Once a month, as laid down in "Orders for Auxiliary Hospitals for
Officers," or some such document, we practise fire-drill. This
consists of escaping from upper windows by means of precarious
canvas chutes. The only people exempted from this ceremony are Mrs.
Ropes--who watches with great delight from a safe distance--and
Sister, who stands sternly at the top to make sure (a) that those
patients who don't want to go down do go down, and (b) that those
patients who do want to go down don't go down more than once. No
excuses are taken. The fixed ration is one slither per chute per
person.
We had this month's rehearsal last Tuesday. The patients were put
through it first, Major Stanley--to his great disgust--being chosen
to lead the way and set his juniors an example. He was told that it
was possible, by sticking out his elbows, to go down as slowly as he
liked; but he must have done it wrong somehow, for he disappeared with
startling suddenness the instant he let go the window-sill, and almost
simultaneously his boots shot out at the other end and doubled Dutton
the butler up so badly that he had to be taken away and reinflated.
Haynes, who came next, insisted on first making his dying speech from
the window, for, as he pointed out to Sister, when people allowed
themselves to be inserted alive into machines of this type there was
every likelihood of their reappearing at the other end in the form of
sausages. Seymour handed Sister a bulky package labelled "WILL" before
starting, and most of us managed to be mildly humorous in some way or
other.
Mrs. Ropes, on the lawn, enjoyed it all immensely; and so did Ansell,
who was standing beside her with an air of detachment. Sister's eagle
eye singled him out.
"Come along, Mr. Ansell," she called. "I see you--your turn next. No
shirking."
"I'm not in this, Sister," he answered loftily.
"Oh, indeed! And why not?"
"Because I sleep on the verandah. If there's a fire I simply get out
of bed and step into the garden."
"Oh, no, you don't," put in Seymour. "That would be entirely contrary
to regulations. The official method of escaping from burning buildings
is down the official chute. In case of fire your correct procedure
will be to double smartly upstairs, commend your soul to Providence in
a soldier-like manner, and toboggan smartly down."
(Have I mentioned that Seymour is an Adjutant?)
"That's right, Captain Seymour," said Sister from above. "Bring him
up under escort if necessary."
After the patients came Miss Ropes, and after her the domestic staff,
beginning with the less valuable members and working up gradually to
Dutton and Cook. It was possible to trace the progress of the younger
and slighter maids by a swiftly-descending squeal, while that of the
more portly was visible as a leisurely protuberance. At last Cook
was the only one left--Dutton was not feeling quite up to performing
the journey. She was a new cook, and very precious. She had all the
generous proportions of her profession, and with them went a placid
temper and a great sense of personal dignity.
"Oh, Cook," said Miss Ropes, "_you_ needn't go down, you know, unless
you want to."
There are times when official regulations must be sacrificed to
diplomacy. But Cook was in high good humour, and quite determined on
doughty deeds. Miss Ropes said no more.
The task of getting a wide cook into a narrow canvas tube proved quite
unexpectedly difficult; and, when it was accomplished, so far from
sticking out her elbows as brakes, she had to press them close to her
sides in order to move at all. With the aid of a friendly pressure
applied to the top of her head by Sister she got slowly under way. The
chute bulged portentously. The bulge travelled a few feet; then it
stuck and became violently agitated. Sister clutched at the top of the
chute, while Dutton hung manfully on to the other end.
"Don't struggle," said Sister in a stern professional voice. "Keep
your arms still, and you'll come down all right." A muffled screaming
and a dangerously increased agitation of the chute was the only reply.
Cook had quite lost her head and was having violent hysterics. Three
or four of us raced upstairs to aid Sister in keeping the top end
of the apparatus from jerking free, while several more went to the
assistance of the flustered Dutton.
Cook ceased to struggle for a moment, but only through exhaustion;
for when Sister seized the opportunity to repeat her advice a fresh
paroxysm came on, and everybody "stood to" at their posts again. Miss
Ropes conceived the idea of attaching a cord to Cook's armpits and
hauling her up again by main force. She dashed into the house, and
found a demoralised kitchen-maid calling incoherently for help down
the telephone.
Meanwhile Cook had had her worst spasm. We hung grimly on to the
chute, dismally confident that something would have to give way soon.
Suddenly there was a rending sound; the seam of the canvas ripped open
and a gaping slit appeared, through which Cook's freed arm flapped
wildly. Then the arm disappeared as the body to which it was attached
gathered momentum; and when Miss Ropes appeared with a length of cord
she was just in time to see her retainer return to the world--alive,
but practically inside out.
As soon as Cook recovered her breath it was apparent that her temper
was no longer placid. Forgetting entirely that it was by her own
choice that she had made the trip, she gave us all to understand
that she believed the whole incident to have been specially arranged
for her humiliation. She gave notice on the spot, and staggered
indignantly to the house to pack her box, leaving her employer once
again face to face with the Servant Problem.
* * * * *