blankety blank. Lord ! The sixth file went 
 pea-green under his tan, instinctively felt for his top 
 left-hand pocket button and did it up. 
 
 The R.S.M. went on his way down the line, thrashing 
 his leggings severely with his whip and shaking with 
 emotion. Ten files further down he found a speck of 
 brass polish lurking behind a belt-hook and didn't ex- 
 pect to survive it. 
 
 Sixteenth file rubbed it off with a handkerchief, 
 trembling all over. 
 
 The 0.0. came on the scene, inspected them with a 
 swelling of pride tightening his tunic, found a few 
 faults as a matter of principle, and ordered them 
 away. 
 
 The R.S.M. escorted them to the road, dismissed 
 them with his blessing, adjuring them to be good little
 
 98 The Mud Larks 
 
 boys generally, and pay his respects to a publican near 
 the Elephant and Castle if they passed that way. 
 
 At 2 p.m. they entrained at the railhead along with 
 carolling parties from the thousand-and-one units that 
 go to make the B.E.F. 
 
 At 3 a.m. they detrained in the dim-lit vault of Vic- 
 toria. As they tramped out of the gates a little man, 
 wearing square clothes and an accent that twanged like 
 a banjo, bored into the crowd. 
 
 He let some squads of mud-caked line infantry go by 
 unmolested, threw but a cursory glance over a batch of 
 rain-sodden gunners, then his bright eye caught the 
 brighter buttons of the Fifty-thirds and he swooped 
 upon them, thrusting pasteboards into every hand. The 
 sixteenth file paused with his chum under a lamp and 
 read his card. 
 
 It ran as follows: 
 
 OUR HEROES' SUPPLY DEPT. 
 
 Look the part and have your war-yarns believed at home. 
 Put yourselves in our hands and then watch the girls gather 
 round. 
 
 List of Charges 
 Mud-spray (patent mud guaranteed to stick for 
 
 five days) Is. 
 
 Bullet-holes (punched in cap or tunic) .... 3d. each. 
 
 Blood-stains (indelible) 6d. " 
 
 Prayer-book (with embedded bullet) . . . . 2s. 6d. 
 
 We have also a large stock of souvenirs — shell fragments, bul- 
 lets, German caps, helmets, etc., at moderate charges. 
 Call and see us right now. Depot just round the block. 
 
 The sixteenth file looked at his chum, fingering his 
 card uneasily. " Well, Bob, what d'you say ? My 
 lassie is won'erful 'ard to convince."
 
 War Paint 99 
 
 " I'm with you," said his friend. " Mother is a fair 
 terror too." 
 
 They tramped after the little man. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later they might have been seen 
 tramping back down Victoria Street looking like noth- 
 ing on earth.
 
 100 The Mud Larks 
 
 xvn 
 
 THE PINCH OF WAK 
 
 I CAME across him on the rim of the bog. He stood 
 before a whitewashed cabin glaring fiercely over the 
 brown world. 
 
 A coal-black dudeen hung empty and bottom up from 
 his puckered mouth, a rumpled frieze cap was perilously 
 balanced atop of a fringe of white hair. His full figure, 
 upholstered in a worn velvet waistcoat, was thrust well 
 forward as if daring Eate to hit it another blow. 
 
 At the moment he was acting as a scratching-post to 
 a large white billy-goat, which chafed itself luxuriously 
 to and fro against his straddled legs. At the sound of 
 my horse's hoofs he turned his head. At the sight of 
 my uniform his eyes brightened, he withdrew a smutty 
 hand from a corduroy pocket and made a travesty of a 
 salute towards his cap, which almost lost its balance. 
 
 " Hey ! Good day to ye, Captain ! " (I am a second 
 lieutenant, but in Ireland every lance-corporal has vis- 
 ionary batons on his shoulder-straps.) 
 
 I replied suitably, agreed that the weather was fine 
 for the second and trusted, if we were good, we might 
 have an hour of it. 
 
 " How is it wid the War this momin', yer honour ? " 
 
 I replied that, as far as I knew, it was still there, 
 had passed a quiet night and was doing nicely, thanks.
 
 The Pinch of War loi 
 
 " Was you ever at the Front, Captain ? " 
 
 I nodded, and at that his eyes gleamed. 
 
 '' Begob !— then 'tis yerself has the luck. Wait till I 
 tell you a minute. I'm afther wishin' be all the Blessed 
 Saints I was twinty year younger, 'tis meself would be 
 the first afther them German Daygoes — I would so, the 
 dirthy, desthroyin' blagyards ! Tell me now, Captain 
 dear, did you ever kill wan of them at all ? " 
 
 He hung on my answer to such an extent that the 
 white billy tore a tatter from his canvas coat and ate 
 it unrebuked. 
 
 I wagged my head. " Don't know — couldn't say." 
 
 " Och, shure, no ! What would a grand gentleman 
 like yourself be wantin' wid such dirthy work — 'tis a 
 common private's job, so it is. But was meself twinty 
 year younger 'twould be a job I would take great delight 
 in the doin' of it. I would take great delight in landin' 
 wan o' them blagyards a puck wid a bay'net that would 
 let the daylight through him. I would have great 
 courage an' delight in a war wid such as they be, that's 
 the blessed truth, the dirthy, desthroyin', murdherin' 
 divils! Arragh! I hate them! " 
 
 He shook a grimy fist in the general direction of 
 America, and the billy, undisturbed, reached up and 
 ate another ribbon off his coat. 
 
 " Beggin' yer pardon, but will yer honour be goin' 
 back to the War?" 
 
 I said I hoped so some day. 
 
 " Listen, then — I'm wishin' ye would kill a German,
 
 I02 The Mud Larks 
 
 two Germans, d'ye hear me now? Two Germans I'm 
 afther wishin' ye." 
 
 Again he brandished a trembling fist aloft and again 
 the billy, fearing naught, grazed its way up his back. 
 
 " Thanks, very good of you," said I. " I'll remem- 
 ber. Good day." 
 
 " Good day it is, an' God save yer honour ! " 
 
 Then with an overwhelming burst of generosity he 
 promoted me two ranks at once and wished again. 
 
 " Colonel," he said solemnly, though shaking with 
 passion, " I'm afther wishin' ye three — ten — fifteen 
 Germans ! " 
 
 " Thanks," I said again, and picked up the reins, 
 wondering if tragedy had shadowed the bogside that 
 morning, if some grey-eyed, black-haired boy would 
 come home no more from Flanders to that whitewashed 
 cabin. 
 
 As I turned a beshawled girl poked her head round 
 the door lintel and smiled at me. 
 
 " Och, faith, don't be noticin' the granda', yer hon- 
 our; himself was beyond to the town this mornin', an' 
 they've riz the price o' porther on him wan ha'penny. 
 He do be as mad as the Sivinteen Divils ! "
 
 The Regimental Mascot 103 
 
 XVIII 
 THE REGIMENTAL MASCOT 
 
 WHEN his honour the Colonel took the owld rigi- 
 ment to France, Herself came home bringin' the 
 rigimental mascot with her. A big white long-haired 
 billy-goat he was, the same. 
 
 " I'll not be afther lavin' him at the daypo," says 
 Herself; "'tis no place for a domestic animal at all, 
 the language them little drummer-boys uses, the dear 
 knows," says she. 
 
 So me bowld mascot he stops up at the Castle and 
 makes free with the flower-beds and the hall and the 
 drawin'-room and the domestic maids the way he'd be 
 the Lord-Lieutenant 0' the land, and not jist a plain 
 human Angory goat. A proud arrygent crature it is, 
 be the powers ! Steppin' about as disdainy as a Dublin 
 gerrl in Ballydehob, and if, mebbe, you'd address him 
 for to get off your flower-beds with the colour of anger 
 in your mouth he'd let a roar out of him like a Sligo 
 piper with poteen taken, and fetch you a skelp with 
 his horns that would lay you out for dead. 
 
 And sorra the use is it of complainin' to Herself. 
 
 " Ah, Delaney, 'tis the marshal sperit widin him," 
 she'd say ; " we must be patient with him for the sake 
 of the owld rigiment " ; and with that she'd start hand-
 
 104 The Mud Larks 
 
 feedin' him with warmed-up sponge cake and playin' 
 with his long silky hair. 
 
 " Far be it from me," I says to Mikeen, the herd, " to 
 question the workings o' Providence, but were I the 
 Colonel of a rigiment, which I am not, and had to have 
 a mascot, it's not a raparee billy I'd be afther havin', 
 but a nanny, or mebbe a cow, that would step along 
 dacently with the rigiment and bring ye luck, and mebbe 
 a dropeen o' milk for the oriicers' tea as well. If it's 
 such cratures that bring ye fortune may I die a peaceful 
 death in a poor-house," says I. 
 
 " I'm wid ye," says Mikeen, groanin', he bein' spotted 
 like a leopard with bruises by rason of him havin' to 
 comb the mascot's silky hair twice daily, and the quick 
 temper of the baste at the tangles. 
 
 The long of a summer the billy stops up at the Castle, 
 archin' his neck at the wurrld and growin' prouder and 
 prouder by dint of the standin' he had with the owld 
 rigiment and the high feedin' he had from Herself. 
 Faith, 'tis a great delight we servints had of him I'm 
 tellin' ye ! It was as much as your life's blood was 
 worth to cross his path in the garden, and if the domestic 
 maids would be meetin' him in the house they'd let him 
 eat the dresses off them before they dare say a word. 
 
 In the autumn me bowld mascot gets a wee trifle 
 powerful by dint o' the high feedin' and the natural 
 nature of the crature. Herself, wid her iligant lady's 
 nose, is afther noticin' it, and she sends wan o' the 
 gerrls to tell meself and Mikeen to wash the baste. 
 
 " There will be murdher done this day," says I to the
 
 The Regimental Mascot 105 
 
 lad, " but 'tis the orders. Go get the cart rope and the 
 chain off the bulldog, and we'll do it. Faith, it isn't all 
 the bravery that's at the Front," says I. 
 
 '' That's the true wurrd," says he, rubbin' the lumps 
 on his shins, the poor boy. 
 
 '' Oh, Delaney," says the domestic gerrl, drawin' a 
 bottle from her apron pocket. " Herself says will ye 
 plaze be so obligin' as to sprinkle the mascot wid a 
 dropeen of this ody-koloney scent — mebbe it will quench 
 his powerfulness, she says." 
 
 I put the bottle in me pocket. "We tripped up me 
 brave goat with the rope, got the bull's collar and chain, 
 and dragged him away towards the pond, him buckin' 
 and ragin' between us like a Tyrone Street lady in the 
 arms of the poliss. To hear the roars he let out of 
 him would turn your hearts cowld as lead, but we held 
 on. 
 
 The Saints were wid us ; in half an hour we had him 
 as wet as an eel, and broke the bottle of ody-koloney 
 over his back. 
 
 He was clane mad. " God save us all when he gets 
 that chain off him ! " I says. " God save us it is ! " says 
 Mikeen, looking around for a tree to shin. 
 
 Just at the minut we heard a great screechin' 0' dogs, 
 and through the fence comes the harrier pack that the 
 Reserve orficers kept in the camp beyond. (" Har- 
 riers " they called them, but, begob ! there wasn't any- 
 thin' they wouldn't hunt from a fox to a turkey, those 
 ones. ) 
 
 " What are they afther chasin' ? " says Mikeen.
 
 io6 The Mud Larks 
 
 " 'Tis a stag to-day, be the newspapers/' I says, " but 
 the dear knows they'll not cotch him this month, be 
 must be gone by this half-hour, and the breath is from 
 them, their tongues is hangin' out a yard," I says. 
 
 'Twas at that moment the Blessed Saints gave me 
 wisdom. 
 
 " Mikeen," I says, " drag the mascot out before them; 
 we'll see sport this day." 
 
 " Herself " he begins. 
 
 " Hoult your whisht," says I, " and come on." With 
 that we dragged me bowld goat out before the dogs and 
 let go the chain. 
 
 The dogs sniffed up the strong blast of ody-koloney 
 and let a yowl out of them like all the banshees in the 
 nation of Ireland, and the billy legged it for his life — 
 small blame to him ! 
 
 Meself and Mikeen climbed a double to see the sport. 
 
 " They have him," says Mikeen. " They have not," 
 says I ; " the crature howlds them by two lengths." 
 
 " He has doubled on them," says Mikeen ; " he is as 
 sly as a Jew." 
 
 " He is forninst the rabbit holes now," I says. " I 
 thank the howly Saints he cannot burrow." 
 
 " He has tripped up — they have him bayed," says 
 Mikeen. 
 
 And that was the mortal truth, the dogs had him. 
 
 Oh, but it was a bowld billy! He went in among 
 those hounds like a lad to a fair, you could hear his 
 horns lambastin' their ribs a mile away. But they 
 were too many for him and bit the grand silky hair off
 
 The Regimental Mascot 107 
 
 him by the mouthful. The way it flew you'd think it 
 was a snowstorm. 
 
 " They have him desthroyed," says Mikeen. 
 
 " They have," says I, " God be praised ! " 
 
 At the moment the huntsman leps his harse up on 
 the double beside us ; he was phlastered with muck from 
 his hair to his boots. 
 
 " What have they out there ? " says he, blinkin' 
 through the mud and not knowin' rightly what his 
 hounds were coursin' out before him, whether it would 
 be a stag or a Bengal tiger. 
 
 " 'Tis her ladyship's Eile Imperial Mascot Goat," 
 says I ; " an' God save your honour, for she'll have 
 your blood in a bottle for this day's worrk." 
 
 The huntsman lets a curse out of his stummick and 
 rides afther them, flat on his saddle, both spurs tearin'. 
 In the wink of an eye he is do"VMi among the dogs, lar- 
 rupin' them with his whip and drawin' down curses on 
 them that would wither ye to hear him — he had great 
 eddication, that orficer. 
 
 " Come now," says I to Mikeen, the poor lad, " let 
 you and me bear the cowld corpse of the diseased back 
 to Herself, mebbe she'll have a shillin' handy in her 
 hand, the way she'd reward us for saving the body 
 from the dogs," says I. 
 
 But was me bowld mascot dead? He was not. He 
 was alive and well, the thickness of his wool had saved 
 him. For all that he had not a hair of it left to him, 
 and when he stood up before you, you wouldn't know 
 him; he was that ordinary without his fleece, he was
 
 io8 The Mud Larks 
 
 no more than a common poor man's goat, he was no more 
 to look at than a skinned rabbit, and that's the truth. 
 
 He walked home with meself and Mikeen as meek as 
 a young gerrl. 
 
 Herself came runnin' out, all flutterj, to look at him. 
 
 " Ah, but that's not my mascot," she says. 
 
 " It is, Marm," says I ; and I swore to it by the whole 
 Calendar — ^^likeen too. 
 
 " Bah ! how disgustin'. Take it to the cowhouse," 
 says she, and stepped indoors without another word. 
 
 We led the billy away, him hangin' his head for 
 shame at his nakedness. 
 
 " Ye'll do no more mascotin' avic," says I to him. 
 " Sorra luck you would bring to a blind beggar-man the 
 way you are now — you'll never step along again with 
 the drums and tambourines." 
 
 And that was the true word, for though Herself had 
 Mikeen rubbing him daily with bear's grease and hair 
 lotion he never grew the same grand fleece again, and 
 he'd stand about in the backfield, brooding for hours 
 together, the divilment clane gone out of his system ; and 
 if, mebbe, you'd draw the stroke of an ash-plant across 
 his ribs to hearten him, he'd only just look at you, sad- 
 like and pass no remarks.
 
 War Vegetation 109 
 
 XIX 
 WAR VEGETATION 
 
 TTIIS her ladyship up at the Castle that has the War 
 
 -^ at heart ; 'tis no laiighin' matter wid her. 
 
 She came hack from England wid the grandest mod- 
 ern notions for conductin' the war in the home that ever 
 ye'd see, an' a foreign domestic maid she had hired in 
 London. 
 
 " 'Tis a poor Belgium refuge she is, Dclaney," says 
 Herself to meself. " In the home she is afther lavin' 
 there is nothing left standin' but the wine-cellar, an' 
 that full o' German Huns — she is wet wid weepin' yet," 
 says Herself ; " so be kind to her, for we must help 
 our brave Allies." 
 
 So the Belgium refuge walks into the Castle an' be- 
 comes lady's maid. A fine, upstandin' colleen it is, too, 
 by the same token, wid notions in dhress that turned all 
 the counthry gurrls contemptjous wid envy, an' a hat 
 on the head of her that was like a conservatory for the 
 flowers that was in it. But did Herself's war work 
 stop at adoptin' our brave Alice ? It did not. She gave 
 the young ladies of the high nobility a powerful organ- 
 isin', an' they'd be in at Ballydrogeen every day 0' the 
 week sellin' Frinch, Eyetalian, Rooshan, an' Japan flags 
 an' makin' a mint o' money at it. The lads that would 
 be comin' into Ballydrogeen Fair to do a bit of hand
 
 no The Mud Larks 
 
 slappin' over a pig, an' mebbe taste a tageen wid the 
 liickpennj, would dishcover themselves goin' home in 
 the ass cart, pig an' all, sober as stones an' plasthered 
 thick wid flags the way you'd think they'd be the winnin' 
 boat at Galway Regatta. For 'tis a bould bouchal will 
 stand up to the young ladies of the high nobility whin 
 they have their best dhresses on an' do be prancin' up 
 to ye, the smiles an' blarney dhrippin' from them like 
 golden syrup, wid their " Oh, Mickey, how is your dear 
 darlint baby? Have ye not the least little shillin' for 
 me, thin ? " or their " Good day to ye, Terry Ryan ; 
 I'm all in love wid that bay colt ye have, an' I will 
 plague my Da into his grave until he buys him for me. 
 Will ye not have a small triflin' flag from me, Terry 
 Ryan?" 
 
 But did Herself 's war work stop at flag selling? It 
 did not. Wan mornin' she comes steppin' down the 
 garden as elegant as a champion hackney, holdin' her 
 skirts high out of the wet. 
 
 " Is that you, Delaney ? " says she. 
 
 " It is, your ladyship," says I, crawlin' out from 
 behindt the swate pays. 
 
 " Listen to me," says she. " Thim flowers is nothin' 
 but a luxury these days. I'll have nothin' but war 
 vigitables in my garden." 
 
 Says I, " Beggin' your pardon, but phwat may they 
 be ? " She was puzzled for a moment, an' stands there 
 scratchin' her ear as ye might say. 
 
 " Oh, jist ordinary vigitables, only grown under war 
 conditions," says she at length. " At anny rate I'll have
 
 War Vegetation in 
 
 no flowers, so desthroy thim entirely, an' grow vigitables 
 in their place — d'you understand ? " says she. 
 
 " I do, your ladyship," says I. 
 
 I wint within to tell Anne Toher, the cook. " Herself 
 is for desthroyin' the flowers entirely, an' plantin' war 
 vigitables," says I. 
 
 " An' phwat may they be ? " says the woman. 
 
 " The same as ordinary vigitables, only growed under 
 war conditions," says I. " Ivvry spud doin' its duty, 
 iwry parsnip strugglin' to be two. We will have car- 
 rots an' onions in ivvry bed up to the front door, Frinch 
 beans trained all over the porch. Ye'll jist lane out 
 of the kitchen w-inda an' gather in the dinner yourself ; 
 'twill be a great savin' o' labour," says I. 
 
 " An' phwat'll ye do for the table decorations whin 
 the gintry comes callin' ? " says Anne Toher. 
 
 " Faith," says I, " 'tis aisy done ; I will jist set a 
 bookay o' hothouse cabbages in the vases, an' if, mebbe, 
 the Colonel would be comin' home on lave an' should 
 ax a nosegay to stick in his coat, begob I'll have a fine 
 sprig of parsley for him," says I. 
 
 " Ye poor man," says she, " 'twill sour the heart 
 within ye." Ah ! That was the true word, 'twas like 
 pullin' me heart's blood out be the roots to desthroy thim 
 flowers ; but it had to be done. War is war. 
 
 By June the garden was nothin' but a say of vigi- 
 tables, an' divil a touch of colour to take your eye was 
 there in it, no matter how long you'd look. 
 
 Wan day I am up at the yard, seein' if, mebbe, Anne 
 Toher would have the taste o' tay in the pot, meself
 
 112 The Mud Larks 
 
 bavin' a thirst on me that would face the Shannon by 
 dint of the hoein' I was afther doin' in the spud planta- 
 tions, whin the woman puts her head out of the kitchen 
 winda. " Whist, Dclaney," says she, " there's gintry to 
 lunch," says she. 
 
 " Phwat gintry ? " says I. 
 
 " Sir Patrick Freebody, o' Michaelstown,'* says she, 
 an' at that me blood run cowld. 
 
 Sir Patrick Freebody had the grandest garden over 
 at Michaelstown that ivver you'd see in the nation of 
 Ireland, an' a cousin to me, John O'Callaghan, was 
 gardener to him. There was no love betwane us either, 
 by the same token. I would as soon wake John O'Cal- 
 laghan as I would the Divil, an' that's the morthal truth, 
 for all that he was a cousin to me. 
 
 I knew how 'twould be as sure as I was alive in this 
 worrld. Owld Sir Pat would be into lunch before a 
 bare board, an' whin he wint home to Michaelstown he 
 would be tellin' John O'Callaghan, an' I would be 
 skinned raw wid the jeerin' an' blaggardin' the same 
 John O'Callaghan would have wid me. 
 
 " Whisper, whin will they be atein' ? " says I to 
 Anne Toher. 
 
 " In ten minutes, please God, an' the spuds are soft,'* 
 says she. 
 
 " Begob," says I to meself, " I'll set flowers on 
 that table or cut my throat across," an' I ran away, not 
 knowin' where I'd be findin' thim, not within five miles. 
 But I was not half-way round the laurel bushes whin 
 the Blessed Saints sent me light.
 
 War Vegetation 113 
 
 In sivin minuites I had flowers in the middle bowl, 
 an' backed away behindt the hat-racks as Herself an' 
 owld Sir Pat comes out of the drawin*-room an' goes 
 in to lunch. I set me eye to the kayhole and watched, 
 me heart like water betwane me teeth. 
 
 Owld Sir Pat, he mumbles an' coughs an' talks about 
 the weather, an' the war, an' the recruitin'. 
 
 Herself she talks about the soldiers' shest-protectors 
 an' her war work, an' how she was scared the Colonel 
 was sittin' about at the Front wid wet fate. 
 
 Presently the owld man notices the flowers in the 
 bowl an' lanes over the table blinkin' at thim through 
 his spectacles in his half-blind way. 
 
 " Lovely flowers ye have there, Lady Nugent, positive 
 blaze o' colour. How do you do it? Now, that scamp 
 
 of a gardener of mine " He sits back again, tellin' 
 
 Herself how John O'Callaghan had left his chrysanthe- 
 mums go to ruination wid blight. Her Ladyship takes 
 wan look at the flowers, her eyebrows go up, she turns 
 as red as a bateroot and bites her lip, but says nothin'. 
 God bless her ! I backed away, breathin' aisy once more, 
 but at that minuite down the stairs comes our brave 
 Alice, the Belgium refuge, all of a lather, gabbing like 
 a turkey in the foreign tongue, and runs straight for 
 the dinin'-room door. 
 
 'Tis a mercy I have the quick wit ; I pulled down the 
 Colonel's dhress-sword from where it hung on the wall 
 and headed her off, wavin' it at her the way I'd draw 
 the stroke of it across her windpipe. She wint leppin' 
 back up the stairs like a mountainy hare among the
 
 114 The Mud Larks 
 
 rocks, thinkin', mebbe, the German Huns was come at 
 her again out of the wine-cellar. 
 
 An hour later I heard owld Sir Pat's car lavin' the 
 front door, so I sheathed me sword an' let her out of her 
 bedroom where she had herself locked in. 
 
 A strong shindy the gurrl raised, an' Herself forced 
 me to buy her a new hat out of me wages, seein' that 
 her owld wan was desthroyed by dint of the soakin' an' 
 crushin' it had in the flower bowl ; but sorra the bit did 
 I care, for I passed John O'Callaghan beyond in Mi- 
 chaelstown on Sunday, an' divil a word said he, but 
 scowled at me in a way that did my heart good to see.
 
 A Change of Front 115 
 
 XX 
 
 A CHANGE OF FRONT 
 
 WE fell asleep with goose feathers of snow whirling 
 against the carriage windows, and woke to see 
 a shot-silk sea flinging white lace along a fairy coast on 
 one side and pink and yellow villas nesting among groves 
 of palm and orange on the other. 
 
 " Of course this sort of thing doesn't happen in real 
 life," said Albert Edward, flattening his proboscis 
 against the pane. " Either it's all a dream or else those 
 oranges will suddenly light up; George Grossmith, in 
 a topper and spats, will trip in from the O.P. side; 
 girls will blossom from every palm, and all ranks get 
 busy with song and prance — tra-la-la! " 
 
 The Babe kicked his blankets off and sat up. " Noth- 
 ing of the sort. We've arrived in well-known Italy, 
 that's all. Capital — Eome. Exports — old masters, 
 chianti and barrel-organs. Faces South and is centrally 
 heated by Vesuvius." 
 
 We rattled into a cutting, the sides of which were 
 decorated with posters : " Good Healt at the England," 
 " Good Luck at Tommy," and drew up in a flag- 
 festooned station, on the platform of which was a depu- 
 tation of smiling signorinas who presented the Atkinses 
 with postcards, fruit and cigarettes, and ourselves with 
 flowers.
 
 ii6 The Mud Lark? 
 
 " Very hon — eh, what ? " said the Babe as the train 
 resumed its rumblings. " All the same I wish we could 
 thank them prettily and tell them how pleased we are 
 we've come. Does anybody handle the patter ? " 
 
 Albert Edward thought he did. " Used to swot up 
 a lot of Italian literature when I was a lad; technical 
 military stufiF about the divisions of Gaul by one J. 
 Csesar." 
 
 " Too technical for everyday use," I objected. " A 
 person called D'Annunzio is their best seller now, I 
 believe." 
 
 " Somebody'd better hop off the bus at the next 
 stop and buy a book of the words," said the Babe. 
 
 At the next halt I dodged the deputation and pur- 
 chased a phrase-book with a Union Jack on the cover, 
 entitled The English Soldier in Italy, published in 
 Milan. 
 
 Among military terms, grouped under the beading 
 of " The Worldly War," a garetta (sentry-box) is de- 
 fined as " a watchbox," and the machine-gunner will be 
 surprised to find himself described as " a grapeshot- 
 man." It has also short conversations for current 
 use. 
 
 " Have you of any English papers ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, there's The Times and Tit-Bits." 
 
 (Is it possible that the land of Virgil, of Horace and 
 Dante knows not The Daily Mail?) 
 
 "Give me, please, many biscuits." 
 
 " 'No, sir, we have no biscuits ; the fabrication of 
 them has been avoided by Government.'*
 
 A Change of Front 117 
 
 " Waiter, show me a good bed where one may sleep 
 undisturbated." 
 
 In the train: — 
 
 " Dickens ! I have lost my ticket." 
 
 " Alas, you shall pay the price of another.'' 
 
 A jocular vein is recommended with cabbies : — 
 
 " Coachman, are you free ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then long live liberty." 
 
 Very young subalterns with romantic notions may 
 waste good beer-money on foreign phrase-books and get 
 themselves enravelled in hopeless international tangles, 
 but not old Atkins. The English soldier in Italy will 
 speak what he has always spoken with complete success 
 in Poperinghe, Amiens, Cairo, Salonika, Dar-es-Salaam, 
 Bagdad and Jerusalem, to wit, English. 
 
 But to return to our train. At nightfall we left the 
 fairy coast behind, its smiling signorinas, flags, flowers 
 and fruit, and swarmed up a pile of perpendicular 
 scenery from summer to winter. During a halt in the 
 midst of moonlit snows our carriage door was opened 
 and we beheld outside an Italian officer, who saluted and 
 gave us an exhibition of his native tongue at rapid fire. 
 
 " He's referring to us," said the Babe. " Answer 
 him, somebody ; tell him we're on his side and all that." 
 
 " Viva V Italia," William exclaimed promptly. 
 
 The Italian countered with a " Viva V Inghilterra " 
 and swept on with his monologue. 
 
 " Seems to want something," said Albert Edward. 
 " Wonder if Caesar is too technical for him."
 
 ii8 The Mud Larks 
 
 " Eead him something from The English Soldier in 
 Italy," I suggested. 
 
 The Babe thumbed feverishly through the handbook. 
 " ' Let us get in ; the guard has already cried ' — No, 
 that won't do. ' Give me a walk and return ticket, 
 please ' — That won't do either. ' Yes, I have a trunk 
 and a carpet-bag' — Oh, this is absurd." He cast the 
 book from him. 
 
 At that moment the engine hooted, the trucks gave a 
 preliminary buck and started to jolt forward. The 
 Italian sprang upon the running board and, clinging 
 to the hand-rail, continued to declaim emotionally 
 through the window. William became alarmed. " This 
 chap has something on his mind. Perhaps he's trying 
 to tell us that a bridge has blown up, or that the train 
 is moving without a movement order, or the chauffeur 
 is drunk. For Heaven's sake somebody do something 
 — quick ! " 
 
 Thereupon Babel broke loose, each of us in his panic 
 blazing off in the foreign language which came easiest 
 to his tongue. 
 
 William called for a bath in Arabic. The Babe de- 
 manded champagne in French. Albert Edward de- 
 clined mensa, while I, by the luckiest chance, struck a 
 language which the Italian recognised with a glad yelp. 
 In a moment explanations were over and I had swung 
 him into the carriage and slammed the door. 
 
 The new-comer was a lieutenant of mountain artil- 
 lery. He was returning from leave, had confided him- 
 self to the care of a Railway Transport Officer, had in
 
 A Change of Front 119 
 
 consequence missed every regular train and wanted a 
 lift to the next junction. That was all. I then set 
 about to make him as comfortable as possible, wrapping 
 him in one of the Babe's blankets and giving him his 
 maiden drink of whisky out of William's First Field 
 Dressing. With tears streaming down his cheeks he 
 vented his admiration of the British national bever- 
 age. 
 
 In return he introduced me to the Italian national 
 smoke, an endless cigar to be sucked up through a straw. 
 Between violent spasms I implored the name and ad- 
 dress of the maker. We were both very perfect gentle- 
 men. 
 
 We then prattled about the War; he boasting about 
 the terrific depths of snow in which he did his battling, 
 while I boasted about the Flanders mud. W^e broke 
 about even on that bout. He gained a bit on mountain 
 batteries, but I got it all back, and more, on tanks. He 
 had never seen one, so I had it all my own way. Our 
 tanks, after I had finished with them, could do pretty 
 nearly anything except knit. 
 
 Defeated in the field, he turned home to Rome for 
 something to boast about. I should see St. Peter's, he 
 said. It was magnificent, and the Eoman art treasures 
 unsurpassable. 
 
 I replied that our cathedral at Westminster was far 
 newer, and that the art in our National Cold Storage 
 had cost an average of £5473 19s. l^d* per square foot. 
 Could he beat it? 
 
 That knocked him out of his stride for a moment,
 
 120 The Mud Larks 
 
 but he struggled back with some remark about seeing 
 his Coliseum by moonlight. 
 
 I replied that at ours we had modern electric light, 
 Murphy and Mack, Vesta Tilley and the Bioscope. 
 
 Whether he would have recovered from that I know 
 not, for at this moment the lights of the junction 
 twinkled in at the frosted windows and he took his 
 departure, first promising to call in at our Mess and 
 suffer some more whisky if in return I would crawl up 
 his mountain and meet the chamois and edelweiss. 
 
 Later on, as I was making up my bed for the night, 
 Albert Edward poked his head out of the cocoon of horse- 
 blankets in which he had wound himself. 
 
 " By the way, what ungodly jargon were you and 
 that Italian champing together so sociably ? " 
 
 "German," I whispered; "but for the Lord's sake 
 den't tell anybody."
 
 Antonio Giuseppe 121 
 
 XXI 
 AKTONIO GIUSEPPE 
 
 OUK squadron is at the present moment billeted in 
 what the house-agents would describe as a " unique 
 old-world property," a ramshackle pile which looks like 
 a palace from the south and a workhouse from the north. 
 
 It commenced its career, back in the long ago, as a 
 glorified week-end bungalow for Doges. In course of 
 time it became a monastery. 
 
 When the pious monks took over they got busy with 
 whitewash and obliterated most of the Doges' sportive 
 mural decorations. Most, but not all. 
 
 Methinks the Abbot had tripped the boulevards in 
 his youth and he spared some of the brighter spots of the 
 more sportive frescoes in memory of old times and to 
 keep his heart up during Lent. Anyhow they are still 
 there. 
 
 To-day our long-faced chums champ their feeds in 
 cloisters where once the good monks told their beads, 
 and our bold sergeant boys quaff their tonics beneath 
 a painted ceiling whereon Rackham satyrs are depicted 
 chivvying Kirchner n^miphs across a Leader landscape. 
 
 A small portion of one immense wing is inhabited by 
 a refugee lady, who had retired in good order, haling 
 the whole menagerie along with her, calves, fowls, chil- 
 dren, donkey, piebald pig and all.
 
 122 The Mud Larks 
 
 When first we came into residence here we heard 
 strange nocturnal swishings and shufflings overhead, 
 where none should be, and attributed them to the ghost 
 of the Abbot, "who had returned from Purgatory with a 
 bucket of lime and was striving to wash out his former 
 lapses. Later on we discovered it was the calves, who 
 from inscrutable motives of their own prefer living in 
 the attics. How Mrs. Refugee hoisted them up there in 
 the first place and how she proposes to get them down 
 again when they ripen are questions she alone can 
 answer, but will never do so because we haven't enough 
 Italian to ask her. 
 
 The piebald pig is supported entirely by voluntary 
 contributions, and, like many other such institutions, 
 keeps frequent fasts. When he retreated here there 
 was no sty to accommodate him ; but Mrs. Refugee, with 
 the practical originality that distinguishes her, routed 
 out a retired dog-kennel from somewhere and anchored 
 him to it. This has had the effect of creating in him a 
 dual personality. 
 
 Sometimes he thinks he is just fat old Dolce F. 
 ISTiente the pig, and behaves as such, and one can tread 
 all over him without disturbing his melodious slumbers. 
 At others the collar and chain prey on his mind and he 
 imagines he is Patrias Defensor the trusty watch-dog, 
 and mows down all comers. 
 
 The children and fowls are doing nicely. They 
 speedily discover what innumerable fowls and children 
 all the world over had discovered before them, namely, 
 that the turtling dove is a wild beast compared with the
 
 Antonio Giuseppe 123 
 
 British warrior and his war-horse, and they victimise 
 the defenceless creatures accordingly. 
 
 The result is that the xitkinses get only what husks 
 of their rations the children have neglected, and the 
 fowls only allow the hairies what oats they cannot pos- 
 sibly stagger away with. 
 
 Antonio Giuseppe the donkey was also a war profiteer. 
 Commerce might stagnate, armies clash and struggle, 
 nations bleed to death, he did not care. "" Viva la 
 guerra ! " said Antonio Giuseppe. " As long as there is 
 a British unit handy to dine out with I'm all for it." 
 These sentiments, though deplorable, were not without 
 reason, for until we came I very much doubt if he had 
 ever had a full meal — a real rib-straining blow-out — 
 in his life. 
 
 He was a miserable little creature, standing about a 
 yard high by six inches broad. By tucking in his tail 
 he could have passed for a rabbit at any fancy-dress ball. 
 His costume was a patch-work affair of hairy tufts 
 and bare spaces. I think he must have been laid away 
 in a drawer without camphor at one time and been 
 mauled by a moth. 
 
 A disreputable ragamuffin person was Antonio Giu- 
 seppe the donkey, but for all that he had a way with him, 
 and was in his day the Light-weight Champion Diner- 
 out of all Italy — probably of the world. 
 
 At night he reposed in the kitchen along with Mrs. 
 Refugee, the hamhini and fowls. The day he spent in 
 his observation post, lurking behind a screen of mul- 
 berries and vines, keeping a watchful eye on the horses.
 
 124 The Mud Larks 
 
 As soon as their nosebags were on he commenced to 
 move stealthily towards the lines, timing himself to 
 arrive just as the nosebags came off and the hay-nets 
 went up. He then glided softly between the horses 
 and helped himself. Being tiny and very discreet he 
 frequently passed unobserved, but should the line-guard 
 spot him he had his plan of action. 
 
 Oft-times have I seen a perspiring and blasphemous 
 trooper pursuing the winged Antonio Giuseppe round 
 the lines with a stable broom ; but when the broom de- 
 scended Antonio Giuseppe was not there to receive it. 
 He would nip under the breast-rope, slip in under one 
 horse's belly and out between the legs of another, dodg- 
 ing through and round the astounded animals like a 
 half-back through a loose scrum or a greased pig at a 
 fair, snatching a generous contribution from each hay- 
 net as he passed. Under this method Antonio throve 
 and throve ; but the tale of splintered brooms grew and 
 grew and the Quartermaster loved me not. 
 
 Yesterday the General intimated that he'd like to 
 inspect us. Always eager to oblige, we licked, polished, 
 brushed and burnished ourselves, pipeclayed our head- 
 ropes, pomaded our moustaches, powdered our noses 
 and paraded. 
 
 "We paraded to-day in regimental column in a field 
 west of our palace-workhouse and sat stiff in our saddles, 
 the cheerful sunshine glowing on leather-work, glinting 
 on brass and steel, conscious that we could give any 
 Beauty Chorus a run for its money. 
 
 There sounded a shrill fanfaronade of trumpets, toot-
 
 Antonio Giuseppe 125 
 
 ling the salute, and a dazzle of gold and scarlet like a 
 Turner sunset, blazed into view — the General and his 
 Staff. 
 
 At the same moment Antonio Giuseppe espied us 
 from his observation post and, getting it into his head 
 that we were picnicing out (it was about lunch-time), 
 hastened to join us. As the General reached the lead- 
 ing squadron Antonio Giuseppe reached the near squad- 
 ron and, sliding unobtrusively into its ranks, looked 
 about for the hay-nets. 
 
 However the Second in Command noticed his arrival 
 and motioned to his trumpeter. The trumpeter spurned 
 forward and pinked Antonio Giuseppe in the hindquart- 
 ers with his sword-point as a hint to him to move on. 
 Antonio, thinking the line-guards "were upon him and 
 with a new type of broom, loosed a squeal of agony and 
 straightway commenced his puss-in-the-corner antics in 
 and out and round about the horses' legs. They didn't 
 like it at all; it tickled and upset them; they changed 
 from the horizontal to the vertical, giggled and pawed 
 the air. 
 
 Things were becoming serious. A hee-hawing tatter- 
 demalion donkey, playing " ring o' roses " with a squad- 
 ron of war-horses, tickling them into hysterics, de- 
 tracts from the majesty of such occasions and is no fit 
 spectacle for a General. A second trumpeter joined in 
 the chase and scored a direct prick on the soft of Antonio 
 Giuseppe's nose as he dived out under the tail of a 
 plunging gun-mare. Antonio whipped about and fled 
 towards the centre squadron, ears wobbling, braying an-
 
 126 The Mud Larks 
 
 guished S.O.S.'s. The two trumpeters, young and 
 ardent lads, thundered after him, swords at the engage, 
 racing each other, knee to knee for first blood. They 
 scored simultaneously on the butt of his tail, and An- 
 tonio, stung to the quick, shot clean through (or rather . 
 under) the centre squadron into the legs of the General's 
 horse, tripping up that majestic animal and bringing 
 the whole stately edifice down into a particularly muddy 
 patch of Italy. 
 
 Tremendous and awful moment ! As my groom and 
 countryman expressed it, " Ye cud hear the silence for 
 miles." The General did not break it. I think his 
 mouth was too full of mud and loose teeth for words. 
 He arose slowly out of the ooze like an old walrus 
 lifting through a bed of seaweed black as death, slime 
 dripping from his whiskers, and limped grimly from 
 the field, followed by his pallid staff proffering hand- 
 kerchiefs and smelling-salts. But I understand he be- 
 came distinctly articulate when he got home, and the 
 upshot of it is that we are to be put in the forefront of 
 the nastiest battle that can be arranged for us. 
 
 And Antonio Giuseppe the donkey, author of all the 
 trouble, what of him? you ask. 
 
 Antonio Giuseppe the donkey will never smile again, 
 dear reader. With his edges trimmed and " Welcome " 
 branded across his back he may serve as a mangy door- 
 mat for some suburban maisonette, but at the present 
 moment he lies in the mud of the parade-ground, as 
 flat as a sole on a sand-bank, waiting for someone to 
 roll him up and carry him away. 
 
 Wben a full-fed Major-General falls he falls heavily.
 
 "I Spy" 127 
 
 XXII 
 
 "I SPY" 
 
 I PUT my head into the Mess and discovered Albert 
 Edward alone there cheatins; himself at Patience. 
 
 " My leave warrant has come and I'm ofiP ! " said I. 
 " If Foch should ring np tell him he'll have to struggle 
 along by himself for a fortnight. Cheeroh ! " 
 
 " Cheeroh ! " said Albert Edward. " Give my re- 
 gards to i^ero, Borgia and all the boys." 
 
 I shut the door upon him and took the road to Kome. 
 
 Arrived there I attempted to shed a card on the Pope, 
 but was repulsed by a halbardier in fancy dress; visited 
 the catacombs (by the way, in the art of catacombing 
 we latter-day sinners have nothing to learn from the 
 
 early saints. Why, at Arras in 1917 we Oh, well, 
 
 never mind now!); kept a solemn face while bands 
 solemnly intoned Tipperary (under the impression it 
 was the British National Anthem) ; bought a bushel of 
 mosaic brooches and several million picture postcards 
 and acted the perfect little tripper throughout. 
 
 Then one day while stepping into a hotel lift I 
 bumped full into Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur, stepping 
 forth. 
 
 You have all of you read the works of Wilfrid Wilcox 
 Wilbur (Passion Flowers, Purple Patches, etc. Boost 
 and Boom. 6s.) ; if you haven't you should, for Wilfrid
 
 128 The Mud Larks 
 
 is the lad to handle the soul-sob and the heart-throb and 
 warm, up cold print generally. 
 
 In pre-war days he was to be met with in London 
 drawing-rooms about tea-time wearing his mane rather 
 longer than is done in the best menageries, giving a very 
 realistic imitation of a lap-dog. And now behold him 
 in military disguise parading the Eternal City ! 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " I gasped. 
 
 He put a finger to his lips. " Psst ! " Then pushing 
 me into the lift, he ejected the attendant, turned a 
 handle and we shot aloft. Half-way between heaven and 
 earth he stopped the conveyance and having made 
 quite sure we were not being overheard by either men 
 or angels, leaned up against my ear and whispered, 
 " Secret Service ! " 
 
 I was amazed. " !N'ot really ! " 
 
 Wilbur nodded. "Yes, really! That's why I have 
 to be so careful; they have their agents everywhere 
 listening, watching, taking notes." 
 
 I felt for my pocket-case momentarily fearful that 
 They (whoever They were) might have taken mine. 
 
 " And do you have agents also, listening, noting, tak- 
 ing watches ? " I asked. 
 
 Wilbur said he had and went on to explain that so 
 perfect was his system that a cat could hardly kitten 
 anywhere between the Yildiz Kiosk and Wilhelmstrasse 
 without his full knowledge and approval. I was very 
 thrilled, for I had previously imagined all the cloak 
 and dagger spy business to be an invention of the maga- 
 zine writer, yet here was little Wilbur, according to
 
 "I Spy" 129 
 
 himself, living a life of continuous yellow drama, more 
 Queuxrious than fiction, rich beyond dreams of Gara- 
 vice. (Publisher — "Tut-tut!" Author — "Peccavi!") 
 
 I thrilled and thrilled. " Look here," I implored, 
 " if you are going to pull off a coup at any time, do 
 let me come too ! " 
 
 Wilbur demurred, the profession wasn't keen on 
 amateurs, he explained; they were too impetuous, lacked 
 subtlety — still if the opportunity occurred he might 
 
 — perhaps I wrung his hand, then, seeing that bells 
 
 on every landing had been in a state of uproar for 
 some fifteen minutes and that the attendant was com- 
 mencing to swarm the cable after his lift, we dropped 
 back to earth again, returned it to him and went out 
 to lunch. 
 
 " And now tell me something of your methods," said 
 I, as we sat down to meat. 
 
 Wilbur promptly grabbed me by the collar and 
 dragged me after him under the table. 
 
 " What's the matter now? " I gulped. 
 
 " Fool ! " he hissed. " The waiter is a Bulgarian 
 spy." 
 
 " Let's arrest him then," said L 
 
 Wilbur groaned. " Oh, you amateurs, you would 
 stampede everything and ruin all ! " 
 
 I apologised meekly and we issued from cover again 
 and resumed our meal, silently because (according to 
 Wilbur) the peroxide blonde doing snake-charming 
 tricks with spaghetti at the next table was a Hungarian
 
 130 The Mud Larks 
 
 agent, and there was a Turk concealed in the pottad 
 pahns near bj. 
 
 I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled. 
 
 Then followed stirring days. Eome at that time, I 
 gathered, was the centre of the spy industry and at the 
 height of the sleuthing season, for they hemmed us in 
 on every hand — according to Wilbur. I was continually 
 being dragged aside into the shadow of dark arcades to 
 dodge Austrian Admirals disguised as dustmen, rushed 
 up black alleys to escape the machinations of Bolshevick 
 adventuresses parading as parish priests, and submerged 
 in fountains to avoid the evil eyes of German diplomats 
 camouflaged as flower girls — according to Wilbur. 
 
 I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled and thrilled, 
 bought myself a stiletto and a false nose. 
 
 However, after about a week of playing trusty Watson 
 to Wilbur's Sherlock without having effected a single 
 arrest, drugged one courier, stilettoed a soul, or being 
 allowed to wear my false nose once, my thrillings became 
 less violent, and giving Wilbur the slip one afternoon, 
 I went on the prowl alone. About four of the clock 
 my investigations took me to Latour's. At a small mar- 
 ble table lapping up ices as a kitten laps cream, I be- 
 held Temporary Second Lieut. Mervyn Esmond. 
 
 You all of you remember Mervyn Esmond, he of the 
 spats, the eyeglass and gTey top-hat, the Super-Knut 
 of the Frivolity Theatre who used to gambol so grace- 
 fully before the many " twinkling toes " of the Super- 
 Beauty Chorus, singing " Billy of Piccadilly." You 
 must remember Mervyn Esmond !
 
 " I Spy " 13^ 
 
 But that was the Esmond of yore, for a long time 
 past he has been doing sterling work in command of 
 an Army Pierrot troupe. 
 
 I sat down beside him, stole his ice and finished it 
 for him. 
 
 " And now what are you doing here ? " I asked. 
 
 " Fve come down from the line to get some new 
 dresses for Queenie," he replied. " She — he, that is — 
 is absolutely in rags, bursts a pair of corsets and a pair 
 of silk stockings every performance, very expensive 
 item." 
 
 I had better explain here and now that Queenie is 
 the leading lady in Mervyn's troupe. She — he, that 
 is — started her — his — military career as an artillery 
 driver, but was discovered to be the possessor of a very 
 shrill falsetto voice and dedicated to female impersona- 
 tions forthwith. 
 
 " She — he — is round at the dressmaker's now," 
 Mervyn went on, " wrestling with half a dozen hyster- 
 ical mannequins. Fm getting her — him, I should say 
 — up regardless. Listen. Dainty ninon georgette out- 
 lined with chenile stitching. Charmeuse overtunic, em- 
 broidered with musquash and skunk pom-poms. Crepe 
 de Chine undies interwoven with blue baby ribbon, 
 camis " 
 
 " Stop ! " I thundered. " Do you want me to blush 
 myself to death ? I am but a rough soldier." 
 
 Mervyn apologised, wrapped himself round another 
 ice and asked me how I was amusing myself in Tiber- 
 town.
 
 132 The Mud Larks 
 
 Having first ascertained that there were no enemy 
 agents secreted under the table or among the potted 
 palms, I unburdened my soul to him concerning Wilbur 
 and the coups that never came off. 
 
 He stared at me for a few moments, his eyes twink- 
 ling, then he leaned over the table. 
 
 " My active brain has evolved a be-autiful plan," 
 said he. " It's yours for another ice." 
 
 I bought it. 
 
 I found Wilbur sleuthing the crowd from behind a 
 tall tumbler in the Excelsior lounge, and dragging him 
 into the lift, hung it up half-way between here and here- 
 after, and whispered my great news. 
 
 " Where, when ? " he cried, blench-blanching. 
 
 " In my hotel at midnight," I replied. " I hid in a 
 clothes-basket and heard all. We will frustrate their 
 knavish tricks, thou and I." 
 
 Wilbur did not appear to be as keen as I had expected, 
 he hummed and hawed and chatted about my amateur- 
 ishness and impetuosity ; but I was obdurate, and taking 
 him firmly by the arm led him off to dinner. 
 
 I hardly let go of his arm at all for the next five 
 hours, judging it safer so. 
 
 Five minutes before midnight I led him up the stairs 
 of my hotel and tip-toeing into a certain room, clicked 
 on the light. 
 
 " See that door over there ? " I whispered, pointing, 
 " 'tis the bathroom. Hide there. I shall be concealed 
 in the wardrobe. In five minutes the conspirators will
 
 "I Spy" ^ 
 
 appear. The moment you hear me shout, ' Hands up, 
 Otto von Schweinhund, le jeu est fait/ or words to that 
 effect — burst out of the bathroom and collar the 
 lady." 
 
 I pushed Wilbur into the bathroom (he was trembling 
 slightly, excitement no doubt) and closed the door. 
 
 I had no sooner shut myself into the wardrobe when 
 a man and a woman entered the room. They were both 
 in full evening dress, the man was a handsome rascal, 
 the woman a tall, languid beauty, gorgeously dressed. 
 She flung herself down in a chair and lit a cigarette. 
 The man carefully locked the door and crossed the room 
 towards her. 
 
 " Hansa," he hissed, " did you get the plans of the 
 fortress ? " 
 
 She laughed and taking a packet of papers from the 
 bosom of her dress, flung it on the table. 
 
 " ' Twas easy, mon cher." 
 
 He caught it and held it aloft. 
 
 "Victory!" he cried. "The Vaterland is saved!" 
 
 He passed round the table and stood before her, his 
 eyes glittering. 
 
 " You beautiful devil," he muttered, through clenched 
 teeth. " I knew you could do it. I knew you would 
 bewitch the young attache. All men are puppets in 
 your hands, beautiful, beautiful fiend ! " 
 
 The moment had come. Hastily donning my false 
 nose, I flung open the wardrobe, shouted the signal and 
 covered the pair with my stiletto. The woman screamed 
 and flung herself into the arms of her accomplice.
 
 134 The Mud Larks 
 
 "Ah, ha, foiled again! Curse you!" He snarled 
 and covered me with the plans of tlie fortress. 
 
 I grappled with him, he grappled with me, the 
 beautiful devil grappled with both of us; we all grap- 
 pled. 
 
 There was no movement from the bathroom door. 
 
 We grappled some more, we grappled all over the 
 table, over the washstand and a brace of chairs. The 
 villain lost his whiskers, the villainess lost her lovely 
 golden wig, the hero (me) lost his false nose. I shouted 
 the signal once more, the villain shouted it, the villainess 
 shouted it, we all shouted it. 
 
 There was no movement from the bathroom door. 
 
 We grappled some more, we grappled over the chest 
 of drawers, under the carpet and in and out of the towel- 
 horse. 
 
 A muffled report rang out from somewhere about the 
 beautiful devil. 
 
 " For God's sake, go easy ! " she wheezed in my left 
 ear. " My corsets have went ! " 
 
 Then, as there was still no movement from the bath- 
 room door, and we none of us had a grapple left in us, 
 we called " time." 
 
 Mervyn sat up on the edge of the bed sourly regarding 
 the bedraggled Queenie. 
 
 " In rags once more, twenty pounds' worth of geor- 
 gette, charmeuse and ninon whatisname torn to shreds ! " 
 he groaned. " Oh, you tom-boy, you ! " 
 
 " Come and dig these damn whalebones out of my 
 ribs," said she.
 
 " I Spy " 135 
 
 I staggered across the room and opening the bath- 
 room door, peered within. 
 
 " Any sign of our friend Sherlock, the spy-hound ? " 
 Mervyn enquired. 
 
 " Yes," said I. " He's tumbled in a dead faint into 
 the bath ! "
 
 136 The Mud Larks 
 
 XXIII 
 A FAUX PAS 
 
 W HEIST we have finished slaying for the day, have 
 stropped our gory sabres, hung our horses up to 
 dry and are sitting about after mess, girths slackened 
 and pipes aglow, it is a favourite pastime of ours to 
 discuss what we are going to do after the War. 
 
 William, our mess president and transport officer, 
 says frankly, " Nothing." Three years' continuous 
 struggle to keep the mess going in whiskey and soda and 
 the officers' kit down to two hundred and fifty pounds 
 per officer has made an old man of him, once so full of 
 bright quips and conundrums. The moment Hinden- 
 burg chucks up the sponge off goes William to Chelsea 
 Hospital, there to spend the autumn of his days pitching 
 the yarn and displaying his honourable scars gained in 
 many a bloody battle in the mule lines. 
 
 So much for William. The Skipper, who is as 
 sensitive to climate as a lily of the hot-house, prattles 
 lovingly during the summer months of selling ice-creams 
 to the Eskimos, and during the winter months of ped- 
 dling roast chestnuts in Timbuctoo. MacTavish and the 
 Babe propose, under the euphonious noms de commerce 
 of Vavaseur and Montmorency, to open pawn-shops 
 among ex-munition-workers, and thereby accumulate old 
 masters, grand pianos and diamond tiaras to export to 
 
 J
 
 A Faux Pas 137 
 
 the United States. For myself I have another plan. 
 
 There is a certain historic wood np north through 
 Avhich bullets whine, shells rumble and no bird sings. 
 After the War I am going to float a company, purchase 
 that wood and turn it into a pleasure-resort for the ac- 
 commodation of tourists. 
 
 There will be an entrance fee of ten francs, and every- 
 thing else will be extra. 
 
 Tea in the dug-out — ten francs. Trips through 
 trenches, accompanied by trained guides reciting 
 selected passages from the outpourings of our special 
 correspondents — ^ten francs. At night j^vand S.O.S. 
 rocket and Very light display — ten francs. While for 
 a further twenty francs the tourist will be allowed to 
 pick up as many souvenirs in the way of rolls of barbed 
 wire, dud bombs and blind crumps as he can stagger 
 away with. By this means the country will be cleared 
 of its explosive matter and I shall be able to spend my 
 declining years in Park Lane, or, anyway, Tooting. 
 
 Our Albert Edward has not been making any plans 
 as to his future lately, but just now it looks very much 
 as if his future will be spent in gaol. It happened this 
 way. He had been up forward doing some 0. Pipping. 
 While he was there he made friends with a battery and 
 persuaded the poor fools into doing some shooting under 
 his direction. He says it is great fun sitting up in your 
 O. Pip, a pipe in your teeth, a telescope clapped to 
 your blind eye, removing any parts of the landscape 
 that you take a dislike to. 
 
 "I don't care for that tree at A 29.b.5.8"," you say
 
 138 The Mud Larks 
 
 to the telephone. " It's altogether too crooked (or too 
 straight). Off with its head!" and, hey presto! the 
 offending herb is not. Or, " That hill at C 39.d.7.4" 
 is quite absurd ; it's ridiculously lop-sided. I think we'll 
 have a valley there instead." And lo! the absurd ex- 
 crescence goes west in a puff of smoke. 
 
 Our Albert Edward spent a most enjoyable week 
 altering the geography of Europe to suit his taste. Then 
 one morning he made a trifling error of about thirty 
 degrees and some few thousand yards and removed the 
 wrong village. 
 
 " One village looks very much like another, and 
 what are a few thousand yards this way or that in a war 
 of world-wide dimensions? Gentlemen, let us not be 
 trivial," said our Albert Edward to the red-hatted 
 people who came weeping to his O. Pip. ]N^evertheless 
 some unpleasantness resulted, and our Albert Edward 
 came home to shelter in the bosom of us, his family. 
 
 The unpleasantness spread, for twenty-four hours 
 later came a chit for our Albert Edward, saying if he 
 had nothing better to do would he drop in and swop 
 yarns with the General at noon that day ? Our Albert 
 Edward made his will, pulled on his parade boots, drank 
 half a bottle of brandy neat, kissed us farewell and 
 rode off to his doom. As he passed the borders of the 
 camp The O'Murphy uncorked himself from a drain, 
 and, seeing his boon-companion faring forth a-horse, 
 abandoned the ratstrafe and trotted after him. 
 
 A word or two explaining The O'Murphy. Two years 
 ago we were camped at one end of a certain damp dark
 
 A Faux Pas 139 
 
 gully up north. Thither came a party of big marines 
 and a small Irish terrier, bringing with them a long 
 naval gun, which they covered with a camouflage of 
 sackcloth and ashes and let off at intervals. Whenever 
 the long gun was about to fire the small dog went mad, 
 bounced about behind the gun-trail like an indiarubber 
 ball, in an ecstasy of expectation. When the great gun 
 boomed he shrieked with joy and shot away up the gully 
 looking for the rabbit. The poor little dog's hunt up 
 and down the gully for the rabbit that never had been 
 was one of the most pathetic sights I ever saw. That 
 so many big men wdth such an enormous gun should 
 miss the rabbit every time was gradually killing him 
 with disgust and exasperation. 
 
 Meeting my groom one evening I spoke of the matter 
 to him, casually mentioning that there was a sma^l 
 countryman of ours close at hand breaking his liea. fc 
 because there never was any rabbit. I clearly explained 
 to my groom that I was suggesting nothing, dropping 
 no hints, but I thought it a pity such a sportsmar ■''lould 
 waste his talents with those sea-soldiers wh 
 were outfits like ours about, offering all kinds of v.^^.^ .. 
 tunities to one of the right sort. I again repeated that 
 I was making no suggestions and passed on to some other 
 subject. 
 
 Imagine my astonishment when, on making our 
 customary bi-weekly trek next day, I discovered the 
 small terrier secured to our tool-limber by a piece of 
 baling-wire, evidently enjoying the trip and abusing the 
 limber-mules as if he had known them all his life. Since
 
 140 The Mud Larks 
 
 he had insisted on coming with us there was nothing 
 further to be said, so we christened him " The O'- 
 Murphy," attached him to the strength for rations and 
 discipline, and for two years he has shared our joys 
 and sorrows, our billets and bully-beef, up and down 
 the land of Somewheres. 
 
 But it was with our Albert Edward he got particularly 
 chummy. They had the same dislike of felines and the 
 same taste in biscuits. Thus when Albert Edward rode 
 by, ears drooping, tail tucked in (so to speak), en route 
 to the shambles. The O'Murphy saw clearly that here 
 was the time to prove his friendship, and trotted along 
 behind. On arriving at H.Q. the comrades shook paws 
 and licked each other good-bye. Then Albert Edward 
 stumbled within and The O'Murphy hung about outside 
 saucing the brass-collared Staff dogs and waiting to 
 gather up what fragments remained of his chum's body 
 after the General had done with it. His interview with 
 the General our Albert Edward prefers not to describe; 
 it was too painful, too humiliating, he says. That a man 
 of the General's high position, advanced age and vener- 
 able appearance could lose his self-control to such a 
 degree was a terrible revelation to Albert Edward. " Let 
 us draw a veil over that episode," he said. 
 
 But what happened later on he did consent to tell us. 
 When the General had burst all his blood vessels, and 
 Albert Edward was congratulating himself that the 
 worst was over, the old man suddenly grabbed a Manual 
 of Military Law off his desk, hurled it into a corner 
 and dived under a table, whence issued scuffling sounds,
 
 A Faux Pas 141 
 
 grunts and squeals. " See that ? " came the voice of 
 the General from under the table. '"' Of all confounded 
 impudence ! — did you see that ? " 
 
 Albert Edward made noises in the negative. "A 
 rat, by golly ! " boomed the venerable warrior, " big as 
 a calf, came out of his hole and stood staring at me. 
 Damn his impudence I I cut off his retreat with the 
 manual and he's somewhere about here now. Flank 
 him, will you ? " 
 
 As Albert Edward moved to a flank there came sounds 
 of another violent scuffle under the table, followed by 
 a glad whoop from the General, who emerged rumpled 
 but triumphant. 
 
 " Up-ended the waste-paper basket on him," he 
 panted, dusting his knees with a handkerchief. " And 
 now, me lad, what now, eh ? " 
 
 " Fetch a dog, sir," answered Albert Edward, mind- 
 ful of his friend The O'Murphy. The General sneered, 
 " Dog be blowed ! What's the matter with the old- 
 fashioned cat ? I've got a plain tabby with me that has 
 written standard works on ratting." He lifted up his 
 voice and bawled to his orderly to bring one Pussums. 
 " Had the old tabby for years, me lad," he continued ; 
 " brought it from home — carry it round with me every- 
 where ; and I don't have any rat troubles. Orderly ! 
 
 " Eellers come out here with St. Bernard dogs, shot- 
 guns, poison, bear-traps and fishing-nets and never get 
 a wank of sleep for the rats, while one common cat like 
 my old Pussums would Oh, where is that con- 
 founded feller ? "
 
 142 The Mud Larks 
 
 He strode to the door and flung it open, admitting, 
 not an orderly but The O'Murphy, who nodded pleas- 
 antly to him and trotted across the room, tail twinkling, 
 love-light shining in his eyes, and deposited at Albert 
 Edward's feet his offering, a large dead tabby cat. 
 
 Albert Edward remembers no more. He had swooned.
 
 Mon Repos 143 
 
 XXIV 
 MON EEPOS 
 
 ALBERT EDWARD and I are on detachment just 
 ■^ now. I can't mention what job we are on because 
 Hindenburg is listening. He watches every move made 
 by Albert Edward and me and disposes his forces ac- 
 cordingly. jSTow and again he forestalls us, now and 
 again he don't. On the former occasions he rings up 
 Ludendorff, and they make a night of it with beer and 
 song; on the latter he pushes the bell violently for the 
 old German God. 
 
 The spot Albert Edward and I inhabit just now is 
 very interesting; things happen all round us. There 
 is a tame balloon tied by a string to the back garden, 
 an ammunition column on either flank and an infantry 
 battalion camped in front. Aeroplanes buzz overhead 
 in flocks and there is a regular tank service past the 
 door. One way and another our present location fairly 
 teems with life ; Albert Edward says it reminds him of 
 London. To heighten the similarity we get bombed 
 every night. 
 
 Promptly after Mess the song of the bomb-bird is 
 heard. The searchlights stab and slash about the sky 
 like tin swords in a stage duel ; presently they pick up 
 the bomb-bird — a glittering flake of tinsel — and the 
 racket begins. Archibalds pop, machine guns chatter,
 
 144 The Mud Larks 
 
 rifles crack, and here and there some optimistic sports- 
 man browns the Milky Way with a revolver. As Sir I. 
 Newton's law of gravity is still in force and all that 
 goes up must come down again, it is advisable to wear 
 a parasol on one's walks abroad. 
 
 In view of the heavy lead-fall Albert Edward and I 
 decided to have a dug-out. We dug down six inches 
 and struck water in massed formation. I poked a finger 
 into the water and licked it. " Tastes odd," said I, 
 " brackish or salt or something." 
 
 " We've uncorked the blooming Atlantic, that's 
 what," said Albert Edward ; " cork it up again quickly 
 or it'll bob up and swamp us." That done, we looked 
 about for something that would stand digging into. The 
 only thing we could find was a molehill, so we delved our 
 way into that. We are residing in it now, Albert Ed- 
 ward, Maurice and I. We have called it " Mon Repos/* 
 and stuck up a notice saying we are inside, otherwise 
 visitors would walk over it and miss us. 
 
 The chief drawback to " Mon Repos " is Maurice. 
 Maurice is the proprietor by priority, a mole by nature. 
 Our advent has more or less driven him into the hinter- 
 land of his home and he is most unpleasant about it. 
 He sits in the basement and sulks by day, issuing at 
 night to scrabble about among our boots, falling over 
 things and keeping us awake. If we say " Boo ! Shoo ! " 
 or any harsh word to him he doubles up the backstairs 
 to the attic and kicks earth over our faces at three- 
 minute intervals all night. 
 
 Albert Edward says he is annoyed about the rent,
 
 Mon Repos 145 
 
 but I call that absurd. Maurice is perfectly aware that 
 there is a war on, and to demand rent from soldiers 
 who are defending his molehill with their lives is the 
 most ridiculous proposition I ever heard of. As I said 
 before, the situation is most unpleasant, but I don't see 
 what we can do about it, for digging out Maurice means 
 digging down " Mon Repos/' and there's no sense in 
 that. Albert Edward had a theory that the mole is a 
 carnivorous animal, so he smeared a worm with car- 
 bolic tooth-paste and left it lying about. It lay about 
 for days. Albert now admits his theory was wrong; 
 the mole is a vegetarian, he says; he was confusing it 
 with trout. He is in the throes of inventing an ex- 
 plosive potato for Maurice on the lines of a percussion 
 grenade, but in the meanwhile that gentleman remains 
 in complete mastery of the situation. 
 
 The balloon attached to our back garden is very tame. 
 Every morning its keepers lead it forth from its abode 
 by strings, tie it to a longer string and let it go. All 
 day it remains aloft, tugging gently at its leash and 
 keeping an eye on the War. In the evening the keepers 
 appear once more, haul it down and lead it home for 
 the night. It reminds me for all the world of a huge 
 docile elephant being bossed about by the mahout's 
 infant family. I always feel like giving the gentle 
 creature a bun. 
 
 Xow and again the Boche birds come over disguised 
 as clouds and spit mouthfuls of red-hot tracer-bullets 
 at it, and then the observers hop out. One of them 
 " hopped out " into my horse lines last week. That is to
 
 146 The Mud Larks 
 
 saj his parachute caught in a tree and he hung swing- 
 ing, like a giant pendulum, over my horses' backs until 
 we lifted him down. He came into " Mon Repos " to 
 have bits of tree picked out of him. This was the sixth 
 plunge overboard he had done in ten days, he told us. 
 Sometimes he plunged into the most embarrassing situa- 
 tions. On one occasion he dropped clean through a 
 bivouac roof into a hot bath containing a Lieutenant- 
 Colonel, who punched him with a sponge and threw soap 
 at him. On another he came fluttering down from the 
 blue into the midst of a labour company of Chinese 
 coolies, who immediately fell on their faces, worshipping 
 him as some heavenly being, and later cut off all his 
 buttons as holy relics. An eventful life.
 
 " Fly, Gentle Dove " 147 
 
 XXV 
 "FLY, GENTLE DOVE" 
 
 WE were told off for a job of work over the bags not 
 long ago. The Staff sent us some pigeons with 
 their love, and expressed the hope that we'd drop them 
 a line from time to time and let them know how the 
 battle was raging, and where. (The Staff live in con- 
 stant terror that one day the War will walk completely 
 away from them and some unruly platoon bomb its way 
 up Unter den Linden without their knowing a thing 
 about it.) 
 
 'Next morning we duly pushed off, and in the course 
 of time found ourselves deep in Bocheland holding a 
 sketchy line of outposts and waiting for the Hun to do 
 the sporting thing and counter. More time passed, and 
 as the Hun showed no signs of getting a move on we 
 began to look about us and take stock. 
 
 Personally I felt that a square meal might do some- 
 thing towards curing a hollow feeling that was gnawing 
 me beneath the belt. As I was rummaging through my 
 haversack the pigeon-carrier approached and asked for 
 the book of rules. 
 
 ISTow to the iminitiated, I have no doubt, pigeon-fly- 
 ing sounds the easiest game in the world. You just take 
 a picture-postcard, mark the spot you are on with a cross, 
 add a few words, such as, " Hoping this finds you in the
 
 148 The Mud Larks 
 
 pink, as it leaves me at present — I don't think," insert it 
 in the faithful fowl's beak, say, " Home, John," and in 
 a few minutes it is rattling into the General's letter-box. 
 This is by no means the case. Pigeons are the kittlest 
 of cattle. If you don't treat them just so they will 
 either chuck up the game on the spot or hand your note 
 to Hindenburg. To avoid this a book of the rules is 
 issued to pigeon-carriers, giving instructions as to when 
 and how the creatures should be fed, watered, exercised, 
 etc. 
 
 On this occasion I felt through my pockets for the 
 book of the rules and drew blank. " What's the matter 
 with the bird, anyhow ? " I asked. 
 
 " Looks a bit dahn-'earted," said the carrier ; " de- 
 jected-like, as you might say." 
 
 " Seeing you've been carrying it upside dovm for the 
 last twenty-four hours it isn't to be wondered at," said 
 my Troop Sergeant ; " blood's run to its head, that's 
 what." 
 
 " Turn it the other way up for a bit and run the blood 
 back again," I suggested. 
 
 " Exercise is what it wants," said my sergeant firmly. 
 
 " By all means exercise it, then," said I. 
 
 The carrier demurred. " Very good, sir — but how, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Ask the sergeant," said L " Sergeant, how do 
 you exercise a pigeon? Lunge it, or put it through 
 Swedish monkey motions ? " 
 
 The sergeant rubbed his chin stubble.
 
 "Fly, Gentle Dove" 149 
 
 "Can't say I remember the official method, sir; 
 one might take it for a walk at the end of a string, 
 or " 
 
 " These official pigeons," I interposed, " have got 
 to be treated in the official manner or they won't work; 
 their mechanism becomes deranged. We had a pigeon 
 at the Umpteenth Battle of Wipers and upset it some- 
 how. Anyway, when we told it to buzz off and fetch 
 reinforcements, it sat on a tree licking its fluff and sing- 
 ing, and we had to throw mud at it to get it to shift. 
 Where it went to then goodness only knows, for it has 
 never been seen since. I am going to do the right thing 
 by this bird." 
 
 I thereupon sent a galloper to the next outpost, oc- 
 cupied by the Babe and Co., asking him the official re- 
 cipe for exercising pigeons. The answer came back as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Ask Albert Edward. All I know about 'em is that 
 you mustn't discharge birds of opposite sex together as 
 they stop and flirt. 
 
 P.S. — ^You haven't got such a thing as a bit of cold 
 pudden about you, guv'nor, have you ? I'm all in." 
 
 I sent the galloper galloping on to Albert Edward's 
 post. 
 
 " Don't discharge birds after sunset," ran his reply ; 
 " they're afraid to go home in the dark — that's all I re- 
 collect. Ask the Skipper. 
 
 P.S. — Got a bit of bully beef going spare? I'm 
 tucked up something terrible."
 
 150 The Mud Larks 
 
 ^■^— ^^^— -i— — ^^"^— ^— ^1— i^^-^— .— — ^— ^— — « 
 
 I sigked and sent my messenger on to the Skipper, 
 inquiring the official method of exercising pigeons. 
 Half an hour later his answer reached me — 
 
 " Don't know. Try eating 'em. That's what I'm 
 doing with mine." 
 
 While on the subject of carrier-pigeons, I may men- 
 tion that one winter night I was summoned to Corps 
 H.Q. Said a Red Hat : " We are going to be rude to 
 the Boche at dawn and we want you to go over with 
 the boys. When you reach your objectives just drop 
 US a pigeon to say so. Here's a chit, take it to the 
 pigeon loft and get a good nippy fowl. Good night and 
 good luck." 
 
 I found the pigeon-fancier inside an old London 
 omnibus which served for a pigeon-loft, spoon-feeding 
 a sick bird. A dour Lancastrian, the fancier studied 
 my chit with a sour eye, then, grumbling that he didn't 
 know what the army was coming to turning birds out of 
 bed at this hour, he slowly climbed a ladder and, poking 
 his head through a trap in the roof, addressed himself 
 to the pigeons. 
 
 " That you, Llossie ? iNo, you can't go with them tail 
 feathers missing to the General's cat. Jellicoe — no, you 
 can't go neither, you've 'ad a 'ard day out with them 
 tanks. ISTasty cough you've got, Gaby; I'll give you a 
 drop of 'ot for it presently. You're breathin' very 
 'eavy, Joffre ; been over-eatin' yourself again, I suppose 
 - — couldn't fly a yard. Eustace, you're for it." 
 
 He backed down the ladder, grasping the unfortunate 
 Eustace, stuffed it in a basket and handed it to me.
 
 "Fly, Gentle Dove" 151 
 
 " I hope this is a good bird/' said I, " nippy and all 
 that?" 
 
 The fancier snorted, " Good bird ? ISTothing can't 
 stop 'im, barrages, smoke, nothing. 'E's deserved the 
 V.C. scores of times over; 'e's the best bird in tl;ie army,| 
 an' don't you forget it, sir." 
 
 I promised not to, caught up the basket and fled. 
 
 I reached the neighbourhood of the line at about 
 2 a.m. It was snowing hard and the whole front -was 
 sugared over like a wedding-cake, every track and land- 
 mark obliterated. For some hours I groped about seek- 
 ing Battalion H.Q., tripping over hidden wire, tobogan- 
 ning down snow-masked craters into icy shell-holes, the 
 inimitable Eustace with me. Finally I fell head-first 
 into a dug-out inhabited by three ancient warriors, who 
 were sitting round a brazier sucking cigarettes. They 
 were Brigade Scouts, they told me, and were going over 
 presently. They were also Good Samaritans, one of 
 them, Fred, giving me his seat by the fire and a mug 
 of scalding cocoa, while his colleagues, Messrs. Alf and 
 Bert, attended to Eustace, who needed all the attention 
 he could get. I caught snatches of their conversation 
 here and there : " Shall us toast 'im over the brazier a 
 bit, Alf ? " " Wonder if a drop 0' rum would 'earten 
 'im? " " Tip it into his jaws when 'e ya^vns, Bert." 
 
 At length Eustace's circulation was declared restored 
 and the three set about harnessing themselves for the 
 war, encasing their legs in sand-bags, winding endless 
 mufflers round their heads and donning innumerable
 
 152 The Mud Larks 
 
 odd overcoats, so that their final appearance was more 
 that of apple-women than scouts. 
 
 We then set out for the battle, Bert leading the way 
 towards the barrage which was cracking and banging 
 away in yellow flashes over the Boche lines. 
 
 Presently we heard a muffled hail ahead. 
 
 " Wazzerraatter, Bert ? " Alf shouted. 
 
 " They've quit — slung their 'ook," came the voice. 
 
 Fifty yards brought us bumping up against Bert, 
 who was prodding through the debris of a German post 
 with the point of his bayonet. 
 
 " So the swines have beat it ? " said Fred. " Any 
 soovenirs ? " 
 
 " ]^ah ! " said Bert, spitting, " not a blinkin' 'am- 
 sandwich." 
 
 " Is this really our objective ? " I asked. 
 
 " It is, sir," Bert replied. " Best sit down and keep 
 quiet; the rest of the boys will be along in a jifFy, and 
 they'd bomb their own grandmothers when they're 
 worked up." 
 
 I put my hand in the basket and dragged Eustace 
 forth. He didn't look up to V.C. form. Still I had 
 explicit orders to release him when our objective was 
 reached, and obedience is second nature with me. 
 
 I secured my message to his leg, wished him luck and 
 tossed him high in the air. A swirl of snow hid him 
 from view. 
 
 I didn't call at H.Q. when I returned. I went 
 straight home to bed and stayed there. As they did not 
 send for me and I heard no more about it I conjectured
 
 "Fly, Gentle Dove" 153 
 
 that the infallible Eustace had got back to his bus and 
 all was well. Nevertheless I had a sort of uneasy feel- 
 ing about him. I heard no more of it for ten days, and 
 then, out walking one afternoon, I bumped into the 
 pigeon-fancier. There was no way of avoiding the man ; 
 the lane was only four feet wide, bounded by nine-foot 
 walls with glass on top. So I halted opposite him, 
 smiled my prettiest and asked after Eustace. " So glad 
 he got home all right," said I ; " a great bird that." 
 
 The fancier glared at me, his sour eyes sparkling, his 
 fists opening and shutting. I felt that only bitter dis- 
 cipline stood between them and my throat. 
 
 " Ay, sir," said he, speaking with difficulty, " he's a 
 great bird, but not the bird he was. He got home all 
 right yesterday, but very stiff in the legs from walking 
 every step 0' the way."
 
 154 The Mud Larks 
 
 XXVI 
 THERE AND BACK 
 
 MY" batman is a man with a grievance. He squats 
 outside my tent all day moodily burnishing my 
 huttons and swears and sighs, sighs and swears. In the 
 words of my groom and countryman, " Ye'd think 
 there'd be a black dog atin' the hearrt in his shest the 
 way he is, the poor scut." 
 
 I learn that he has given out that if he sees a crump 
 coming he'll " Blinkin' well wait for it," that he pre- 
 sented his bosom chum with a black eye gratis, and is 
 declining beer. All this sounds like love, but isn't. 
 This is the way of it. 
 
 Last week after nineteen months' undetected misbe- 
 haviour in the tented field, he was granted ten days' 
 leave. He departed radiant as a May morn, groomed 
 and glittering from spurs to cap badge. 
 
 Within three days he was back again. 
 
 According to his version of the affair, he reached the 
 coast in good order and was given a hearty meal by some 
 ladies in a canteen but lost it in mid-Channel. Owing 
 to mines, air raids, and things both boat and train were 
 scandalously late, but in the end he arrived at Victoria 
 at 6 a.m. still in good order. Outside the station were 
 a number of civilians waiting for soldier relatives. One 
 of them, a small sandy man in a black bowler and tie,
 
 There and Back 155 
 
 very respectable (connected with the retail undertaking 
 trade, my batman says) accosted him and inquired 
 whether anything had been seen of his brother Charlie, 
 a territorial bombardier who was supposed to be coming 
 by that train, but had not materialized. 
 
 My batman could give no information and they fell 
 into a discussion as to what could have happened to 
 Charlie: whether he might have missed the train or 
 fallen off the boat. My batman favoured the latter 
 theory, he had felt very like it himself, he said. One 
 thing led to another and presently the sandy man said : 
 
 " Well, what about it ? " lifting his elbow sug- 
 gestively, and winking. 
 
 My batman said he didn't mind if he did, so they 
 adjourned to a little place near by that the sandy man 
 knew of, and had one or two, the sandy man behaving 
 like a perfect gentleman throughout, standing drink for 
 drink, cigar for cigar. 
 
 At 7 a.m. or thereabouts, the sandy man excused 
 himself on the plea of business (which he explained was 
 very healthy owing to the inclemency of the weather) 
 and betook himself off, my batman returning to Victoria 
 to retrieve his pack. 
 
 By this time his order was not so good as it had been, 
 owing, he thinks, to (a) the excitement of being home 
 again, hearing civilians all talking English and seeing 
 so many intact houses at once; (b) the bereaved state 
 of his stomach. Whatever it was he navigated to the 
 station with difficulty and " comin' over all dizzy like," 
 reclined on a platform bench and closed his eyes.
 
 156 The Mud Larks 
 
 When he opened them again it was to see the white 
 cliffs of Albion rapidly disappearing over the stern rail 
 of a trooper. He closed his eyes again and told himself 
 he was dreaming, but not for long — ^he might deceive 
 his reason but not his stomach. 
 
 He soon saw that he was in mid-Channel going back 
 to France. He sat up on deck and shouted for someone 
 to stop the ship. 
 
 " 'E's come to, Bill," said a familiar voice at his 
 side, and turning, he beheld the cheerful countenances 
 of Frederick Wilkes and William Buck, two stalwarts 
 of " ours " who were returning from leave. 
 
 ]\Iy batman asked Frederick Wilkes what he thought 
 he was doing of. 
 
 " Saving you from six months in clink for over-stay- 
 ing your leaf, ol' dear ! " Frederick replied cheerfully. 
 " Me and Bill found you on the station, blind to the 
 world, so we loaded you on the train and bringed you 
 along. Pretty job we had of it, too, getting you past 
 the red-caps, you slopping about like a lu-natic." 
 
 " Clink! Overstayin' my leaf ! " shrilled my batman. 
 " Gor-blimy ! I ain't 'ad no leaf — I only just landed! " 
 
 " Delerious again, Bill," said Frederick, and Bill 
 nodded. " Of course you've had your leaf, an' a wonder- 
 ful good leaf, too, by the looks of you — blind to the 
 world from start to finish, not knowin' dark from day- 
 light." 
 
 " I'll tell the first E.T.O. I see all about it when I 
 land — you perishin' kidnappers ! " foamed my batman. 
 
 " Ho no, you won't ! " said Frederick, complacently.
 
 There and Back 157 
 
 " "We aren't going to 'ave you runnin' about in your 
 light-'eaded condition disgracin' the regiment — are we, 
 Bill?" 
 
 " jSTot likely," William Buck replied. " We're going 
 to take you back with us, safe and sound if we 'ave to 
 break your neck to do it, an' don't you forget it, oV 
 man ! " 
 
 I think it is extremely improbable that my batman 
 ever will.
 
 158 The Mud Larks 
 
 XXVII 
 
 HOT AIE 
 
 THE scene is a base camp behind the Western Front. 
 In the background is a gravel pit, its brow fringed 
 with j)ines. On the right-hand side is a black hut; 
 against one wall several cast-iron cylinders are leaning; 
 against another several stretchers; behind it a squad of 
 E.A.M.C. orderlies are playing pitch and toss for profit 
 and pleasure. On the left-hand side is a cemetery. 
 
 On the turf in the centre of the stage are some two 
 hundred members of the well-known British family, 
 Atkins. The matter in hand being merely that of life 
 and death those in the rear ranks are whiling away the 
 time by playing crown and anchor. Their less fortunate 
 comrades in the prominence of the front ranks are 
 " havin' a bit 0' shut eye " — in other words are fast 
 asleep sitting up, propped the one against the other. 
 
 Before them stands a Bachelor of Science disguised 
 as a Second Lieutenant. From the green and black 
 brassard about his aiTa and the attar de chlorine and 
 parfum de phosgene which cling about him in a murky 
 aureole one would guess him to be connected with the 
 Gas Service. And one would be quite correct; he is. 
 
 Lecturer : " Ahem ! Pay attention to me, please ; T 
 am going to give you a little chat on Gas. When you go
 
 Hot Air 159 
 
 up the line one of two things must inevitably happen 
 to you; you will either be gassed or you will not. If 
 you are not gassed strict attention to this lecture will 
 enable you to talk as if you had been. On the other 
 hand, if you are gassed it will enable you to distinguish 
 to which variety you succumbed, which will be most in- 
 structive. 
 
 " There are more sorts of gas than one. There is the 
 Home or Domestic Gas, which does odd jobs about the 
 house at a bob a time, and which out here is fed to ob- 
 servation balloons to get them off the earth. There is 
 Laughing Gas, so called from the fun the dentist gets 
 out of his victims while they are under its influence; 
 and lastly there is Hun Gas, which is not so amusing. 
 
 " Three varieties of gas are principally employed by 
 the Hun. The first of these is Chlorine. Chlorine 
 smells like a strong sanitary orderly or weak chloride 
 of lime. The second on our list is Mustard Gas, so 
 called because it smells like garlic. Everything that 
 smells of garlic is not Mustard Gas, however, as a certain 
 British Division which went into the line alongside some 
 of our brave Southern allies regretfully discovered after 
 they had been sweltering in their masks for thirty-six 
 long, long hours. 
 
 " The third and last is Phosgene. Phosgene has a 
 greenish whitish yellowish odour all its own, reminiscent 
 of decayed vegetation, mouldy hay, old clothes, wet hides, 
 burnt feathers, warm mice, polecats, dead mules, boiled 
 cabbage, stewed prunes, sour grapes, or anything else 
 you dislike.
 
 i6o The Mud Larks 
 
 " As all these gases have a depressing effect on the 
 consumer if indulged in too freely the War Office has 
 devised an effective counter-irritant, the scientific won- 
 der of the age, the soldier's friend and multum in parvo 
 — in short, the Respirator-Box. Here you will ob- 
 serve I have a respirator-box as issued to the 
 troops. 
 
 " There are other kinds with lace trimmings and sea- 
 sonable mottoes worked in coloured beads for the use 
 of the Staff; but they do not concern us. Let us now 
 examine the ordinary respirator-box. What do we dis- 
 cover? A neat canvas satchel, knapsack or what-not, 
 which will be found invaluable for the storage of per- 
 sonal knick-knacks, such as soap, knives and forks, socks, 
 iron rations, mouth-organs, field-marshal's batons, etc. 
 Within the satchel (what-not or knapsack) we discover 
 a rubber sponge-bag pierced with motor goggles, a 
 clothes-peg, a foot of garden hose, a baby's teether 
 (chewers among you will find this a comforting sub- 
 stitute for gum), a yard or two of strong twine (first- 
 aid to the braces), a tube of Anti-Dimmer (use it as 
 tooth-paste, your smile will beam more brightly), and 
 a record card, on which you are invited to inscribe your 
 name, age, vote and clubs; your golf, polo and ludo 
 handicaps; complaints as to the cooking or service and 
 any sunny sentiments or epigrams that may occur to 
 you from time to time. 
 
 " Should you be in the line and detect the presence of 
 hostile gas in large numbers your first action should 
 be to don your respirator-box and your second to give
 
 Hot Air i6i 
 
 the alarm. The donning of the respirator is done in 
 five motions by the best people: — 
 
 " 1. Remove the cigarette, chewing-gum or false 
 teeth from the mouth and place it (or them) behind the 
 ear (or ears). 
 
 " 2. Tear the sponge-bag out of the knapsack (what- 
 not or satchel) and slap it boldly on the face as you 
 would a mustard-plaster. 
 
 " 3. Pin it to your nose by means of the clothes-peg. 
 
 " 4. Work the elastics well into the back hair. 
 
 " 5. Swallow the teether and carry on with deep 
 breathing exercises, as done by Swedes, sea-lions and 
 such-like. 
 
 " The respirator once in position, pass the good news 
 on to your comrades by performing fortissimo on one 
 of the numerous alarums with which every nice front 
 line is liberally provided. But please remember that 
 gas alarms are for gas only, and do not let your natural 
 exuberance or love of music carry you away, as it is 
 liable to create a false impression; witness the case of 
 some of our high-spirited Colonials, who, celebrating a 
 national festival (the opening of the whippet racing- 
 season in Xew South Wales) with a full orchestra of 
 Klaxon and Strombos horns, rattles, gongs, shell-cases, 
 tin-cans, sackbuts, psalteries and other instruments of 
 musick, sent every living soul in an entire army area 
 stampeding into their smell-hats, there to remain for 
 forty-eight hours without food, drink or benefit of 
 clergy, 
 
 " Having given you full instructions as to the correct
 
 1 62 The Mud Larks 
 
 method of entering your respirators I will now tell 
 you how to extricate yourselves. You must first be 
 careful to ascertain that there is no gas left about. 
 Tests are usually made (1) with a white mouse, (2) 
 with a canary. 
 
 " If the white mouse turns green there is gas present ; 
 if it don't there ain't. If the canary wags his tail and 
 whistles ' Gee ! ain't it dandy down in Dixie ! ' all is 
 well, but if it wheezes ^ The End of a Perfect Day ' 
 and moults violently, beware, beware ! If through the 
 negligence of the Quartermastering Department you 
 have not been equipped with either mice or canaries do 
 not start sniffing for gas yourselves, but remember that 
 your lives are of value to your King and country and 
 send for an officer. To have first sniff of all gas is one 
 of an officer's privileges ; he hasn't many, but this is one 
 of them and very jealously guarded as such. If an 
 officer should catch you snuffing up all the gas in the 
 neighbourhood he will be justifiably annoyed and peev- 
 ish. 
 
 " Now; having given you all the theory of anti-gas 
 precautions, we will indulge in a little practice. When 
 I shout the word ' Gas ! ' my assistants will distribute 
 a few smoke bombs among you, and every man will don 
 his respirator in five motions and wend his way towards 
 the gas-chamber, entering it by the south door and leav- 
 ing it by the north. Is that quite clear? Then get 
 ready. Gas! " 
 
 Four or five JS'.C.O. Instructors suddenly pop up
 
 Hot Air 163 
 
 out of the gravel pit and bombard the congregation with 
 hissing smoke grenades. The front ranks wake up, 
 spring to their feet in terror and leg it for safety at a 
 stretched gallop, shedding their respirators for lightness' 
 sake as they flee. The rear ranks, who, in spite of them- 
 selves, have heard something of the lecture, burrow 
 laboriously into their masks. Some wear them as hats, 
 some as ear-muffs, some as chest-protectors. 
 
 The smoke rolls over them in heavy yellow billows. 
 
 Shadow shapes, hooded like Spanish inquisitors, may 
 be seen here and there crouched as in prayer, struggling 
 together or groping blindly for the way out. One 
 unfortunate has his head down a rabbit-hole, several 
 blunder over the edge of the gravel pit and are seen no 
 more. 
 
 There is a noise of painful laboured breathing as of 
 grampuses in deep water or pigs with asthma. 
 
 The starchy IST.C.O. Instructors close on the helpless 
 mob and with muffled yelps and wild waving of arms 
 herd them towards the south door of the gas-chamber, 
 push them inside and shoot the bolts. 
 
 The R.A.M.C. Orderlies are busy hauling the bodies 
 out of the north door, loading them on stretchers and 
 trotting them across to the cemetery, at the gates of 
 which stands the Base Burial Officer beamnig welcome. 
 
 The lecturer, seeing the game well in progress, lights 
 a pipe and strolls home to tea.
 
 164 The Mud Larks 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 THE CONVERT 
 
 T FOUND No. 764, Trooper Hartley, W.J., in the 
 -■■ horse lines, sitting on a hay-bale perusing a letter 
 which seemed to give him some amusement. On seeing 
 me he arose, clicked his spurs and saluted. I returned 
 the salute, graciously bidding him carry on. We go 
 through the motions of officer and man very punctili- 
 ously, William and I. In other days, in other lands, 
 our relative positions were easier. 
 
 The ceremonies over I sat down beside him on the 
 hay-bale, and we became Bill and Jim to each other. 
 
 " Did you ever run across Gustav Miiller in the old 
 days ? " William inquired, thumbing a fistful of dark 
 Magliesburg tobacco into his corn-cob incinerator. 
 " ' Mafoota,' the niggers called him, a beefy man with 
 an underdone complexion." 
 
 "' Yes," I said, " he turned up in my district on the 
 Wallaby in 1913 or thereabouts, with nothing in the 
 world but a topee, an army overcoat and a box of parlour 
 magic. Set up as a wizard in Chala's kraal. Used to 
 produce yards of ribbon out of the mouths of the 
 afflicted, and collapsible flower-pots out of their nostrils 
 — casting out devils, you understand. Was scratching 
 together a very comfortable practice; but he began to 
 dabble in black politics, so I moved him on. An en-
 
 The Convert 165 
 
 tertaining old rogue ; I don't know what became of him." 
 William ^Yinked at me through a cloud of blue 
 tobacco smoke. " I do. He went chasing a rainbow's 
 end ISTorth of the Lakes, and I went along with him. 
 You see, Gustav's great-aunt Gretchen appeared to him 
 in a dream and told him there was alluvial gold in a 
 certain river bed, tons of it, easy washing, so we "went 
 after it. We didn't find it; but that's neither here nor 
 there; a man must take a chance now and again, and 
 this was the first time Gustav's great-aunt had let him 
 do^vn. She'd given him the straight tip for two Mel- 
 bourne Cups and a Portugoose lottery in her time. 
 Some girl, great-aunt Gretchen! Anyway there was 
 Gustav and me away up at the tail-end of Nowhere, 
 with the bo}'S yapping for six months' back pay, and we 
 couldn't have bought a feed of hay for a nightmare 
 between us. We just naturally had to do something, 
 
 so " 
 
 " So you just naturally took to poaching ivory," said 
 I, " I know you. Go on." 
 
 William grinned. " Well, a man must live, you 
 know. How'msodever we struck a bonanza vein of 
 mjufu right away and piled up the long white nuggets 
 in a way that would drive you to poetry. A Somali 
 Arab took the stuif from us on the spot, paying us in 
 cattle at a fifty-per-cent discount, which was reasonable 
 enough, seeing that he ran ninety per cent of the risks. 
 Everything sailed along like a beautiful dream. The 
 elephants was that tame they'd eat out of your hand, 
 and you could stroll out and bowl over a dozen of the
 
 1 66 The Mud Larks 
 
 silly blighters before breakfast if you felt in the mood. 
 The police hadn't got our address as yet. The only 
 competitor that threatened got buckshot in his breeches, 
 which changed his mind and direction for him very 
 precipitous. The industry boomed and boomed. 
 
 " ' Another year of this/ says I to myself, ' and I'll 
 retire home and grow roses, drive a pony-trap and be a 
 churchwarden.' 
 
 " Then one day the Arab headman blows into camp, 
 and squatting outside our tent, commences to lamentate 
 and pipe his eye in a way that would make you think 
 he'd ate a skinful of prickly pears. 
 
 " ' What's biting you. Bluebell ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' Allah aJchar! God is good but business is rotten,* 
 says he, and pitches a woeful yarn how that columns of 
 Askaris was marching thither and thence, poking their 
 flat noses in where they wasn't invited; Inglische gun- 
 boats were riding every wave, scaring seven bells out of 
 the coast dhows, and consequently commerce was sent to 
 blazes and a poor man couldn't get an honest living no- 
 how. The long and short of it was that ivory smuggling 
 was off for the period of the War. 
 
 " ' What war, you scum ? ' says Gustav, pricking his 
 freckled ears. ' Who's warring? ' 
 
 " ' The Inglische and Germans, of course,' says the 
 Arab. ' Didn't the B'wana know ? ' 
 
 " ' ISTo, the B'wana doesn't,' says I ; ' our private 
 Marconi outfit is broke dowTi owing to the monkeys 
 swinging on the wires. ITow trot home, you barbarous
 
 The Convert 167 
 
 ape, while me and my colleague throws a ray of pure in- 
 tellect on the problem. Bassi, ' 
 
 "So he soon dismisses at the double and is seen no 
 more in them vicinities. 
 
 " ' Well, partner,' says I to Gustav, ' this is a fair 
 knock-out — what ? ' 
 
 " But Gustav, he grumbles something I couldn't 
 catch and walks off into the bush with his head dovm, 
 afflicted with thought. 
 
 " He didn't come in for supper, so I scoffed his share 
 and turned in. 
 
 " At moonrise I thought I heard a bull elephant trum- 
 peting like he was love-sick, but it wasn't. It was 
 Gustav coming home singing the Wacht am Bhein. He 
 brings up opposite my bed. 
 
 " ' Oh, give over and let the poor lions and leopards 
 snatch some sleep,' says I. 
 
 " ' I was born in Shermany,' says he. 
 
 " ' Don't let that keep you awake, ole man,' says I. 
 * What saith the prophet ? " If a cat kittens on a fish- 
 plate they ain't necessarily herrings." ' 
 
 " ' I'm a Sherman,' says he. 
 
 " ' You've been so long with white men that nobody'd 
 know it,' says I. ' Forget it, and I won't tell on you. 
 Why, you ain't seen Shermany these thirty years, and 
 you wouldn't know a squarehead if you was to trip over 
 one. Go to bed, Mr. Caruso.' 
 
 " ' Well, I'm going to be a mighty good Sherman 
 now, to make up for lost time,' says he grim-like, ' and
 
 1 68 The Mud Larks 
 
 in case you got any objections I'll point out that you've 
 the double express proximitous to your stomach.' 
 
 " He had me bailed up all right. Arguments weren't 
 no use with the cuss. ' I'm a Sherman ' was all he'd 
 say; and next day we starts to hoof it to Germany ter- 
 ritory, me promenading in front calling Gustav every 
 name but his proper one, and him marching behind, 
 prodding me in the back with the blunderbuss. He dis- 
 enjoyed that trip even. more than I did; he had to step 
 behind me all day for fear I'd dodge him into the bush ; 
 and he sat up all night for fear the boys would rescue 
 me. He got as red-eyed as a bear and his figure dropped 
 off him in bucketfuls. 
 
 " At the end of a month we crossed the border and hit 
 the trail of the Deutscher — burnt villages everywhere, 
 with the mutilated bodies of women and picaninnies ly- 
 ing about, stakes driven through 'em, Waugh ! 
 
 " ' Are you still a Sherman ? ' I asks ; but Gustav 
 says nothing; he'd gone a bit white about the gills all 
 the same. Then one morning we tumbles into one of 
 their columns and the game is up. I was given a few 
 swipes with a I'ihoJco for welcome and hauled before the 
 Commander, a little short cove with yellow hair, a hand- 
 carved jaw and spectacles. He diagnosed my case as 
 serious, prescribed me some more hiboho, and I was 
 hove into a grass hut under guard, pending the obse- 
 quies. 
 
 " The Officers called Gustav a good sport, gave him 
 a six-by-four cigar and took him off to dinner. I noticed 
 he looked back at me once or twice. So I sits down in
 
 The Convert 169 
 
 the hut and meditates on some persons' sense of humour, 
 with a big Askari buck padding it up and down outside, 
 ■whiling awaj the sunny hours with a bit of disembowel- 
 ling practice on his bayonet. 
 
 " A couple of days flits by while the column is away 
 spreading the good word with fire and stake. Then on 
 the third night I hears a scuffle outside the hut, and 
 the Askari comes somersaulting backwards through the 
 grass wall like as if an earthquake had butted him in the 
 brisket. He gave a couple of kicks and stretched out 
 like as if he was tired. 
 
 " ' Whist ! Is that you, Bill ? ' comes a whisper 
 through the hole. 
 
 " ' What's left of me,' says I. ' Who are you ? ' 
 
 " ' Me — Gustav,' says the whisperer. 
 
 " ' What's the antic this time ? Capturing n^e 
 again ? ' says I. 
 
 " ' Xo, I'm rescuing you now,' says he. 
 
 " ' The devil you are,' says I, and with that I glided 
 out through the hole and followed him on my stomach. 
 A sentry gave tongue at the scrub-edge, but Gustav rose 
 up out of the grass and bumped him behind the ear and 
 we went on. 
 
 " ' Well, you're a lovely quick-change artist, captur- 
 ing a bloke one moment and rescuing him the next-,' 
 says I presently. ' What's come over you ? Ain't you 
 a Sherman no more ? ' 
 
 " Gustav gi-oans as if his heart was broke. ' I've 
 been away thirty years. I didn't know they was like 
 that ; I'd forgotten. Oh, my Gawd, what swine ! ' He
 
 lyo The Mud Larks 
 
 spits like a man that has bit sour beer, and we ran on 
 again." 
 
 " Didn't they chase you ? " I asked. 
 
 William nodded. 
 
 " But they couldn't catch two old bush-bucks like us, 
 and the next day we fell in with a British column that 
 was out hunting them. 'Twas a merry meeting. Grustav 
 enlisted with the Britishers on the spot." 
 
 William tapped the travel-soiled letter in his hand. 
 " This is from him. He's down in Nairobi, wounded. 
 He says he's sitting up taking nourishment, and that 
 great-aunt Gretchen has appeared to him again and 
 showed him a diamond pipe in the Khali Hari, which 
 will require a bit of looking into apres la guerre — if 
 there ever is any apres." 
 
 I
 
 A Rest Cure 171 
 
 XXIX 
 A REST CUEE 
 
 NOT long ago a notice appeared in Part II Orders 
 to the effect that our Army had established a Rest 
 Home at X where invalid officers might be sent for a 
 week's recuperation. 
 
 Now X is a very pleasant place, consisting of a crowd 
 of doll's-house chalets set between cool pine-woods and 
 the sea. 
 
 The chalets are labelled variously " Villa des Roses," 
 " Les Hirondelles," " Sans Souci," and so on, and in 
 the summertimes of happier years swarmed with com- 
 fortable bourgeois, bare-legged children and Breton 
 nannas ; but in these stern days a board above the gate 
 of " Villa des Roses " announces that the Assistant- 
 Director of Agi-iculture may be found within meditating 
 on the mustard-and-cress crop, while " Les Hirondelles " 
 and " Sans Souci " harbour respectively the Base Press 
 Censor (whose tar-brush hovered over this perfectly 
 priceless article) and a platoon of the D.L.O.L.R.R.V.R. 
 (Duchess of Loamshire's Own Ladies' Rabbit Rearing 
 Volunteer Reserve). 
 
 X, as I said before, is an exceedingly pleasant place; 
 you may lean out of the window o' mornings and watch 
 the D.L.O.L.R.R.V.R.'s Sergeant-Majoress putting her 
 platoon through Swedish monkey motions, and in the
 
 172 The Mud Larks 
 
 afternoons you can recline on the sands and watch them 
 sporting in the glad sea-waves (telescopes protruding 
 from the upper windows of " Villa des Roses " and 
 " Sans Souci " suggesting that the A.D.A. and the 
 B.P.C. are similarly employed). 
 
 The bctween-whiles may be spent lapping up ozone 
 from the sea, resin from the pine-woods, and champagne 
 cocktails which Marie-Louise mixes so cunningly in the 
 little cafe round the corner; and what with one thing 
 and another the invalid officer goes pig-jumping back to 
 the line fit to mince whole brigades of Huns with his 
 bare teeth. 
 
 X, you will understand, is a very admirable institu- 
 tion, and when we heard about this Rest Home we 
 were all for it and tried to cultivate fur on the tongue, 
 capped hocks and cerebral meningitis; but the Skipper 
 hardened his heart against us and there was nothing 
 doing. 
 
 Then one morning MacTavish came over all dithery- 
 like in the lines, fell up against a post, smashed his 
 wrist-watch and would have brained himself had that 
 been possible. 
 
 He picked himself up, apologised for making a fool 
 of himself before the horses, patched his scalp with 
 plaster from his respirator, borrowed my reserve watch 
 " Pretty Polly," and carried on. 
 
 " Pretty Polly " can do two laps to any other 
 watch's one without turning a hair-spring. Externally 
 she looks very much like any other mechanical pup the 
 Ordnance sells you for eleven francs net; her secret 
 
 i
 
 A Rest Cure 173 
 
 lies in her spring, which, I imagine, must have been in- 
 tended for " Big Ben/' but sprang into the wrong chassis 
 by mistake. 
 
 At all events as soon as it is wound up it lashes out 
 left and right with such violence that the whole machine 
 leaps with the shock of its internal strife and hops about 
 on the table after the manner of a Mexican dancing 
 bean, clucking like an ostrich that has laid twins. 
 
 It will be gathered that my " Pretty Polly " is not 
 the ultimate syllable in the way of accuracy, but as Mac- 
 Tavish seemed to want her and had been kind to me in 
 the way of polo-sticks, I handed her over without a mur- 
 mur. 
 
 The same afternoon MacTavish came over dithery 
 again, dived into a heap of bricks and knocked himself 
 out for the full count 
 
 We put him to bed and signalled the Vet. The Vet 
 reported that MacTavish's temperature was well above 
 par and booming. He went on to state that MacTavish 
 was suffering from P.U.O. (which is Spanish for 
 " flu ") and that he probably wouldn't weather the 
 night. 
 
 The Skipper promptly 'phoned O.C. Burials, inviting 
 him to dine next evening, and Albert Edward wired his 
 tailor, asking what was being worn in headstones. 
 
 William, our Mess President, took up a position by 
 the sick man's side in hopes he would regain conscious- 
 ness for long enough to settle his mess-bill, and the rest 
 of us spent the evening recalling memories of poor old 
 Mac, his many sterling qualities, etc.
 
 174 The Mud Larks 
 
 Howev^er, next morning a batman poked his head 
 into the Mess and said could Mr. MacTavish have a 
 little whisky, please, he was fancying it, and anyway 
 you couldn't force none of that there grool down him 
 not if you was to use a drenching bit. 
 
 At noon the batman was back to say that Mr. Mac- 
 Tavish was fancying a cigarette now, also a loan of the 
 gramophone and a few cheerful records. 
 
 The Skipper promptly 'phoned postponing O.C. 
 Burials, and Albert Edward wired his tailor, changing 
 his order to that of a canary waistcoat. 
 
 That evening MacTavish tottered into the Mess and 
 managed to surround a little soup, a brace of cutlets 
 and a bottle of white wine without coming over dithery 
 again. 
 
 But for all that he was not looking his best; he 
 weaved in his walk, his eye was dull, his nose hot, his 
 ear cold and drooping, and the Skipper, gazing upon 
 him, remembered the passage in Part II Orders and 
 straightway sat down and applied that MacTavish be 
 sent to X at once, adding such a graphic pen-picture of 
 the invalid (most of it copied from a testimonial to 
 somebody's backache pills) as to reduce us to tears and 
 send MacTavish back to his bed badly shaken to hear 
 how ill he'd been. 
 
 The Skipper despatched his pen-picture to H.Q. and 
 forgot all about it, and so did H.Q. apparently, for we 
 heard nothing further, and in due course forgot all about 
 it ourselves, and in the meanwhile MacTavish got back
 
 A Rest Cure 175 
 
 into form, and MacTavish in form is no shrinking lily 
 be it said. 
 
 He has a figure which tests every stitch in his Sam 
 Browne, a bright blue eye and a complexion which an 
 external application of mixed weather and an internal 
 application of tawny port has painted the hue of the 
 beetroot. 
 
 Then suddenly, like a bomb from the blue, an ambu- 
 lance panted up to the door and presented a H.Q. chit 
 to the effect that the body of MacTavish be delivered 
 to it at once to bear off to X. 
 
 The Skipper at the time was out hacking and Albert 
 Edward was in charge; he sent an orderly flying to 
 MacTavish, who rolled in from his tent singing " My 
 Friend John " at the top of his voice and looking more 
 like an over-fed beetroot than ever. 
 
 " Dash it all, I don't want to go to their confounded 
 mortuary," he shouted ; " never felt fitter in my life. I 
 can't go ; I won't go ! " 
 
 " You'll have to," said Albert Edward; ''can't let the 
 Skipper down after that pen-picture he wrote ; the Staff 
 would never believe another word he said. No, Mac- 
 Tavish, my son, you'll have to play the game and go." 
 
 " But, you ass, look at him," wailed the Babe ; " look 
 at his ruddy, ruby, tomato-ketchup, plum-and-apple 
 complexion. What are you going to do about that ? " 
 
 " I'll settle his complexion," replied Albert Edward 
 grimly ; " tell his man to toss his tooth-brush into the 
 meat-waggon ; and you, Mac, come with me." 
 
 He led the violently protesting MacTavish into the
 
 176 The Mud Larks 
 
 kitchen. The cook tells me Albert Edward pounded two 
 handfuls of flour into M.acTavish's complexion and 
 filled his eye-sockets up with coal-dust, and I quite be- 
 lieve the cook, for in five minutes' time I came on Albert 
 Edward dragging what I at first took to be the body of 
 a dead Pierrot down the passage towards the waiting 
 ambulance, at the same time exhorting it to play the 
 game and wobble for the Skipper's sake. 
 
 The wretched MacTavish, choking with flour and 
 blinded with coal-dust, wobbled like a Clydesdale with 
 the staggers. 
 
 I saw a scared R.x\.M.C. orderly bound out of the 
 car and assist Albert Edward to hoist MacTavish 
 aboard, trip him up and pin him down on a stretcher. 
 Then the ambulance coughed swiftly out of sight. 
 
 The allotted week passed but no MacTavish came 
 bounding back to us like a giant refreshed with great 
 draughts of resin, and we grew anxious ; which anxiety 
 did not abate when, in reply to the Skipper's inquiries, 
 the Rest Home authorities wired denying all knowledge 
 of him. 
 
 Goodness knows what we should have done if a letter 
 from MacTavish himself had not arrived next morning, 
 to say that he had lain on his back in the ambulance dig- 
 ging coal-dust out of his eyes and coughing up flour till 
 the car stopped, not, to his surprise, at the Rest Home, 
 but at a Casualty Clearing Station. 
 
 Some snuffling R.A.M.C. orderlies bore him teilderly 
 to a tent and a doctor entered, also snuffling. Mac- 
 Tavish is of the opinion that the whole of the medical
 
 A Rest Cure 177 
 
 staff bad P.U.O., and the doctor was the sickest of the 
 lot and far from reliable. 
 
 At all events, on seeing MacTavisb's face, be ejacu- 
 lated a bronchial " Good Lord ! " and tearing MacTav- 
 isb's tunic open, stuck a trumpet against bis tummy and 
 listened for the ticks. 
 
 Apparently be beard something sensational, for be 
 wheezed another " Good Lord ! " and decorated Mac- 
 Tavish with a scarlet label. 
 
 Within an hour our hero found himself on board a 
 Red Cross train en route for the coast. 
 
 There were a lot of cheerful wounded on the bus, 
 getting all the soup and jelly they wanted; but Mac- 
 Tavisb got only lukewarm milk and precious little of 
 that. From scraps of bushed conversation be caught 
 here and there be gathered that bis life bung by a thread. 
 
 He was feeling very bewildered and depressed, be 
 said, but, remembering bis duty to the Skipper, played 
 the game and kept body and soul together on drips of 
 jelly surreptitiously begged from the cheerful wounded. 
 
 !N^ext morning be found himself in hospital in Eng- 
 land, where be still remains. He says he has been 
 promoted from warm milk to cold slops, but is still 
 liable to die at any moment, be understands. 
 
 He has discovered that be was sent home with " gal- 
 loping heart disease," but nobody in the hospital can get 
 even a trot out of it, and boards of learned physicians 
 sit on him all day long, their trumpets planted on his 
 tummy listening for the ticks. 
 
 MacTavish says be thinks it improbable that they
 
 178 The Mud Larks 
 
 ever will hear any ticks now, for the excellent reason 
 that he threw the cause thereof — my " Pretty Polly," 
 to wit — out of the window the day he arrived. 
 
 In a postscript he adds that he considers he has played 
 the game far enough, and that if the Skipper doesn't 
 come and bail him out soon he'll bite the learned physi- 
 cians, kiss the nurses, sing " My Priend John '^ and 
 disgrace the Eegiment for ever.
 
 The Harriers (I) 179 
 
 XXX 
 
 THE HAREIERS (I) 
 
 fTHHE Boche having lately done a retreat — " strategic 
 -■" retirement," " tactical adjustment/' " elastic eva- 
 sion," or whatever Ludendorff is calling it this week — 
 in plain words the Boche, having gloriously trotted 
 baclnvards off a certain slice of France, Albert Edward 
 and I found ourselves attached to a Corps II.Q. operat- 
 ing in a wilderness of grass-grown fields, ruined villages 
 and smoking chateaux. 
 
 One evening Albert Edward loitered up to the hen- 
 house I was occupying at the time and chatted to me 
 through the wires as I shaved. 
 
 " Put up seventeen hares and ten covey of partridges 
 visiting outposts to-day — take my advice and scrap that 
 moustache while you're about it, it must be a heavy 
 drain on your system — and twenty hares and four covey 
 riding home. Do you find lathering the ears improves 
 their growth, or what ? " 
 
 " The country is crawling with game," said I, ignor- 
 ing his personalities, " and here we are hanging body 
 and soul together on bully and dog biscuit." 
 
 " Exactly," said Albert Edward, " and in the mean- 
 while the festive lapin breeds and breeds. Has it ever 
 occurred to you that, if something isn't done soon, we'll 
 have Australia's sad story over again here in Picardy ?
 
 i8o The Mud Larks 
 
 Give the rabbits a chance and in no time they'll have 
 eaten off all the crops in France. Why, on the Burra 
 I've seen " 
 
 " One moment," said I ; " if I listen to your South 
 Australian rabbit story again you've got to listen to 
 my South African locust yarn ; it's only fair." 
 
 " Oh, shut up," Albert Edward growled ; " can't you 
 understand this question is deadly serious ? " 
 
 " Best put the Tanks on to 'em then," I suggested ; 
 " they'd enjoy themselves, and the Waterloo Cup 
 wouldn't be in it — Captain Monkey- Wrench's brindled 
 whippet, ' Sardine Tin,' 6 to 4 ; Major Spanner's ' Pig 
 Iron,' 7 to 2 ; even money the field." 
 
 " Your humour is a trifle strained," said Albert Ed- 
 ward ; " if you're not careful you'll crack a joke at the 
 expense of a tendon one of these days." 
 
 " Look here," said I, wiping the blood off my safety- 
 razor, " you're evidently struggling to give expression 
 to some heavy brain wave ; out with it." 
 
 " What about a pack of harriers ? " said Albert Ed- 
 ward. " There must be swarms of sportive tykes about, 
 faithful Fidos that have stuck to the dear old homestead 
 through thick and thin, also refugee animals that follow 
 the sweet-scented infantry cookers. I've got my old 
 hunting-horn ; you've got your old crop ; between the two 
 we ought to be able to mobilize 'em a bit and put the 
 wind up these dam hares. I'm going to try anyway. 
 I may say I look on it as a duty." 
 
 " Looked on in that light it's a sacred duty,*' said
 
 The Harriers (I) i8i 
 
 I ; " and — er — incidentally we might reap a haunch of 
 hare out of it now and again, mightn't we? " 
 
 " Incidentally, yes," said Albert Edward, " and a 
 trifle of sport into the bargain — incidentally." 
 
 So we set about collecting a pack there and then by 
 offering our servants five francs per likely dog and no 
 questions asked. 
 
 Xo questions were asked, but I have a strong suspicion 
 that our gentlemen were up all night and that there 
 were dark deeds done in the dead of it, for the very next 
 evening my groom and countryman presented us with a 
 bill for forty-five francs. 
 
 The dogs, he informed us, were kennelled " in a little 
 shmall place the like of an ice-house " at the northern 
 extremity of the chateau grounds, and that " anyway a 
 blind man himself couldn't miss them wid the screechin' 
 an' hollerin' they are afther raisin' be dint of the con- 
 finement." 
 
 I had an appointment with the Q. Staff (to explain 
 why I had indented for sixty-four horse rations while 
 only possessing thirty-two horses, the excuse that they 
 all enjoyed very healthy appetites apparently not suf- 
 ficing), so Albert Edward went forth to inspect the 
 pack alone. 
 
 He came into Mess very late, looking hot and dis- 
 hevelled. 
 
 " My word, they've looted a blooming menagerie," 
 he panted in my ear ; " still, couldn't expect to pick 
 Pytchley puppies off every bush, I suppose.'^ 
 
 " What have they got, actually ? " I inquired.
 
 1 82 The Mud Larks 
 
 " Two couple of Belgian light-draught dogs — you 
 know, the kind they hitch on to any load too heavy for 
 a horse — an asthmatic beagle, an anaemic bloodhound, 
 a domesticated wolf, an unfrocked poodle, and a sort 
 of dropsical pug." 
 
 " WTiat on earth is the pug for ? " I asked. 
 
 " Luck," said Albert Edward. " Your henchman 
 says ' them kind of little dogs do be bringing ye luck,' 
 and backs it up with a very convincing yam of an 
 uncle of his in Bally-something who had a lucky dog — 
 ' as like this wan here as two spits, except maybe for 
 the least little curliness of the tail ' — which provided 
 complete immunity from ghosts, witches' evil and in- 
 growing toe-nails, I thought it cheap at five francs." 
 
 " But, good Lord, that lot'll never hunt hares," I 
 protested. 
 
 " Won't they ? " said Albert Edward grimly. " With 
 the only meal they'll ever see prancing along in front 
 of them, and you and me prancing along behind scourg- 
 ing 'em with scorpions, I rather fancy they will. By 
 the way, I know you won't mind, but I've had to shift 
 your bed out under the chestnut-tree; it's really quite a 
 good tree as trees go." 
 
 " But why can't I stop in my hen-house ? " I objected. 
 
 " Because I've just moved the pack there," said he. 
 
 " But why ? " I went on. " What's the matter with 
 the ice-house ? " 
 
 "That's just it," he hissed in my ear; "it isn't an 
 ice-house — never was; it's the De Valcourt family 
 vault."
 
 The Harriers (I) 183 
 
 The next day being propitious, we decided to bold our 
 first meet tbat evening, and issued a few invitations. 
 The Veterinary Bloke and tbe Field Casbier promised 
 to sbow up, likewise tbe Padre, once tbe sacredness of 
 our cause bad been explained to bim. 
 
 At noon " stables " Albert Edward reported tbe pack 
 in fine fettle. " Kicking up a fearful din and look 
 desperate enougb to bunt a boly angel," said be. " At 
 five o'clock, me lad, Hard forrard ! Tally-bo ! and Odds- 
 boddikins! " 
 
 However at 4.45 p.m., just as I was mounting, be 
 appeared in my lines wearing slacks and a very down- 
 cast expression. 
 
 " Wasb-out," be growled ; " tbeyVe been fed and 
 are now lying about, blown up and dead to tbe 
 world." 
 
 " But wbo tbe devil fed tbem ? " I tbundered. 
 
 " Tbey fed tbemselves," said Albert Edward. " Tbey 
 ate tbe blooming lucky dog at balf-past four." 
 
 We tberefore postponed tbe bunt until tbe morrow; 
 but cannibalism (so cannibals assure me), once indulged 
 in, becomes as absorbing as morpbia or jig-saws, and 
 at two-fifteen tbe next afternoon my groom reported tlie 
 beagle to bave gone tbe way of tbe pug, and tbe pack 
 once more dead to tbe world. 
 
 Tbere was nothing for it but to postpone tbe sbow 
 yet again, and tie up each bound separately as a pre- 
 caution against further orgies. 
 
 However it seemed to bave become a habit with 
 them, for the moment tbey were unleashed on tbe even-
 
 184 The Mud Larks 
 
 ing of the third day they turned as one dog upon the 
 poodle, 
 
 I wiped the bloodhound's nose for him with a deft 
 swipe of my whip lash, and Albert Edward's charger 
 anchored the domesticated wolf by treading firmly on its 
 tail, all of which served to give the fugitive a few sec- 
 onds' start; and then a wave of mad dog dashed be- 
 tween our horses' legs and was on his trail screaming 
 for gore. 
 
 The poodle heard the scream and did not dally, but 
 got him hence with promptitude and agility. He 
 streaked across the orchard, leading by five lengths ; but 
 the good going across the park reduced his advantage. 
 He dived through the fence hard pressed and, with the 
 bloodhound's hot breath singeing his tail feathers, leaped 
 into the back of a large farm-cart which happened, provi- 
 dentially for him, to be meandering down the broad 
 highway. 
 
 In the shafts of the cart was a sleepy fat Percheron 
 mare. On the seat was a ponderous farmeress, up- 
 holstered in respectable black and crowned with a bead 
 bonnet They were probably making a sentimental ex- 
 cursion to the ruins of their farm. I know not; but I 
 do know that the fat mare was suddenly shocked out of a 
 pleasant drowse to find herself the centre of a frenzied 
 pack of wolves, bloodhounds and other dog-hooligans, 
 and, not liking the look of things, promptly bolted. 
 
 Albert Edward and I dropped over the low hedge 
 to see the cart disappearing down the road in a whirl 
 of dust pursued by our vociferous harriers.
 
 The Harriers (I) 185 
 
 The fat farmeress, her bonnet wobbling over one ear, 
 was tugging manfully at the reins and howling to Saint 
 Lazarus of Artois to put on the brakes. Over the tail- 
 board protruded the head of the poodle, yelping derision 
 at his baffled enemies. 
 
 People will tell you Percherons cannot gallop; can't 
 they ? Believe me that grey mare flitted like a startled 
 gazelle. At all events she was too good for our pack, 
 whom we came upon a mile distant, lying on their backs 
 in a ditch, too exhausted to do anything but put their 
 tongues out at us, while far away we could see a small 
 cloud of dust careering on towards the horizon. 
 
 " God help the Traffic Controlman at the next 
 corner," Albert Edward mused; "he'll never know 
 what struck him. "Well, that was pretty cheery while 
 it lasted, what ? To see that purler the Padre took over 
 the garden-wall was alone worth the money." 
 
 " Oh, well, I suppose we'd best herd these perishers 
 home to kennels while they're still too weak to protest 
 Come on." 
 
 " And in the meanwhile the festive lapin breeds and 
 breeds," said Albert Edward.
 
 1 86 The Mud Larks 
 
 XXXI 
 
 THE HARRIEES (II) 
 
 ALBERT EDWARD and I were seated on a log out- 
 ^side the hen-house which kennelled our pack when 
 we perceived Algy, the A.D.C., tripping daintily to- 
 wards us. Albert Edward blew a kiss. " Afternoon, 
 Algy. How chit he looks in his pink and all ! Tell me, 
 do people ever mistake you for a cinema attendant and 
 give you peimies ? " 
 
 " Afternoon, Algy," said I. " Been spending a 
 strenuous morn carrying the old man's respirator — ^with 
 his lunch inside ? " 
 
 For answer Algy tipped me backwards off the log, 
 and sitting down in my place, contemplated our hounds 
 for some seconds. 
 
 " And are these the notorious Hare-'em Scare-'ems ? " 
 he inquired. 
 
 I nodded. " Yessir ; absolutely the one and only pack 
 of harriers operating in the war zone. Guaranteed gun- 
 broke, shell-shocked, shrapnel-pitted and bullet-bitten." 
 
 Algy sniffed. " What's that big brute over in the 
 corner, he of the crumpled face and barbed smile? 
 Looks like a bloodhound." 
 
 "Is a bloodhound," said Albert Edward. "If you 
 don't believe me step inside and behave like raw rump 
 steak for a moment."
 
 The Harriers (II) 187 
 
 Algy pointed bis cane. " And that creature 
 industriously delousing itself? That's a wolf, of 
 course ? " 
 
 "Its wolfery is only skin-deep," said I. "A grey 
 gander all but annihilated it yesterday. In my opinion 
 it's a sheep in wolf's clothing." 
 
 Algy wagged his cane, indicating the remaining two 
 couples. 
 
 " And these ? \Vhat breed would you call them ? " 
 
 Albert Edward grunted. " You could call them any 
 breed you like and be partly right. We've named them 
 ' The Maconochies,' which, being interpreted, meaneth a 
 little of everything." 
 
 " And how many hares have you killed ? " Algy in- 
 quired. 
 
 " We haven't exactly killed any as yet," said I, 
 " but we've put the breeze up 'em ; their moral is very 
 low." 
 
 " Well, my bold Nimrods," said Algy, " I'm sorry 
 to say the game is up." 
 
 " What do you mean by ' game ' ? " objected Albert 
 Edward. " I've told you before that this is a serious 
 attempt to avert a plague of rodents. Why, in Australia 
 I've seen " 
 
 Algy held up his hand. 
 
 " I know, I know. But some people who have not 
 enjoyed your harrowing Colonial experience are a trifle 
 sceptical. Listen. Last evening, as I was driving home 
 with the old man through Vaux-le-Tour, whom should I 
 see but you two sportsmen out on the hillside riding
 
 1 88 The Mud Larks 
 
 down a hare, followed at some distance hy three mounted 
 bargees " 
 
 "The Padre, the Field Cashier and O.C. Bugs," 
 Albert Edward explained. '" We're making men of 
 'em. Go on." 
 
 — " followed at a still greater distance," continued 
 Algy, " bv a raging band of mongrels. By the way, 
 don't you get your hunt the wrong way round, the cart 
 before the horse, so to speak? I always thought it 
 customary for the hounds to go first." 
 
 " In some cases the hare wouldn't know it was being 
 hunted if they did," said I. " This is one of them. 
 Forge ahead." 
 
 " Well, so far so good ; the old gent was drowsing in 
 his corner and there was no harm done." 
 
 " So you gave him a dig in the ribs, I suppose, and 
 bleated, ' Oh, look at naughty boys chasing ickle bunny 
 wabbit ! ' " sneered Albert Edward. 
 
 Algy wagged his head. " 'Not me. You woke him 
 up yourself, my son, by tootling on your little tin 
 trumpet. He heard it through his dreams, shot up 
 with a ' Good Lord, what's that ? ' popped his head 
 out of the window and saw the brave cavalcade 
 reeling out along the sky-line like a comic movie. 
 He drank in the busy scene, then turned to me and 
 said " 
 
 Albert Edward interrupted. " I know exactly what 
 he said. He said, ' Algy, me boy, that's the spirit. 
 Vive le sport! How it reminds us of our young days in 
 the Peninsular! Oft-times has our cousin of Welling-
 
 The Harriers (II) 189 
 
 ton remarked to us how Waterloo was won on the play- 
 ing ' " 
 
 Algy cut off the flow and continued with his piece. 
 " He said to me, ' God bless my soul, if those young 
 devils aren't galloping a hare ! ' I said, ' Sir, they 
 maintain that they are doing good work by averting a 
 threatened plague of rodents, a state of affairs which has 
 proved very detrimental to the Anti-podes.' 
 
 " ' Threatened plague of grandmothers ! ' replied the 
 old warrior. ' They're enjoying themselves, that's what 
 they're doing — having a splendid time. Mind you, 
 I've no objection to you young chaps amusing your- 
 selves in secret, but this is too damn flagrant altogether. 
 Just imagine the hullabaloo in the House if word of 
 these goings-on got home. " B.E.F. enjoying them- 
 selves ! Don't they know there's a war on ? ChercJiez 
 le general and off with his head ! " Trot round and see 
 your dog-fancying friends and tell 'em that if they're 
 fond of good works I recommend crochet.' Thus the 
 General. I must be off now, got to take the old bird up 
 to have a peep at the War. Good-byee." 
 
 Algy tripped daintily off home again, twirling his 
 cane and whistling cheerfully. Sourly we watched him 
 depart. 
 
 " I believe that youth positively revels in spreading 
 gloom," Albert Edward growled. " Oh, well, I sup- 
 pose we'll have to get rid of the dogs now. Orders is 
 orders." 
 
 " But do you think they'll go ? " I asked. " We've 
 been feeding 'em occasionally of late."
 
 190 The Mud Larks 
 
 " We'll herd 'em down to where they can get wind 
 of the infantry cookers," said Albert Edward ; " once 
 they sniff the rare old stew they'll forget all about us." 
 
 Accordingly an hour later we released our pack from 
 the hen-house for the last time. They immediately gave 
 chase to an errant tabby kitten, which threw off a noise 
 like many siphons and shot up a tree, baffling them 
 completely. We speedily herded them out of the 
 chateau grounds, Albert Edward ambling in front, 
 wringing mournful music out of his horn, and I bring- 
 ing up the rear, snapping my whip-cracker under the 
 sterns of the laggards. We had no sooner left the park 
 for the open grass country beyond when up jumped a 
 buck hare, right from under our feet, and away went 
 the pack rejoicing, bass and falsetto. 
 
 Albert Edward tugged his excited mare to a standstill. 
 " Look at those blighters ! " he shouted. ^' Hunting noses 
 down in pukka style for the first time, just because they 
 know we can't follow them. Oh, this is too much ! " 
 
 " I don't see why we shouldn't follow them at a 
 distance," said L " We can pretend there's no con- 
 nection — there is no connection really, we didn't lay 
 'em on. They're hunting on their own. We're just out 
 for a ride." 
 
 Albert Edward winked an eye at me and gave his 
 mare her head. The pack by this time was well across 
 the plain, the wolf leading, noisily supported by the 
 Maconochies and the bloodhound. Thrice the hare 
 turned clear and squatted, but, thanks to the blood dog's 
 infallible nose, he was ousted each time and pushed on, 
 
 Jll
 
 The Harriers (II) 191 
 
 failing visibly. He made a sharp curve towards the 
 ■windmill, and Albert Edward and I topped the miller's 
 fence in time to see the Maconochies roll him over among 
 the weeds. We also saw something on the highway be- 
 hind the mill which we had not previously noticed, 
 namely a grey Limousine. On a fallen tree by the way- 
 side sat the General, his face as highly coloured as his 
 hat. Towards us down the garden-path tripped Algy, 
 twirling his cane and whistling cheerily. Albert Ed- 
 ward groaned. 
 
 " Something in the demeanour of yon youth tells 
 me he beareth our death-warrants. Here, you hold the 
 horses while I feed the guillotine. This is by far, far 
 the best thing that I have ever done." 
 
 He slung his reins and tottered to his doom. I 
 watched him approach within five yards of the old man 
 when a strange thing happened. The General suddenly 
 uttered a loud cry and, leaping to his feet, commenced 
 to dance up and down the road, tearing and belabouring 
 himself and swearing so outrageously that I had diffi- 
 culty in holding the horses. His chauffeur and Algy 
 rushed to his side, and they and Albert Edward grouped 
 in a sympathetic circle while he danced and raved and 
 beat himself in their midst. Presently the air seemed 
 to bo full of flying tunics, shirts, camisoles, etc., and a 
 second later I beheld the extraordinary spectacle of a 
 Lieutenant-General dancing practically nude (expecting 
 for his cap and boots) in the middle of a French high- 
 way, while two subalterns and a private smacked him 
 all over, and most heartily. For nearly a minute it
 
 192 The Mud Larks 
 
 continued, and then lie seemed to get himself under 
 control and was led away by Algy to his car, the chauf- 
 feur following, retrieving apparel off trees and bushes. 
 Albert Edward, one quivering smirk, wobbled up and 
 took his reins. " By Jove! saved again. He can't very 
 well bite the hand that spanked hira, can he ? " 
 
 " But what on earth was the matter ? " I asked. " A 
 fit, religious mania, a penance — ^what ? " 
 
 " He sat on a waspodrome," said Albert Edward, 
 " and they got on his tail."
 
 The Camera Cannot Lie 193 
 
 XXXII 
 THE CAMERA CAKjS^OT LIE 
 
 WHEX I was young I was extremely handsome. 
 I have documentary evidence to prove as much. 
 There is in existence a photograph of a young gentle- 
 man standing with his back to a raging seascape, one 
 hand resting lightly on a volume of Shakespeare, which 
 in turn is supported hy a rustic table. The young 
 gentleman has wide innocent eyes, a rosebud mouth 
 and long golden curls (the sort poor dear old Komney 
 used to do so nicely). For the rest he is tastefully 
 upholstered in a short-panted velvet suit, a lace collar 
 and white silk socks. ''Little Lord Fauntleroy," you 
 murmur to yourself. Xo, Sir (or Madam), it is me — 
 or was me, rather. When I was young no girl thought 
 herself properly married unless I was present at the 
 ceremony, got up like a prize rabbit and tethered to the 
 far end of her train. Xowadays I am not so handsome. 
 True, you can urge a horse past me without blindfolding 
 it and all that, but nobody ever mistakes me for Maxiue 
 Elliott. 
 
 Personally I was quite willing to be represented at 
 the Xational Portrait Gallery by a coloured copy of the 
 presentment described above, but my home authorities 
 thought otherwise, and when last I was in England on 
 leave — shortly after the Battle of Agincourt — they
 
 194 The Mud Larks 
 
 shooed me off to Valpre. " Go to Valpre," thej said ; 
 " he is so artistic." So to Valpre I went, and 
 was admitted by a handmaid who waved a white hand 
 vaguely towards a selection of doors, murmuring, " Wait 
 there, please." I opened the nearest door at a venture 
 and entered. 
 
 In the waiting-room three other handmaids were at 
 work on photographs. One was painting dimples on a 
 lady's cheek ; one filling in gaps in a Second-Lieutenant's 
 moustache; one straightening the salient of a stock- 
 broker's waistcoat. Presently the first handmaid re- 
 appeared and somewhat curtly (I was waiting in the 
 wrong room, it seemed) informed me that the Master 
 was ready. So I went upstairs to the operating theatre. 
 After an impressive interval a curtain was thrust aside 
 and the Master entered. He was not in the least like the 
 artist of my first photograph, who had chirruped and 
 done tricks with an iudiarubber monkey to make me 
 prick my ears and appear' sagacious. This man had the 
 mane of a poodle, a plush smoking-jacket with rococo 
 trimmings, satin cravat, rings and bangles like the lads 
 in La Boheme, and I knew myself to be in the presence 
 of True Art, and bowed my head. 
 
 At the sight of me he winced visibly; didn't seem to 
 like my looks at all. However he pulled himself together 
 and advanced to reconnoitre. He pushed me into a 
 chair, manipulated some screws at the back, and I found 
 my head fast in a steel clamp. I pleaded for gas or 
 cocaine, but he took no notice and prowled off to the 
 far end of the theatre to observe if distance would lend
 
 The Camera Cannot Lie 195 
 
 any enchantment. Apparently it would not. The more 
 he saw of me the less he seemed to admire the view. 
 
 Suddenly the fire of inspiration lit his eye and he 
 came for me. I struggled with the clamp, but it clave 
 like a bull-terrier to a mutton chop. In a moment 
 he had me by the head and started to mould it 
 nearer to his heart's desire with plump powerful hands. 
 He crammed half my lower jaw into my breast pocket, 
 pinned my ears back so tightly that they wouldn't wag 
 for weeks, pressed my nose down with his thumb as 
 though it were the button of an electric bell and gener- 
 ally kneaded my features from the early Hibernian to 
 the late Graeco-Eoman. Then, before they could re- 
 bound to their normal positions, he had sprung back, 
 jerked the lanyard and fired the camera. 
 
 Some weeks later the finished photographs arrived. 
 The handmaids had done their bit, and the result was a 
 pleasing portraiture, an ohjet d'art, an ornament to any- 
 body's family album. The man Valpre was an artist 
 all right. 
 
 A few days ago the Skipper whistled me into the 
 orderly room. His table was littered with parade states, 
 horse-registers and slips of cardboard, all intermingled. 
 The Skipper himself appeared to be undergoing some 
 heavy mental disturbance. His forehead was furrowed, 
 his toupet rumpled, and he sucked his fountain-pen, un- 
 consciously imbibing much dark nourishment. 
 
 " Identification cards," he explained, indicating the 
 slips. " Got to carry 'em now. Comply with Italian 
 regulations. Been trying to describe you. Napoo."
 
 196 
 
 The Mud Larks 
 
 He prodded the result towards me. I scanned it and 
 decided he had got it mixed with horse-registers. It 
 read as follows: — 
 
 Born . 
 
 . Yes. 
 
 Height 
 
 . 17 hands. 
 
 Hair . 
 
 . . . Bay. 
 
 Eyes . 
 
 . Two. 
 
 'Nose . 
 
 Undulating. 
 
 Moustache . 
 
 . Hogged. 
 
 Complexion 
 
 ISTatural. 
 
 Special Marks . 
 
 • • . ' 
 
 The Skipper pointed to the blank space. " That's 
 what I want to know — special marks. Got any ? Snip, 
 blaze, white fetlock, anything ? " 
 
 " Yessir," said I. " Strawberry patch on off gaskin." 
 He sucked thoughtfully at his fountain-pen. 
 " Mmph," he said, " shouldn't mention it if I were you. 
 Don't w^ant to have to undress in the middle of the 
 street every time you meet an Intelligence, do you ? " 
 I agreed that I did not — not before June, anyhow. The 
 Skipper turned to the card again and frowned. 
 
 " Couldn't call it a speaking likeness exactly, this 
 little pen-picture of you, could one ? If you only had 
 a photograph of yourself now." 
 
 " I have. Sir," said I brightly. 
 
 " Good Lord, man, why didn't you say so before ? 
 Here, take this and paste the thing in. Now trot away." 
 
 I trotted away and pasted Valpre's ohjet d'art on to 
 the card.
 
 The Camera Cannot Lie 197 
 
 Yesterday evening Albert Edward and I were riding 
 out of a certain Italian town (no names, no pack drill). 
 Albert Edward got involved in a rigbt-of-way argument 
 between five bullock wagons and two lorries, and I 
 jogged on ahead. On the fringe of the town was a bar- 
 rier presided over by a brace of Carabinieri caparisoned 
 with war material, whiskers and cocked hats of the style? 
 popularised by Bonaparte. Also an officer. As I moved 
 to pass the barrier the officer spied me and, not liking 
 my looks (as I hinted before, nobody does), signed to 
 me to halt. Had I an identification card, please? I 
 had and handed it to him. He took the card and ran a 
 keen eye over the Skipper's little pen-picture and 
 VaJpre's " Portrait Study," then over their alleged 
 original. " Lieutenant," said he grimly, " these don't 
 tally. This is not you." 
 
 I protested that it was. He shook his head with great 
 conviction, " !N^ever! The nose in this photograph is 
 straight ; the ears retiring; the jaw, normal. While with 
 
 you [Continental politeness restrained him]. 
 
 Lieutenant, you must come with me." 
 
 He beckoned to a jSTapoleonic corporal, who ap- 
 proached, clanking his war material. I saw myself 
 posed for a firing squad at grey dawn and shivered all 
 over. I detest early rising. 
 
 By this time the corporal had outflanked me, clank- 
 ing more munitions, and I was on the point of being 
 marched off to the Bastille, or whatever they call it, 
 when Albert Edward suddenly insinuated himself into 
 the party and addressed himself to the officer. " Half
 
 198 The Mud Larks 
 
 a minute, Mongsewer [any foreigner is Mongsewer to 
 Albert Edward]. The photograph is of him all right, 
 but it was taken before his accident." 
 
 " His accident ? " queried the officer. 
 
 " Yes," said Albert Edward ; " sad affair, shell-shock. 
 A crump burst almost in his face, and shocked it all out 
 of shape. Can't you see ? " 
 
 The Italian leaned forward and subjected my flushed 
 features to a piercing scrutiny; then his dark eyes 
 softened almost to tears, and he handed me back my 
 card and saluted. 
 
 " Sir, you have my apologies — and sympathy. Good 
 evening." 
 
 " Albert Edward," said I, as we trotted into the 
 dusk, " you may be a true friend but you are no gentle- 
 man."
 
 Lionel Trelawney 199 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 lio]st:l tkelawney 
 
 lionel trelawney molyneux-moly- 
 ^ NEUX was of the race of the Beaux. Had he 
 flourished in the elegant days, Nash "would have taken 
 snuff with him, D'Orsay wine — ^no less. As it was, 
 the high priests of Savile Eow made obeisance before 
 him, the staff of the Tailor and Cutter penned leaders 
 on his waistcoats, and the lilies of the field whined 
 " Kamerad " and withered away. 
 
 When war broke out Lionel Trelawney issued from 
 his comfortable chambers in St. James's and took a 
 hand in it. He had no enthusiasm for blood-letting. 
 War, he maintained from the first, was a vuglar pastime, 
 a comfortless revolting state of affairs which bored one 
 stiff, forced one to associate with all sorts of impossible 
 people and ruined one's clothes. Nevertheless the West- 
 end had to be saved from an invasion of elastic-sided 
 boots, celluloid dickeys, Tyrolese hats and musical soup- 
 swallowing. That was his war-aim. 
 
 Through the influence of an aunt at the War Office 
 he obtained a commission at once, and after a month's 
 joining-leave (spent closeted with his tailor) he ap- 
 peared, a shining figure, in the Mess of the Loamshire 
 Light Infantry and with them adventured to Gallipoli. 
 It is related that during the hell of that first landing.
 
 200 The Mud Larks 
 
 when boats were capsizing, wounded men being dragged 
 under bj tentacles of barbed wire, machine-guns whip- 
 ping the sea to bloody froth, Lionel Trelawney was ob- 
 served standing on a prominent part of a barge, his eye- 
 glass fixed on his immaculate field boots, petulantly re- 
 marking, " And now, damn it, I suppose I've got to get 
 wet ! " 
 
 After the evacuation the battalion went to Prance, 
 but not even the slush of the salient or the ooze of 
 Festubert could dim his splendour. Whenever he got 
 a chance he sat down, cat-like, and licked himself. 
 Wherever he went his batman went also, hauling a sack- 
 ful of cleaning gear and changes of raiment. On one 
 occasion, hastening to catch the leave train, he spurred 
 his charger into La Bassee Canal. He emerged, like 
 some river deity, profusely decorated in chick-weed, his 
 eyeglass still in his eye (" Came up like a blinking U- 
 boat," said a spectator, "periscope first"), footed it 
 back to billets and changed, though it cost him two days 
 of his leave. 
 
 He was neither a good nor a keen officer. He was 
 not frightened — he had too great a contempt for war 
 to admit the terror of it — but he gloomed and brooded 
 eternally and made no effort to throw the faintest en- 
 thusiasm into his job. Yet for all that the Loamshires 
 suffered him. He had his uses — he kept the men 
 amused. In that tense time just before an attack, when 
 the minute hand was jerking nearer and nearer to zero, 
 when nerves were strung tight and people were sending 
 anxious inquiries after Lewis guns, S.A.A., stretchers,
 
 Lionel Trelawney 201 
 
 bombs, etc., Lionel Trelawney would say to his batman, 
 '' Have you got the boot and brass polish, the Blanco, 
 the brushes? Sure? " (a sigh of relief). " Very well, 
 now we'll be getting on," and so would send his lads 
 scrambling over the parapet grinning from east to west. 
 
 " Where's ole Collar and Cuffs ? " some muddy war- 
 rior would shout after a shrieking tornado of shell had 
 swept over them. " Dahn a shell-hole cleanin' his 
 teef," would come the answer, and the battered platoon 
 chuckled merrily. " 'E's a card, 'e is," said his Ser- 
 geant admiringly. " Marched four miles back to billets 
 in 'is gas-mask, perishin' 'ot, all because he'd lost 'is 
 razor an' 'adn't shaved for two days. 'E's a nut 'e is 
 and no error." 
 
 It happened that the Loamshires were given a job 
 of crossing Mr. Hindenburg's well-known ditch and 
 taking a village on the other side. A company of tanks, 
 which came rolling out of the dawn-drizzle, spitting fire 
 from every crack, put seven sorts of wind up the Land- 
 sturmer gentlemen in possession; and the Loamshires, 
 getting their first objectives with very light casualties, 
 trotted on for their second in high fettle, sterns up and 
 w^agging proudly. The tanks went through the village 
 knocking chips off the architecture and pushing over 
 houses that got in the way; and the Loamshires followed 
 after, distributing bombs among the cellars. 
 
 The consolidation was proceeding when Lionel Tre- 
 lawney sauntered on the scene, picking his way deli- 
 cately through the debris of the main street. He 
 lounged up to a group of Loamshire officers, yawned,
 
 202 The Mud Larks 
 
 told them how tired he was, cursed the drizzle for dim- 
 ming his buttons and strolled over to a dug-out with the 
 object of sheltering there. He got no further than the 
 entrance, for as he reached it a wide-eyed German came 
 scrambling up the steps and collided with him, bows on. 
 For a full second the two stood chest to chest gaping, 
 too surprised to move. Then the Hun turned and 
 bolted. But this time Lionel Trelawney was not too 
 bored to act. He drew his revolver and rushed after him 
 like one possessed, firing wildlv. Two shots emptied a 
 puddle, one burst a sandbag, one winged a weather-cock 
 and one went just anywhere. His empty revolver caught 
 the flying Hun in the small of the back as he vaulted 
 over a wall ; and Lionel Trelawney vaulted after him. 
 
 " Molly's gone mad," shouted his amazed brother- 
 officers as they scrambled up a ruin for a better view 
 of the hunt. The chase was proceeding full-cry among 
 the small gardens of the main street. It was a stirring 
 spectacle. The Hun was sprinting for dear life, Lionel 
 Trelawney hard on his brush, yelping like a frenzied 
 fox-terrier. They plunged across tangled beds, crashed 
 through crazy fences, fell head over heels, picked them- 
 selves up again and raced on, wheezing like punctured 
 bagpipes. 
 
 Heads of Atkinses poked up everywhere. " S'welp 
 me if it ain't ole Collar and Cuffs ! Go it, Sir, that's 
 the stuff to give 'em ! " A Yorkshireman opened a book 
 and started to chant the odds, but nobody paid any at- 
 tention to him. The Hun, badly blown, dodged inside 
 a shattered hen-house. Lionel Trelawney tore up hand-
 
 Lionel Trelawney 203 
 
 fuls of a ruined wall and bombed liim out of it with 
 showers of brickbats. Aw^ay went the chase again, 
 cheered by shrill yoicks and cat-calls from the spectators. 
 
 Suddenly tliere was an upheaval of planks and brick- 
 dust, and both runners disappeared. 
 
 " Gone to ground, down a cellar," exclaimed the 
 brother-officers. " Oh, look ! Fritz is crawling out." 
 
 The white terrified face of the German appeared on 
 the ground level, then with a wriggle (accompanied by 
 a loud noise of rending material) he dragged his body 
 up and was on his way once more. A second later 
 Lionel Trelawney was up as well, waving a patch of grey 
 cloth in his hand. " Molly's ripped the seat out of his 
 pants," shouted the grand-stand. " Yow, tear 'm, 
 Pup ! " " Good ole Collar and Cuffs ! " chorused the 
 Loamshire Atkinses. 
 
 Lionel Trela\vney responded nobly; he gained one 
 yard, two yards, five, ten. The Hun floundered into a 
 row of raspberry canes, tripped and wallowed in the 
 mould. Trela^vney fell on him like a Scot on a three- 
 penny bit and they rolled out of sight locked in each 
 other's embrace. 
 
 The Loamshires jumped down from their crazy 
 perches and doubled to see the finish, guided by the 
 growlings, grunts, crashing of raspberry canes and jets 
 of garden mould flung sky-high. They were too late, 
 however. They met the victor propelling the remains of 
 the vanquished up a lane towards them. His fawn 
 breeches were black with mould, his shapely tunic 
 shredded to ribbons ; his sleek hair looked like a bird's-
 
 204 The Mud Larks 
 
 nest; bis nose listed to starboard; one eye bulged like 
 a shuttered bow-"\\'indow ; bis eje-glass was not. But tbe 
 amazing tbing about it was tbat be didn't seem to mind; 
 be beamed, in fact, and with a cheery shout to his 
 friends — " Merry little scamper — eh, what ? " — be drop- 
 kicked his souvenir a few yards further on, exclaiming, 
 " That'll teach yen to slop soup over my shirt-front, 
 you rude fellow ! " 
 
 " Soup over your shirt-front ! " babbled the Loam- 
 shires. " What are you talking about ? " 
 
 " Talking about ? " said Lionel Trelawney. " Why, 
 this arch-ruffian used to be a waiter at Claritz's, and he 
 shed mulligatawny all over my glad-rags one night three 
 years ago — aggravated me fearfully."
 
 The Booby Trap 205 
 
 XXXIV 
 THE BOOBY TRAP 
 
 A GENEROUS foe, the soul of chivalry, I am al- 
 ways ready to admit that the Boche has many 
 good points. Eor instance, he is — er — er — oh, well, I 
 can't think of any particular good point just for the 
 moment. On the other hand, it must be admitted that 
 he has his bad ones also, and one of these is that he 
 cannot stand success ; he is the world's worst winner. 
 
 iN'ever does he pull off one of these " victorious re- 
 treats " of his but he needs must spoil the effect by 
 leaving behind all sorts of puerile booby traps, butter- 
 slides, etc., for the annoyance of the on-sweeping van- 
 quished, displaying a state of mind which is usually 
 slippered out of one at a dame school. 
 
 Most of his practical jokes are of the fifth of !N'ovem- 
 ber order and detonate by means of a neat arrangement 
 of springs, wire and acid contained in a small metal 
 cylinder. 
 
 You open a door and the attached house blows away 
 all round it, leaving the door in your damaged hand. 
 You step on a duckboard ; something goes bang ! and the 
 duckboard ups and hits you for a boundary to leg 
 — and so on, all kinds of diversions. 
 
 Of course you don't really open doors and prance 
 on duckboards; that's only what he (Jerry) in his
 
 2o6 The Mud Larks 
 
 simple faith imagines you will do. In reality you revive 
 memories of the days when as a small boy you tied trip- 
 strings in dark passages and balanced water-jugs on 
 door-tops ; and all the Boche's elementary parlour-tricks 
 immediately become revealed unto you. 
 
 [N'ot long ago the Hun, thirsting for yet more im- 
 perishable laurels, made a sudden masterly manoeuvre 
 towards the East. Our amateur Staff instantly fell into 
 the trap, and when battle joined again we found we 
 had been lured twenty miles nearer Germany. 
 
 The Hun had not left things very comfortable for 
 us ; most of the cover had been blown up, and there was 
 the usual generous provision of booby traps lying about 
 dumbly pleading to be touched off. However, we 
 sheltered in odd holes and comers, scrounged about for 
 what we could " souvenir " and made ourselves as snug 
 as possible. 
 
 It was while riding out alone on one of these souvenir- 
 ing expeditions that our William came upon a chaff- 
 cutter standing in what had once been the stable yard of 
 what had once been a chateau. INow to a mounted unit 
 a chaff-cutter is a thing of incredible value. It is to us 
 what a mincing-machine is to the frugal housewife. 
 
 Our own cutter was with the baggage, miles away in 
 the rear, and likely to remain there. 
 
 William slipped off his horse and approached the 
 thing gingerly. It was a Boche engine, evidently quite 
 new and in excellent trim. This was altogether too 
 good to be true; there must be a catch somewhere. 
 William withdrew twenty yards and hurled a briok at it
 
 The Booby Trap 207 
 
 — two, three, four bricks. Nothing happened. He ap- 
 proached again and tying one end of a wrecked tele- 
 phone wire to it, retired behind a heap of rubble and 
 tugged. 
 
 The chaff-cutter rocked to and fro and finally fell 
 over on its side without anything untoward occurring. 
 William, wiping beads from his brow, came out of cover. 
 There was no catch in it after all. It was a perfectly 
 genuine bit of treasure-trove. The Skipper would pat 
 his curly head, say " Good boy," and exalt him above 
 all the other subalterns. Bon — very hon! 
 
 But how to get it home ? For you cannot carry full- 
 grown chaff-cutters about in your breeches pockets. For 
 one thing it spoils the set of your pants. He must get 
 a limber. Yes, but how ? 
 
 The country was quick with other cavalrymen all 
 in the souvenir business. If he left the chaff-cutter in 
 order to fetch a limber, one of them would be sure to 
 snap it up. On the other hand, if he waited for a limber 
 to come trotting up of its own sweet will he might con- 
 ceivably wait for the rest of the War. Limbers (G.S. 
 Mule) are not fairy coaches. 
 
 Our William was up against it. He plunged his 
 hands into his tunic-pockets and commenced to stride 
 up and down, thinking to the best of his ability. 
 
 In pocketing his right hand he encountered some hard 
 object. On drawing the object forth he discovered it 
 to be his mother's gift. William's mother, under the im- 
 pression that her son spends most of his time lying 
 wounded and starving out in No-man's land, keeps him
 
 2o8 . The Mud Larks 
 
 liberally supplied with tabloid meals to sustain him on 
 these occasions — herds of bison corralled into one 
 lozenge, the juice of myriad kine concentrated in a 
 single capsule. This particular gift was of peppermints 
 (warranted to assuage thirst for weeks on end). But 
 it was not the peppermints that engaged William's young 
 fancy ; it was the container, small, metal, cylindrical. 
 
 His inspiration took fire. He set the tin under the 
 chaff-cutter, chopped off a yard of telephone wire, buried 
 one end in peppermints, twisted the other about the 
 leg of the cutter, mounted his horse and rode for dear 
 life. 
 
 When he returned with the limber an hour later, he 
 found three cavalrymen, two horse-gunners and a trans- 
 porteer grouped at a respectful radius round the chaff- 
 cutter, daring each other to jerk the wire. 
 
 When William stepped boldly forward and jerked 
 the wire they all flung themselves to earth and covered 
 their heads. When nothing happened and he coolly pro- 
 ceeded to load the cutter on the limber they all sat up 
 again and took notice. 
 
 When he picked up the tin and offered them some pep- 
 permints they mounted their horses and rode away. 
 
 \
 
 The Phantom Army 209 
 
 XXXV 
 THE PHANTOM AKMY 
 
 ICAJil' readily believe that war as performed by 
 Messieurs our ancestors was quite good fun. You 
 dressed up in feathers and hardware — like something 
 between an Indian game-cock and a tank — and caracoled 
 about the country on a cart-horse, kissing your hand to 
 balconies and making very liberal expenses out of 
 any fat (and unarmed) burgesses that happened 
 along. 
 
 With the first frost you went into winter quarters — 
 i.e. you turned into the most convenient castle and 
 whiled away the dark months roasting chestnuts at a 
 log fire, entertaining the ladies with quips, conundrums 
 and selections on the harpsichord and vying with the 
 jester in the composition of Limericks. 
 
 The profession of arms in those spacious days was 
 both pleasant and profitable. Nowadays it is neither; 
 it is a dreary melange of mud, blood, boredom and blue- 
 funk (I speak for myself). 
 
 Yet even it, miserable calamity that it is (or was), 
 has produced its piquant situations, its high moments; 
 and one manages to squeeze a sly smile out of it all, 
 here and there, now and again. 
 
 I have heard the skirl of the Argyll and Sutherland 
 battle-pipes in the Borghese Gardens and seen a High-
 
 2IO The Mud Larks 
 
 lander dance the sword-dance before applauding Eome. 
 I have seen the love-locks of a matinee idol being 
 trimmed with horse-clippers (weep, O ye flappers of 
 Suburbia!) and a Royal Academician set to whitewash 
 a pig-sty. I have seen American aviators in spurs, 
 Royal Marines a-horse, and a free-born Australian eat- 
 ing rabbit. All these things have I seen. 
 
 And of high moments I have experienced plenty of 
 late, for it has been my happy lot to be in the front 
 of the hunt that has swept the unspeakable Boche back 
 off a broad strip of France and Belgium, and the mem- 
 ory of the welcome accorded to us, the first British, by 
 the liberated inhabitants will remain with us until the 
 last " Lights Out." The procedure was practically the 
 same throughout. 
 
 There would come a crackle of wild rifle-fire from the 
 front of a village ; then, as we worked round to the flank, 
 a dozen or so blue-cloaked Uhlans would scamper out of 
 the rear and disappear at a non-stop gallop for home. 
 In a second the street would be full of people, emptying 
 out of houses and cellars, pressing about us, shaking 
 hands, kissing us and our horses even, smothering us 
 wath flowers, cheering ''' Vivent les Anglais!" . " Vive 
 la France!" clamouring, laughing, crying, mad with 
 
 Grandmeres would appear at attic windows waving 
 calico tricolours (hidden for four long years) while 
 others plastered up tricolour hand-bills — " Hommage a 
 nos Liherateurs," " God's blessing unto Tommy." 
 
 However, touching and delightful though it all might
 
 The Phantom Army 211 
 
 be, it was not getting on with the war ; this embarras des 
 amis was saving the Uhlans' hide. 
 
 Furthermore, though I can bring myself to bear with 
 a certain amount of embracing from attractive young 
 things, I do not enjoy the salutations of unshorn old 
 men ; and when Mayors and Corporations got busy my 
 native modesty rebelled, and I would tear myself loose 
 and, with my steed decorated from ears to croup with 
 flowers, so that I looked more like a perambulating hot- 
 house than a poor soldier-man, take up the pursuit once 
 more. 
 
 In due course we came to the considerable town of X. 
 All happened as before. As we popped in at one flank 
 the bold Uhlan popped out at the other, and the towns- 
 folk flooded the streets. I was dragged out of the 
 saddle, kissed, pump-handled and cheered while my 
 bewildered charger was led aside and festooned with 
 pink roses. Tricolours appeared at every window ; hand- 
 bills of welcome were distributed broadcast. The Mayor 
 and Corporation arrived at the double, and we struggled 
 together for some moments while they rasped me with 
 their stubbly beards. When the first ecstasies had 
 somewhat abated I gathered my troop and prepared to 
 move again. 
 
 " Whither away ? " the Mayor enquired, a fine old 
 veteran he, wearing two 1870 medals and the ribbon of 
 the Legion. 
 
 " To Z.," said I. 
 
 " Ecoutez, done" he warned. " They are waiting for 
 you there in force, machine-guns and cannon."
 
 212 The Mud Larks 
 
 I intimated that nevertheless I must go and have a 
 look-see, at any rate, and so rode out of town, the vast 
 crowd accompanying us to the outskirts, cheering, shout- 
 ing advice, warnings and blessings. In sight of Z. wo 
 shed our floral tributes and, debouching off the high- 
 way into the open, worked forwards on the look-out 
 for trouble. 
 
 It came. A dozen pip-squeaks shrilled overhead to 
 cause considerable casualties among some neighbouring 
 cabbages, and shortly afterwards rifle-fire opened from 
 outlying cottages. I swung round and tried for an open- 
 ing to the north, but a couple of machine-guns promptly 
 gave tongue on that flank. Another flock of pip-squeaks 
 kicked up the mould in front of us and some fresh rifles 
 and machine-guns joined in. Too hot altogether. 
 
 I was just deciding to give it best and cut for cover 
 when all hostile fire suddenly switched off, and a few 
 minutes later I beheld light guns on lorries, machine- 
 guns in motor-cars and Uhlans on horses stampeding out 
 of the village by all roads east. 
 
 The day was mine. Yip, Yip ! Bonza ! Skoo-kum ! 
 Hurroosh ! Nevertheless I was properly bewildered, for 
 it was absurd to suppose that an overwhelming force of 
 heavily-armed Huns could have been bluffed out of a 
 strong position by the merest handful of unsupported 
 cavalry. Manifestly absurd ! " 
 
 I turned about, and in so doing my eye lit on the 
 poplar-lined highway from X., and I understood. 
 Along the road poured the hordes of an advancing army, 
 advancing in somewhat irregular column of route, with
 
 The Phantom Army 213 
 
 banners flying. The head of the column was not a 
 mile distant. The Infantry must be on my heels, 
 thought I. Stout marching ! I grabbed up my glasses, 
 took a long look and bellowed with laughter. It was 
 not the Infantry at all ; it was the liberated population 
 of X., headed by the Mayor and Corporation, come out 
 to see the fun, the grandmeres and grandperes, the girls 
 and boys, the dogs and babies, marching, hobbling, skip- 
 ping, toddling down the pave, waving their calico tri- 
 colours and singing the Marseillaise. I thought of the 
 Boche fleeing eastward with the fear of God in his 
 soul, and roUed about in my saddle drunk with joy.
 
 
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