The Babe went to England on leave. Not that this was any new
experience for him; he usually pulled it off about once a
quarter--influence, and that sort of thing, you know. He went down to
the coast in a carriage containing seventeen other men, but he got a
fat sleepy youth to sit on, and was passably comfortable. He crossed
over in a wobbly boat packed from cellar to attic with Red Tabs
invalided with shell shock, Blue Tabs with trench fever, and Green
Tabs with brain-fag; Mechanical Transporters in spurs and stocks, jam
merchants in revolvers and bowie-knives, Military Police festooned
with _pickelhaubes_, and here and there a furtive fighting man who had
got away by mistake, and would be recalled as soon as he landed.
The leave train rolled into Victoria late in the afternoon. Cab touts
buzzed about the Babe, but he would have none of them; he would
go afoot the better to see the sights of the village--a leisurely
sentimental pilgrimage. He had not covered one hundred yards when
a ducky little thing pranced up to him, squeaking, "Where are your
gloves, Sir?" "I always put 'em in cold storage during summer along
with my muff and boa, dear," the Babe replied pleasantly. "Moreover,
my mother doesn't like me to talk to strangers in the streets, so
ta-ta." The little creature blushed like a tea-rose and stamped its
little hoof. "Insolence!" it squeaked. "You--you go back to France by
the next boat!" and the Babe perceived to his horror that he had been
witty to an Assistant Provost-Marshal! He flung himself down on his
knees, licking the A.P.M.'s boots and crying in a loud voice that he
would be good and never do it again.
The A.P.M. pardoned the Babe (he wanted to save the polish on his
boots) on condition that he immediately purchased a pair of gloves of
the official cut and hue. The Babe did so forthwith and continued on
his way. He had not continued ten yards when another A.P.M. tripped
him up. "That cap is a disgrace, Sir!" he barked. "I know it, Sir,"
the Babe admitted, "and I'm awfully sorry about it; but that hole in
it only arrived last night--shrapnel, you know--and I haven't had time
to buy another yet. I don't care for the style they sell in those
little French shops--do you?"
The A.P.M. didn't know anything about France or its little shops, and
didn't intend to investigate; at any rate not while there was a war
on there. "You will return to the Front to-morrow," said he. The Babe
grasped his hand from him and shook it warmly. "Thank you--thank you,
Sir," he gushed; "I didn't want to come, but they made me. I'm from
Fiji; have no friends here, and London is somehow so different from
Suva it makes my head ache. I am broke and couldn't afford leave,
anyway. Thank you, Sir--thank you."
"Ahem--in that case I will revoke my decision," said the A.P.M. "Buy
yourself an officially-sanctioned cap and carry on."
The Babe bought one with alacrity; then, having tasted enough of the
dangers of the streets for one afternoon, took a taxi, and, lying in
the bottom well out of sight, sped to his old hotel. When he reached
his old hotel he found it had changed during his absence, and was now
headquarters of the Director of Bones and Dripping. He abused the
taxi-driver, who said he was sorry, but there was no telling these
days; a hotel was a hotel one moment, and the next it was something
entirely different. Motion pictures weren't in it, he said.
Finally they discovered a hotel which was still behaving as such, and
the Babe got a room. He remained in that room all the evening, beneath
the bed, having his meals pushed in to him under the door. A prowling
A.P.M. sniffed at the keyhole but did not investigate further, which
was fortunate for the Babe, who had no regulation pyjamas.
Next morning, crouched on the bottom boards of another taxi, he was
taken to his tailor, poured himself into the faithful fellow's hands,
and only departed when guaranteed to be absolutely A.P.M.-proof. He
went to the "Bolero" for lunch, ordered some oysters for a start,
polished them off and bade the waiter trot up the _consommé_. The
waiter shook his head, "Can't be done, Sir. Subaltern gents are only
allowed three and sixpenceworth of food and you've already had that,
Sir. If we was to serve you with a crumb more, we'd be persecuted
under the Trading with the Enemy Act, Sir. There's an A.P.M. sitting
in the corner this very moment, Sir, his eyeglass fixed on your every
mouthful very suspicious-like--"
"Good Lord!" said the Babe, and bolted. He bolted as far as the next
restaurant, had a three-and-sixpenny _entrée_ there, went on to
another for sweets, and yet another for coffee and trimmings. These
short bursts between courses kept his appetite wonderfully alive.
That afternoon he ran across a lady friend in Bond Street, "a War
Toiler enormously interested in the War" (see the current number of
_Social Snaps_). She had been at Yvonne's trying on her gauze for the
Boccaccio Tableaux in aid of the Armenians and needed some relaxation.
So she engaged the Babe for the play, to be followed by supper with
herself and her civilian husband. The play (a War-drama) gave the Babe
a fine hunger, but the Commissionaire (apparently a Major-General)
who does odd jobs outside the Blitz took exception to him. "Can't go
in, Sir." "Why not?" the Babe inquired; "my friends have gone in."
"Yessir, but no hofficers are allowed to obtain nourishment after 10
p.m. under Defence of the Realm Act, footnote (a) to para. 14004." He
leaned forward and whispered behind his glove, "There's a Hay Pee Hem
under the portico watching your movements, Sir." The Babe needed no
further warning; he dived into his friends' Limousine and burrowed
under the rug.
* * * * *
Sometime later the door of the car was opened cautiously and the
moon-face of the Major-General inserted itself through the crack.
"Hall clear for the moment, Sir; the Hay Pee Hem 'as gorn orf dahn the
street, chasin' a young hofficer in low shoes. 'Ere, tyke this; I'm a
hold soldier meself." He thrust a damp banana in the Babe's hand and
closed the door softly.
Next morning the Babe dug up an old suit of 1914 "civies" and put
them on. A woman in the Tube called him "Cuthbert" and informed him
gratuitously that her husband, twice the Babe's age, had volunteered
the moment Conscription was declared and had been fighting bravely
in the Army Clothing Department ever since. Further she supposed
the Babe's father was in Parliament and that he was a Conscientious
Objector. In Hyde Park one urchin addressed him as "Daddy" and asked
him what he was doing in the Great War; another gambolled round and
round him making noises like a rabbit. In Knightsbridge a Military
Policeman wanted to arrest him as a deserter. The Babe hailed a taxi
and, cowering on the floor, fled back to his hotel and changed into
uniform again.
That night, strolling homewards in the dark immersed in thought, he
inadvertently took a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. An A.P.M. who
had been sleuthing him for half-a-mile leapt upon him, snatched the
pipe and two or three teeth out of his mouth and returned him to
France by the next boat.
* * * * *
His groom, beaming welcome, met him at the railhead with the horses.
"Hello, old thing, cheerio and all the rest of it," Huntsman whinnied
lovingly.
Miss Muffet rubbed her velvet muzzle against his pocket. "Brought a
lump of sugar for a little girl?" she rumbled.
He mounted her and headed across country, Miss Muffet pig-jumping and
capering to show what excellent spirits she enjoyed.
Two brigades of infantry were under canvas in Mud Gully, their cook
fires winking like red eyes. The guards clicked to attention and
slapped their butts as the Babe went by. A subaltern bobbed out of a
tent and shouted to him to stop to tea. "We've got cake," he lured,
but the Babe went on.
A red-hat cantered across the stubble before him waving a friendly
crop, "Pip" Vibart the A.P.M. homing to H.Q. "Evening, boy!" he
holloaed; "come up and Bridge to-morrow night," and swept on over the
hillside. A flight of aeroplanes, like flies in the amber of sunset,
droned overhead _en route_ for Hunland. The Babe waved his official
cap at them: "Good hunting, old dears."
They had just started feeding up in the regimental lines when he
arrived; the excited neighing of five hundred horses was music to his
ears. His brother subalterns hailed his return with loud and exuberant
noises, made disparaging remarks about the smartness of his clothes,
sat on him all over the floor and rumpled him. On sighting the Babe,
The O'Murphy went mad and careered round the table wriggling like
an Oriental dancer, uttering shrill yelps of delight; presently he
bounced out of the window, to enter some minutes later by the same
route, and lay the offering of a freshly slain rat at his best
beloved's feet.
At this moment the skipper came in plastered thick with the mud of the
line, nodded cheerfully to his junior sub and instantaneously fell
upon the buttered toast.
"Have a good time, Son?" he mumbled. "How's merrie England?"
"Oh, England's all right, Sir," said the Babe, tickling The O'Murphy's
upturned tummy--"quite all right; but it's jolly to be home again
among one's ain folk."