We are all very fond of Gilbert. There are, however, one or two things
about him which even his best friends will admit make it hard for us
at times to remember how much we really love him. Sometimes he seems
almost too good to be true. Yet I have known wet horrible days in the
trenches when the sight of him coming smiling down the line, exuding
efficiency and enthusiasm at every pore, has made his fellow-officers
positively dislike him.
For, alas, he is one of those dear overzealous fellows whom in moments
of depression we stigmatise as "hearty." He has even been known to
be hearty at breakfast; to come trampling into the dug-out with that
blinking old smile on his face, expressing immense satisfaction with
life in general at the top of a peculiarly robust voice; to tread on
his captain's toes and slap his next-door neighbour heartily on the
back, and then to explain to a swearing and choking audience how
splendidly he has slept, and what a topping day it is going to be.
Never has Gilbert been known to spend a bad night; he is one of those
fortunate animals who can go to sleep standing and at five minutes'
notice, and start snoring at once. If you try to sleep anywhere near
him, you dream of finding yourself in Covent Garden station, trying to
board endless trains which roar through without stopping--that's the
kind of snore it is.
And now it is time I told my story.
It happened many years ago, when the War was young and the Bosch
comparatively aggressive; when our big guns fired once every other
Sunday and we lived precarious lives in holes in the ground. Our
Brigadier, a conscientious soldier of the old school, was dodging
round our line of trenches, and had just reached the sector allotted
to my company, which was also Gilbert's, when the distant buzz that
generally means an aeroplane overhead made itself distinctly heard.
"Can you spot him?" said the General to his Brigade-major; "one of
theirs, I suppose?"
Now it is as much as a Brigade-Major's job is worth to confess
ignorance at such a crisis. So, after sweeping the skies fruitlessly
with his glasses and listening intelligently to the steady drone, he
said, "Yes!" with as much conviction as possible.
"Heads down," said the General sharply, "and don't move. Pass it
down." And by way of example he sat heavily on my periscope and stayed
gazing at the ground like a fakir lost in meditation.
Meanwhile the message was passed along, and the trench became silent
as the grave. I was informed a few days later that it reached the
outer battalion of the next brigade later on in the morning, and was
popularly supposed to have reached Switzerland the same evening.
For about five minutes the droning continued ("Having a good look at
us," said the Brigade-major in a sepulchral whisper) and then suddenly
ceased with what I can only describe as an appalling snort. Almost
simultaneously a tousled head was thrust out of a dug-out almost
into the great man's face, and Gilbert's cheerful roar was heard by
a scandalised company.
"Had a topping sleep. What's the time, someone?"
* * * * *
"Best milch cows have been sold recently for £60 in the Isle
of Wight. At a meeting of the Cowes Council it was stated
that at Chichester cows had sold for £73 each."--_Times_.
And now that the Isle of Wight milkers have held their indignation
meeting it is expected that the anomaly will be removed.
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[Illustration: ONE UP!]
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