Jerry, my lad,--We have lost a dear friend, and with him, alas, the piping
days of peace. No, he is not dead, or even moribund, but his friendship for
us lives no longer. His name is Feodor, and he is a Bulgar comitadjus, or
whatever is the singular of "comitadji," and he lived until lately in No. 2
Dugout, Hyde Park, just over the way.
It is a moot point which delighted us the more, Feodor's charming manner or
his exquisite trousers. These two characteristics were the more pleasing
because of their perfect contrast; for whereas his manner was refined and
retiring, his trousers were distinctly aggressive in their flaunting
shameless redness.
Feodor's appearances were at first spasmodic. This was only natural, seeing
that he had not yet instilled into us his own attractive habit of _laisser
aller_ and _laisser faire_, and that his red trousers offered such a
beautiful mark.
He would appear suddenly, smile seraphically towards us, and then disappear
before our snipers could get on to him. At first of course we tried to pot
him, but gradually our ferocity gave way to amazement and then to
tolerance. At last came a day when Feodor climbed on to his parapet and
made us a pretty little speech. We cheered him loudly, although we didn't
understand much of it. Next day we brought down an interpreter and asked
Feodor for an encore. His second performance was even more spirited than
the first, and after a graceful vote of thanks to our benefactor we asked
the interpreter to oblige.
It appeared that from his boyhood Feodor had been apprenticed to an
assistant piano-tuner in Varna. Rosy days of rapid promotion followed, and
the boy, completely wrapped up in his profession, soon became a deputy
assistant piano-tuner. Then followed the old, old story of vaulting
ambition.
The youth, his head turned by material success, sought to consolidate his
social position by a marriage above his station, and dared to aspire to the
hand of a full piano-tuner's daughter.
The old man tried gentle dissuasion at first, but the obstinate pertinacity
of the stripling made him gradually lose patience. He was a hale and hearty
veteran, and when the situation came to a climax his method of dealing with
it was stern and thorough.
Seizing the hapless Feodor during an evening call he interned him in the
vitals of a tuneless Baby Grand, and for three hours played on him CHOPIN'S
polonaise in A flat major, with the loud pedal down. On his release Feodor
had lost his reason and rushed to the nearest police-station to ask to be
sent to the Front immediately. His object, he explained, was to end the
War. The Bulgar authorities thought the plan worth trying and sent him off
as a comitadjus; and to these circumstances we were indebted for his
society.
Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him. As to
sniping him now--the idea never entered our beads. Accordingly, while a
deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a
state of idyllic peace and hatelessness.
Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, and a large and
important General asked us--
"But are you being offensive enough to the enemy in front?"
"Offensive to Feodor, Sir? Impossible!"
"You _must_ be offensive," he rejoined. "I don't think there is sufficient
hate in this part of the line."
It was this unfortunate moment that Feodor chose to step on to his parapet
and call out cheerfully to the Great Man--
"Good morning, John_ee_!"
For one tense moment I thought the General would burst. By an effort he
pulled himself together, however, and shouted to my troops in a voice of
thunder--
"At That Person in front--fifteen rounds rapid. Fire!"
We had to do it, of course, and, although I think most of our sights were a
little high, accidents _will_ happen. Feodor emitted one unearthly shriek,
and his time back towards home would, if it had been taken, make a world's
championship record.
I don't think he was physically hurt; but his poor trousers were badly
punctured!...
Our friend, Jerry, may not be lost, but he is certainly gone behind.
Yours always,
PETER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lady_ (_who has been photographed for passport_). "THIS
PHOTOGRAPH OF ME IS BEALLY DREADFUL. WHY, I LOOK LIKE A GORILLA!"
_Photographer_. "I'M VERY SORRY, LADY; BUT, YOU SEE, THE GOVERNMENT WON'T
ALLOW US TO TOUCH UP ANY PASSPORT PHOTOS."]
* * * * *
"From the Pentland Firth to Norway, the eyes of the British Fleet are
those of Nunquam."--_Yorkshire Post_.
We suppose old _Dormio_ is asleep as usual.
* * * * *
"The clergy will be pleased to hear of parishioners who are
sick.".--_Parish Magazine_.
No doubt they mean it kindly, but it sounds rather callous.
* * * * *
"Holders of 15s. 6d. War Savings Certificates and scrip vouchers of the
War Loan are acceptable over the Post Office counter at their face
value."--_Daily News_.
"'My face is my fortune, Sir,' she said."
* * * * *
"Will anyone give 15/- and a kind home to a nice little brown miniature
poodle dog, 3 years, ideal pet and companion?"--_The Bazaar_.
Sixpence more and the little pet could buy a War Savings Certificate.
* * * * *