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 right-of-way argument between five bullock wagons and two
lorries, and I jogged on ahead. On the fringe of the town was a
barrier 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 Valpré'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,
"Never! 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 Napoleonic corporal, who approached, 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, clanking 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 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 gentleman."