A CANADIAN NEWSPAPER.
One evening I was seeking for something to read, when my eye lighted on
a strange–looking newspaper with American sort of headings. I picked
it up. It was _The Shack Valley Times_, a typical Canadian production,
bright, brief, personal, and amusing. I got all the milk records of
the Dominion, the price of wheat, the names of the mayor’s last set
of twins, and an obituary notice of a famous race–horse. ‘Good!’ I
thought, turning over the page. Lo and behold! there was a huge photo
of Tosher and a full–page heading:
‘SHACK VALLEY’S NEW NAPOLEON,
TOSHER JOHNSON, THE MAN–EATER,
GOES TO SCHOOL FOR FIELD–MARSHALS.
SPECIAL INTERVIEW.’
‘The boys and girls in Shack Valley,’ ran the editorial introduction,
‘will be real glad to know that Tosher Johnson of this city is making
good. When he left here in 1915 he said he was out to win the war.
Since then he has been collecting scalps on the Western front. He
has sloshed no less than twenty Germans, and his name is famous from
Boulogne to Verdun.
‘Our correspondent, Jim Penman, at present with the Canadian Forces,
was fortunate enough to secure a special interview with our gallant
townsman, who thus unbosomed himself: “Tell the boys of Shack Valley
that I’m pushin’ real hard in the fireworks business, and have got the
option of a corner lot in Ypres to shove old Kaiser Bill into when we
Canadians get him. It isn’t all beer and dollars out here. It’s all
mud and death by instalments. Since leavin’ home I’ve lost my false
teeth, two stones off my corporation, and my Sunday School character.
They’ve turned me into a white–tusked Khalifa, bent on canning Huns and
catchin’ curios for the Shack Valley girls.”
‘“All the married men of Shack Valley who want to get quit of their
wives ought to book right here. There’s free passes up to the Sudden
Death Establishment, and a photo–man to take your chivvy when you’re
passing in your checks. I’ve been near it, but the Devil doesn’t want
me yet. I’ve had my pants blown clean away to Berlin, my sittin’–down
place peppered with shrapnel; the beef of my legs is lyin’ up in
Bapaume; and there’s blood from my nose around La Bassée. I’ve been
choked with the Kaiser’s lavatory gas, and got chucked to heaven one
night along with a horse and an automobile. Oh my, I did want to go
home!
‘“Still, it ain’t bad! I was made a lance–corporal for rescuing the
captain’s bottle of whisky under a bombardment, and a full corporal
for collaring three pimple–headed Huns who came over to ask me the
time. Why, I’m just real good at the butchering business. I’ve got a
jab–knife and a bludgeon dotted with nails. When I’m bored stiff I hops
over, clubs a few German waiters on the top knot, and brings back the
latest news from the Crown Prince’s doss–house behind the line. They
calls me ‘Butcher Bill,’ and stuck a tin medal on my chest for flopping
out a fat fellow who wanted to take a lease of our front line. Talk
about pictures! Why, this is the best picture–show out of Toronto.
‘“Oh, you can tell the boys they’ve given me the Military Medal
for doin’ a little job on a dark night. It was dirty work at the
cross–roads. A fight for a hole—a shell–hole. They wanted it, and we
wanted it. So we staked our pitch and said, ‘Come on.’ I cut a pound o’
steak out o’ a German lootenant, and made three widows in Potsdam. Had
to be done! No Shack Valley boy’s goin’ to lie down to them fellows.
Oh, it’s a hellifa life!
‘“Now I’m in a school for officers. They reckon Tosher is push–and–go
stuff, and want to rig me out as a big–gun in the fightin’ business. I
ain’t at all keen, for you’ve got to be respectable, and when you’re
wearing one pip, you’re barred from asking a lady, ‘Is this the way to
Bond Street?’ There’s a real first–class crowd here—remittance men,
cow–punchers, log–rollers, grafters, and let–me–downs, not forgetting
sky–pilots and kids from school. But they’re bright boys, and can jaw
on anything from eugenics to corn cure. Why, it’s just good to think o’
the stuff that wants the King’s commission. Some are all ‘side,’ and
some need it. And they’re all gaw–damn Tories, except one, and he’s a
lawyer. (I’m watchin’ this fellow.)
‘“They teaches me how to eat sardines without using a knife, and how
to chew an orange without splashing my dial. And you can bet your
boots they show me how to do the big salaams to the Great Boss. It’s a
wonderful business! When I get back I’ll know how to wipe my feet on
the mayor’s mat. They call it ‘form,’ and they think we wild fellows
from Shack Valley are the ruddiest lot of gum–chewing hobos that ever
wore an army shirt and climbed up a gun. But I’m givin’ them hot stuff,
an’ teachin’ them that we from out West ain’t one–eyed chicks from
lop–brained Alabama.
‘“Still, it ain’t a bad institooshun, and the girls round here are
prime. I can get a kiss for a maple–leaf, and a wife by giving a nod.
‘“Oh, boys, it’s a hellifa fine war! Give Laurier a miss and come right
over. The way to heaven’s cheap, and all funeral expenses paid.
‘“Besides, _the beer’s real good_.”’