A JOLLY RAG.
I.
When all had returned from leave, Dame Rumour got busy. Some of the
lads had been going it, and their exploits had got abroad. Even Billy,
the padre, was in the gossip–market, and Ginger was alleged to have
been seen in a two–seater with the famous beauty from the hotel. As
for Tosher, it was said he had been doing the heavy with the ladies of
Glasgow.
To amuse ourselves, we called a secret meeting and decided to hold a
court–martial, Nobby being elected president. The following notice was
posted up in the hut:
COURT–MARTIAL.
A Court–Martial will assemble in the Hut
on Friday Evening for the Trial of
BILLY GREENS,
GINGER THOMSON,
and
TOSHER JOHNSON.
All witnesses are warned to attend.
JOHN BROWN, Adjutant.
There was a great rush on the ‘early doors.’ At 7 P.M. Nobby appeared,
dressed up as a stout colonel, with a moustache like Ole Bill. He
looked most impressive, and roused a cheer. The members of the court
followed. All took their seats, and Billy Greens was ushered in by the
court–martial orderly.
‘Before proceeding,’ said Nobby, ‘I should like to know if the accused
has any objection, either to me, as president, or to any member of the
court.’
‘Yes, sir, I object to you,’ answered Billy.
‘Why?’
‘You’re a rotten old Radical and—a lawyer.’
‘Your objection is out of order. This is a military court, and politics
do not enter into the matter. If I am a lawyer, I can assure you there
will be no charges—I mean, no six–and–eight.’
‘Question!’ shouted Ginger.
‘Please bludgeon that Imperialist,’ commanded the president.
Ginger was gagged. The case was proceeded with.
‘Corporal Billy Greens, No. 1 Company of the—th Cadet Battalion, you
are charged with (1) Giddiness on leave; (2) Appearing in public with a
formidable female; (3) Holding her hand in a tram–car; (4) Acting the
goat in a taxi–cab.’
‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘Evidence, please,’ ordered the president.
Beefy stepped forward with a ponderous–looking document like the Magna
Carta. It was really one of Harrods’ voluminous catalogues. Opening it
up, he commenced: ‘Sir, the accused, who is a gentleman in holy orders,
but meantime a soldier, has hitherto borne an excellent character. But
we have received reports from the Platoon Secret Service men stating
that on his last leave he has been “going it.” Apparently he went to
a small town near London, and commenced to pay attention to a lady of
blameless character, but of formidable appearance, and inclined to be
frisky and sentimental when receiving the attention of man.’
‘Keep to the point, Mr Jones. Please deal with the first charge,’
remarked the president.
‘I’m just coming to that, sir,’ replied Beefy, turning over Harrods’
catalogue. ‘The first charge is “Giddiness.” Our agents state the
accused was wearing a field–marshal’s trousers—an offence punishable
by death, according to the Manual of Military Law. He also wore
bright–yellow shoes and white socks, ornamented with yellow flowers,
which I contend betrays a somewhat frivolous mind. Above the neck
of his tunic appeared a white india–rubber collar, and sticking out
from under his tunic–sleeves were white cuffs, ornamented with a
balance–sheet of his holiday expenses. He also carried an enormous
Malacca cane studded with brass knobs, of the type used by lion–tamers
and wealthy Jews. In fact, his whole appearance was that of the
Bank ‘Oliday kind. Instead of looking like a harmless and shuffling
cadet, he really resembled Ole Bill on the burst. So startling was
his appearance that a terrier–dog fell off a tram–car, and an ancient
cab–horse jumped into an egg–merchant’s window. To save further
calamity, the local police had to hide him in a furniture–van and
remove him to his lodgings.
‘The second charge is, “Appearing in public with a formidable female.”
The lady in question is of uncertain age, but of great stature—six feet
high, three feet broad, and built in proportion.’
‘Weight and style, I presume,’ said the president.
‘Yes, sir. I also understand she is the commandant of a V.A.D.
Hospital. Prior to the war she was a suffragette who achieved fame by
burning down the local bishop’s bathroom.’
‘Has the bishop used Pears’ since that event?’ inquired a member.
‘No, sir. I understand he uses the wash–house.—But to resume. When she
appeared in public with the accused (she being of massive mould, and
he being of bantam measurements), the contrast was striking. In fact,
the difference in height was so great that it is stated she carried a
small portable telephone to carry on the conversation. He called her
“Gertie,” and she called him “Pickles.” While attempting to enter a
very narrow gate in the public park, the lady got wedged, and it is
alleged she shouted, “Push me—push me, Pickles.” The accused nobly
responded, and relieved the lady from an embarrassing position.’
‘Was the gate damaged?’ asked the president.
‘Slightly bent, sir.—Now for the third charge. The lady, who has been
trying to “get off” for quite a number of years, was apparently so
bucked with her capture that she aired him on every public occasion.
They were always riding in tram–cars. On one occasion a local alderman,
who has a reputation for “picking up” unattached females, entered
the car they were travelling in. The lady, apparently nervous about
getting the glad eye from this civic Lothario, muttered, “Hold my hand,
Pickles—hold my hand.” Like a brave man, he did so. In this simple and
trusting manner they completed their journey, to the amusement of all.
‘The final charge is, “Acting the goat in a taxi–cab.” Apparently the
dear old girl had been overhearing some of the younger V.A.D.’s, her
colleagues, relating thrilling experiences of taxi–cabs. She decided
to try the experiment, and Pickles drew a pound note from the Penny
Savings Bank for that purpose. To avoid observation, they ordered
the taxi to meet them in a quiet thoroughfare. But a local press
photographer witnessed the amusing struggle of the lady to get inside.
‘“Pickles!” she shouted.
‘“Yes, dear,” he replied.
‘“The door is too small. Push me.”
‘Pickles pushed again, and the lady fell inside. At that moment the
camera clicked. Here is the photo, sir;’ and Beefy handed over a
charcoal drawing of Billy heaving an enormous lady into a vehicle.
Loud laughter in court.
‘The taxi–man then received secret instructions from the accused to
drive ten times round the park—DEAD SLOW. During this performance
several of the local special constables saw the lady with the accused
in her arms. At intervals they kissed each other. When they alighted
from the cab, our Secret Service men discovered a hair–switch and an
upper set of false teeth among the cushions. This, sir, is, I think,
complete evidence of frivolous conduct.’
‘I see! I see!’ muttered the president, tugging his false moustache.
‘Now, Mr Jones, have you any evidence as to how the accused met
this lady? Was he introduced, or was it what we in the army term a
“pick–up”?’
‘So far as I know, they were properly introduced. Some years ago, when
the accused was a student, he saw the lady bathing in a crimson dress
with lace–curtain frillings. He secured an intro. by the aid of a
member of a local Dorcas Society.’
‘What about his character?’
‘Hitherto most respectable; but I imagine his association with my
friends Messrs. Ginger Thomson and John Brown has, unfortunately,
caused him to fall from grace. That’s all, sir,’ concluded Beefy.
‘What have you got to say, my man?’ said Nobby, with the air of a Lord
Chief–Justice.
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Nothing! My dear old Pieface, this is a serious business. You go on
leave; you wear a field–marshal’s trousers, a padre’s white shirt,
shop–assistant’s yellow shoes, and you carry a ship–pole for a
walking–stick. You cause an innocent dog to fall off a tram–car, and
a hitherto respectable horse to jump into an egg–merchant’s window,
and yet you say, “Nothing.” Worse; you try to outdo Charlie Chaplin
in a tram–car, and Ole Bill in a taxi. This from a future officer, an
ordained padre, and a Tory gentleman will _not_ do. It is preposterous!
You _must_ be shot! _Must_ be shot!’ roared Nobby with dramatic
fervour, which reminded us of the old com. on the bench.
‘You’re a silly old ass, Nobby!’ said Billy.
‘That’s contempt of court.’
‘You’re a rotten old Radical!’
‘That means execution.’
‘And here goes your bench,’ shouted Billy, making a running jump at
Nobby’s table, and kicking it up in the air, sending ink, pens, paper,
books, &c. flying right and left.
‘Remanded! Remanded!’ shouted Nobby, brandishing a poker.
The prisoner was seized and put in ‘quod,’ or, in other words, let go.
His ragging was over.
II.
‘The next prisoner,’ demanded the president when the table had been
restored to its feet and the papers had been tidied up.
Ginger Thomson was marched in, guarded by an escort, who were armed
with wet mops. We knew Ginger!
‘Sergeant Ginger Thomson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are
charged with (1) Posing as a woman–hater; (2) Declining to wash; (3)
Joy–riding in a Ford car.’
‘Evidence, please, Mr Brown,’ ordered the president.
‘Sir, this youth, for the past two months, has been posing to all as
an enemy of the opposite sex. In a recent discussion he declared that
women were soulless, inconstant, mercenary, and loved us only when
we had chocolate or plenty of the golden goblins. We believed him to
be sincere, and he received homage as the great monk of our platoon.
Other remarkable attitudes in controversy convinced many of us that
this brilliant but erratic gentleman was simply pulling our legs. By
accident we discovered that he is an ardent admirer of the beautiful
lady who dispenses ale and bitters at the local hotel. In fact, our
agents have procured a grammophone record of a conversation with this
fair lady. This is the record,’ I added, turning on the gramophone, the
record of which had been faked for the occasion.
‘Edison Bell Record.’
Gur–r–r–gurr–r–r–r.
‘Hello, old girl; how are you?’
‘What cheer, Ginger?’
‘Gin and ginger, quick—awful thirst, old girl! Bring it up to the
private room.’
‘Right–o, dearie!’
Gurr–r–gurr–r–r–gurr.
‘There you are, Ginger—don’t! The master’ll hear us. Oh, my hair!...
You’ve broken my comb. You mustn’t kiss me. Oh, Mr Thomson!... ‘Oo’d a’
thought it?’
Gurr–r–gurr–r–r–gurr.
‘You’re a dear old thing!’
‘And you’re a giddy boy.... You mustn’t.... If the master sees me
sittin’ on your knee, there’ll be trouble.... Ah, don’t!’
Gurr–r–gurr–r–r.
And the record ended, just in time, for Ginger let fly and kicked it to
the other end of the room.
‘Tie him up! Tie him up!’ ordered the president.
It was a tough job, but we managed to get his feet tied, then stood
him up before the ‘beak.’
‘Carry on, Mr Brown,’ commanded Nobby.
‘That record, sir, absolutely proves that this man deals in
terminological inexactitudes.’
‘You mean he is a common or garden chancer?’
‘Yes, sir. The second charge is equally serious. He has an objection to
soap, and loathes water like a Bolshevik.’
‘Has he no soap in his possession?’ asked a member.
‘Oh yes, sir, a small piece, which he received three years ago on
enlistment. This is it:
+----------------+
| GINGER’S SOAP. |
| 1915-1918. |
+----------------+
‘Note the size. He keeps this for kit inspections, and I understand he
is to make it a family heirloom after the war.
‘Now for the third charge—“Joy–riding in a Ford.” During his leave
he was seen several times in a palatial petrol tin–can, accompanied
by a fair lady. The lady was holding his hand, and the car was doing
a cake–walk down the road. Several roosters and pet–poodles are at
present in the mortuary. Two maiden ladies demand his life, and
the town council have sent in a bill for two policemen and three
lamp–posts. That’s all, sir.’
‘Very serious! Very serious!’ muttered Nobby, chewing his Ole Bill
moustache. ‘What about his character?’
‘He lost it at St Omer.’
‘Oh!’
‘Found by the A.P.M. (Assistant Provost–Marshal) singing “Home, Sweet
Home,” on the top of a lamp–post.’
‘Then he is hopeless?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Ginger, you are a bad lad,’ commented the president. ‘Have you
anything to say?’
‘Yes, sir,’ shouted Ginger, seizing a mop out of the escort’s hand and
charging full tilt at the president. He caught Nobby in the chest and
heaved him over in excellent style. But the valiant president arose and
shouted, ‘Duck him! Duck him!’
Ginger was seized and promptly heaved into the company bathroom. ‘You
are a lot of blighters,’ said he on emerging. However, Ginger was
a sport, and took it merrily. When he returned to the courtroom he
promptly changed the rôle of prisoner for that of prosecutor.
III.
‘Next prisoner,’ ordered the president, after shaking himself and
wiping the traces of the mop off his face.
Tosher Johnson was marched in, guarded by two hefty lads. We were
taking no risks with the wild Canadian.
‘Corporal Tosher Johnson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are
charged with (1) Worshipping the almighty dollar; (2) Always muttering
“gaw–damn;” (3) Pulling a railway alarm–cord; (4) “Swanking it” in
Glasgow.’
‘Evidence,’ commanded the president.
‘Sir,’ said Ginger, ‘the accused is a Canadian, and therefore a
mystery. He blew in about 1915 from out West, and reckoned he was _the_
man to win the war. His career is like that of all backblockers—most
varied and adventurous. He commenced life eating pork–pies in Nova
Scotia. At the age of twelve he was assistant to a negro medicine–man,
who sold corn–cure at a penny a time. The corn–cure, I may say, was
made out of wagon–grease stolen from the C.P.R. Having done in the son
of Ham for about a hundred dollars, he went West, where he started a
shoe–shining parlour and a horse–betting booth. Next he was seen in a
fat–reducing advertisement; after which, he floated a company to supply
the ladies of Winnipeg with imitation busts.
‘In these ventures he was, like all Canucks, highly successful, and
therefore plunged into real estate. This is a get–rich–quick scheme.
Tosher was a star turn. He took double–page advertisements in the home
papers, and sold corner lots to dukes, commoners, and simpletons. When
these “duds” went out to stake their plots in Paradise Alley, they
discovered their land was in the Arctic regions, and tenanted only by
Eskimos. What did Tosher do? Why, he simply apologised, and said his
clerk had made a mistake by _turning the map upside–down_!
‘Since then he has had a dollar for his crest, a dollar for his god.
He has got money in everything from corn–plaster to chewing–gum, and
he reckons to fizzle off this ‘ere planet (as he calls it) with about
a hundred thousand dollars, earned while chewing cigars and drinking
cocktails in Montreal, Toronto, and the mixed–bathing cave up in Banff,
Alberta. The fellow’s a marvel!’
‘Look here, Mr Thomson; this is a court–martial. Evidence! Evidence!
We’re not here to get the story of how we all lost our money before the
war.’
‘Very good, sir! The second charge is, “Always muttering ‘gaw–damn.’”
That is the motto on his shirts and socks. When he spits it out with
a Chicago tang, he means you to know he’s no soft–headed fellow from
Balliol, but a real son of a gun from Chewing–Gum Land. This historic
adjective is joined to “guessing” and “calculating.” And he reckons
he’s real prime, six–shooting, hot stuff in this gaw–damn land of
weasels and crows. And he isn’t slow! He can talk the head off a
Dutchman, pulverise a cockatoo, give you a one–pound note for a tenner,
and send you away with a feeling that he’s _real good_, and the best
kid that ever dropped out of “Taurauntoe.”
‘The third charge, sir, is, “Pulling a railway alarm–cord” while on
leave. Apparently he got into the company of a simple old Scottish
gentleman, who was accompanied by his wife and rather charming
daughter. Tosher took the corner seat like a conqueror, and muttered,
“It was real fine to get away from the gaw–damn Boche.”
‘“Are you just from the Front?” the old gent inquired.
‘“Yip!” he said, lighting a twopenny havana.
‘“You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?”
‘“Sure!”
‘“You fellows are winning the war.”
‘“I guess so.”
‘And in this vein he went on. He spun them yarns as tall as a wireless
mast, relating how he had missed the V.C. by going round the wrong
corner, lost the D.S.O. because the gaw–damn officer wasn’t there,
and was recommended by Joffre for the Legion of Honour for holding up
a German army corps with a Woodbine and a six–shooter. These poor,
innocent mortals were bewildered. The accused is greater than Louis de
Rougemont. He then showed them nicotine–stained fingers, and said it
was blood; his vaccination–mark was a cut by a shell; and a birth–mark
on his chin was a bit sliced off by a Prussian prince of the gaw–damn
Prussian Guard.
‘The old gent and his party were thrilled.
‘“But, say, old friend, have a cigar to chew,” remarked Tosher.
‘“Thanks, I will.”
‘Tosher opened his case, but found it was empty.
‘“Sorry. I guess I’m run out. Where can I get some?”
‘“Not till Carlisle. We have two hours to go yet.”
‘“I reckon we pass other bum towns _en route_.”
‘“Oh yes.”
‘“Well, I guess I’ll call the guard,” said Tosher, jumping up to the
alarm–cord.
‘“You can’t pull that—you’ll be fined.”
‘“What? _I’m a Canadian!_” And he pulled the cord. The brakes went on
with a bang, and the old guard hurried up along the line.
‘“Say, old Father Time,” shouted Tosher.
‘“What’s up?”
‘“Stop yer old bus at the next bum town. I want some cigars to chew.”
‘“I’ll shove ye in jail!” roared the guard.
‘“Easy, old child.”
‘“What’s your name?”
‘“My mother christened me Johnson.”
‘“You’re a Canadian, I suppose?”
‘“Yip!”
‘“All right. I’ll show you I’m a Scotsman.”
‘Tosher didn’t get the cigars. He got “Five quid, or twenty–one days,”
at the Police Court.’
‘What did he say to that?’ inquired the president.
‘Oh, he reckoned it was gaw–damn stiff that a bloke who was winnin’ the
war couldn’t get out of an express for cigars.’
‘I see! I see!’
‘The final charge, sir, is, “‘Swanking it’ in Glasgow.” He had a
maple–leaf in his cap about the size of a young fir–tree, smoked
evil–smelling cheroots the size of a submarine, stopped the traffic
when he wanted to cross the road, and tried to elope with all the
best–looking women in the town.
‘“Who are you?” asked an interested lady.
‘“Tosher Johnson, real prime, and the best kid out of Taurauntoe.”
‘“All right! There’s my card. Call and see me to–morrow.”
‘When Tosher got there her father was waiting for him. _The old man was
a brain specialist._ That’s all the evidence, sir,’ concluded Ginger.
‘Johnson,’ said the president, ‘your career and exploits resemble those
of the Arabian Knights and the adventures of Louis de Rougemont. What
have you got to say?’
‘Well, boss, I guess Ginger is the brother of Ananias, and the uncle of
the Kaiser. He’s just real good at the story–faking business, and after
the war we’ll get him to run the _Real Estate News_, and the selling
of corner lots in Greenland and Hudson Bay. As for the “Canuck” being
top–dog in the lead–swinging business, I reckon that’s fizzled out.
If Oxford can pan out liars like this ‘ere child in the future, we
from out West will have to take a back–seat in the boosting business.
Why, the fellow ‘u’d make his pile hanging around a Calgary beer–bar,
telling them how to make a nigger into a white man, and how to turn a
thousand dollar notes into ten million of the hard stuff.
‘As for “gaw–damn,” “guessing,” and “calculating,” seems to me you need
some new language to tickle this old country up. You are a long–faced
lot o’ wowsers, tied up by regulations and B.C. institooshuns. When
you want to meet a prime girl, you need an intro.; and if you’re keen
on eating with a duke, you’ve got to show your birth–certificate, and
prove your father didn’t bring you into this world o’ woe without a
nine–carat wedding–ring. It makes me real tired to walk around and see
your orders: “Keep off the Grass;” “Keep to the Right;” “No Smoking
Allowed;” “Private—Trespassers will be Prosecuted.”
‘That’s your whole gaw–damn system. You ain’t a free–thinking crowd;
you’re a bunch of kids kept in order by bamboo canes and laws made
by Moses. Even your little rabbits, that we gives to our dawgs, are
protected by ancient statoots with about a ton of sealing–wax hanging
on the tail.
‘As for your women, you don’t know how to make them smile. They’re
the best–lookin’ kids on the planet, and they’re just real glad that
we wild men are over to tickle them up and make them dance. Say, boys,
but you are just dead–slow. Why, I can get anything in petticoats, from
an heiress to a barmaid, by giving them a Taurauntoe glad eye, and
saying, “Come on.” You fellows are the fag–end of an old system, and if
it weren’t for us prime hustlers from out West, you’d be losing this
fightin’ business.’
‘Look here, old cow–punching Bill, this isn’t a bally entertainment.
It’s a court–martial. You’re on your trial for your life. What have you
got to say?’
‘We never says anything out West.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Shoots!’ And Tosher banged three rounds of blank ammunition in the air.
‘Seize him! Seize him! He’s an outlaw and a desperado!’ roared Nobby.
We rushed Tosher, but he let fly at his escort, and seized Nobby in his
powerful arms and dumped him out of the window.
Ginger then caught the Canadian’s legs and threw him.
‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’ shouted Tosher.
‘All right, we’ll let you off, if you stand a drink.’
‘Sure! Come on, boys;’ and off we went to have another jolly hour at
the canteen.
Tosher was a sport, and he kept us laughing all the night.
There’s nothing like the army—for jolly good fun!