_SCENE.--A mud puddle in ----shire, in which are discovered forty
yeomen in khaki lying on their backs and flapping their legs like
seals. They are not really seals, but men whom their KING and
country needs, doing breathing exercises. The reason they do not
get up out of the puddle and walk away is that they would probably
be killed by the enormous troop sergeant who is instructing them._
_Troop Sergeant_ (_fiercely_). Now then. Work at it. I'm 'ere to do
you a bit of good, I am. Finest thing in the world, this is. Some of
you fellows don't know a good thing when you see it. What is it that
causes tuberckylosis? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it is. Look at
Sam Stevens--middle-weight champion of the world he was. And what did
he die of? Why, drink. And what made him take to drink? Why, want of
hoxygen. That's what it was. If a man can't breathe hoxygen he'll
drink it. How many cells do you suppose you 'ave in your lungs, Number
Three?
_Number Three_ (_inhaling through the mouth_). Don't know, Sergeant.
_Troop Sergeant._ Why, fifty million. Fifty million cells in your
lungs you've got.
[_Number Three, appalled at this revelation, inhales briskly
through the nose in the hope of filling some of them._
_Troop Sergeant._ And how many do you suppose you generally use? Why,
not half of them. Twenty-five million cells you've got doing nothing.
[_Number Three exhales despondently through the mouth, realising
the vanity of all human endeavour. The Troop Sergeant, satisfied
that he has disposed of Number Three, glares contentedly at the
troop in silence._
_Troop_ (_exhaling through the mouth_). F-s-s-s-s-h.
_Troop Sergeant_ (_with sudden emotion_). Look at your neck, Number
Ten. I ask you, look at the back of your neck.
[_Number Ten, feeling that this is a difficult feat to perform at
any time and quite impossible when lying on his back, continues to
gaze upwards, conscious of insubordination._
_Troop Sergeant._ Why is it twisted like that? A bone out of place,
the doctors will tell you. But (_solemnly_) WHY is it out of place, I
ask you? Tell me that. Want of hoxygen--that's what it is. It's as
plain as day.
[_Enter Troop Officer._
_Troop Officer_ (_explosively_). A-tssh! Code id by head, Sergeadt.
_Troop Sergeant._ Ah, Sir, if you was to do these breathing exercises
you wouldn't 'ave no colds, Sir. If everyone was to do these exercises
there wouldn't be no doctors, Sir. It's only want of hoxygen that
makes people ill. There isn't a man in this troop's 'ad a cold since
we began, Sir.
_Numbers Five, Seven and Nine_ (_surreptitiously_). A-tissh!
[_The Troop Sergeant is about to ignore this breach of
discipline when Number Three, who has been trying to repress a
sneeze while inhaling through the nose and at the same time
carrying the legs to a vertical position above the body,
explodes violently._
_Troop Sergeant_ (_ominously_). Number Three!
_Number Three_ (_weakly_). Yes, Sergeant.
_Troop Sergeant._ Have you got a cold?
_Number Three_ (_ingratiatingly_). Only a very little one, Sergeant.
_Troop Sergeant_ (_appealing to Officer_). Isn't it enough to break
one's 'eart, Sir? 'Ere am I trying to do them a bit o' good and 'ere's
this man lies there with his 'ead tucked into 'is chest, and doesn't
even try to breathe. There's only one thing that causes a cold. Want
of hox----A-tissh! A-tissh!
* * *
[_A painful silence ensues. The Officer walks away, leaving the
Sergeant to his grief. The forty seals continue to flap in the mud
puddle in ----shire._
* * * * *