Except for the address, 'No. 1, Park-lane,' marked with a muddy
forefinger on the hanging waterproof sheet which served as a door,
there was nothing pretentious about the erection--it could not be
called a building--which was for the time being the residence of three
drivers of the Royal Field Artillery. But the shelter, ingeniously
constructed of hop-poles and straw thatch, was more or less rain-proof,
and had the advantage of being so close to the horse-lines that half a
dozen strides brought the drivers alongside their 'long-nosed chums.'
It was early evening; but the horses having been watered and fed, the
labours of their day were over, and the Wheel and Lead Drivers were
luxuriating in bootless feet while they entertained the Gunner who had
called in from his own billet in the farm's barn.
The Gunner was holding forth on Tobacco Gifts. 'It's like this, see,'
he said. 'An' I knows it's so 'cos I read it myself in the paper.
First you cuts a coo-pon out o' the paper wi' your name an' address on
it. . . .'
'But, 'ere, 'old on,' put in the Wheel Driver. ''Ow does my name get
on it?'
'You write it there, fat'ead. Didjer think it growed there? You
writes your name same as the paper tells, see; an' you cuts out the
coo-pon an' you sends sixpence for one packet o' 'baccy. . . .'
'Wot sorter yarn you givin' us now?' said the Wheel Driver. 'I didn't
send no sixpence, or cut out a cow-pen. I gets this 'baccy for
nothin'. The Quarter tole me so.'
'Course you gets it,' said the Gunner impatiently. 'But somebody must
'a' paid the sixpence. . . .'
'You said I paid it--an' I never did,' retorted the Wheel Driver.
''E means,' explained the Lead Driver, 'if you was sendin' a packet of
'baccy you'd send sixpence.'
'Where's the sense in that?' said the Wheel Driver. 'Why should I sen'
sixpence when I can get this 'baccy for nothin'? I got this for
nothin'. It's not a issue neither. It's a Gif'. Quartermaster tole
me so.'
'We know that,' said the Gunner; 'but if you wanted to you could send
sixpence. . . .'
'I could not,' said the Wheel Driver emphatically. 'I 'aven't seed a
sixpence since we lef 'ome. They even pays us in bloomin' French bank
notes. An' how I'm goin' to tell, after this war's over, whether my
pay's in credit----'
'Oh, shut it!' interrupted the Lead Driver. 'Let's 'ear 'ow this Gift
thing's worked. Go on, chum.'
'It's this way, see,' the Gunner took up his tale anew. 'S'pose you
wants to send a gift . . . or mebbe you'll unnerstan' this way better.
S'pose your best gel wants to sen' you a gift. . . .'
'I ain't got no bes' gel,' objected the Wheel Driver. 'I'm a married
man, an' you knows it too.'
The Gunner took a deep breath and looked hard at the objector. 'Well,'
he said, with studied calm, 'we'll s'pose your missis at 'ome there
wants to sen' you out some smokes. . . .'
'An s'pose she _does_ want to?' said the Wheel Driver truculently.
'Wot's it got to do wi' you, anyway?'
With lips pursed tight and in stony silence the Gunner glared at him,
and then, turning his shoulder, addressed himself deliberately to the
Lead Driver.
'S'pose _your_ missis . . .' he began, but got no further.
'He ain't got no missis; leastways, 'e ain't supposed to 'ave,' the
Wheel Driver interjected triumphantly.
That fact was well known to the Gunner, but had been forgotten by him
in the stress of the moment. He ignored the interruption, and
proceeded smoothly. 'S'pose your missis, if you 'ad one, w'ich you
'aven't, as I well knows, seein' me 'n' you walked out two sisters at
Woolwich up to the larst night we was there. . . .'
The Wheel Driver chuckled.
'Thought you was on guard the las' night we was in Woolwich,' he said.
'Will you shut your 'ead an' speak when you're spoke to?' said the
Gunner angrily.
'Never mind 'im, chum. Wot about this Gif' business?'
'Well,' said the Gunner, picking his words carefully. 'If a man's wife
_or_ gel _or_ sister _or_ friend wants to send 'im some smokes they
cuts this coo-pon, same's I've said, an' sends it up to the paper, wi'
sixpence an' the reg'mental number an' name of the man the gift's to go
to. An' the paper buys the 'baccy, gettin' it cheap becos o' buyin'
tons an' tons, an' sends a packet out wi the chap's number an' name and
reg'ment wrote on it. So 'e gets it. An' that's all.'
The Wheel Driver could contain himself no longer. 'An' how d'you
reckon I got this packet, an' no name or number on it--'cept a pos'card
wi' a name an' address wrote on as I never 'eard before?'
'Becos some good-'earted bloke in Blighty[1] that doesn't 'ave no pal
particular out 'ere asks the paper to send 'is packet o' 'baccy to the
O.C. to pass on to some pore 'ard-up orphin Tommy that ain't got no
'baccy nor no fren's to send 'im like, an' 'e issues it to you.'
'It ain't a issue,' persisted the Wheel Driver. 'It's a Gif. The
Quarter sed so 'isself.'
Splashing and squelching footsteps were heard outside, the door-curtain
swung aside, and the Centre Driver ducked in, took off a soaking cap,
and jerked a glistening spray off it into the darkness.
'Another fair _soor_ of a night,' he remarked cheerfully, slipping out
of his mackintosh and hanging the streaming garment in the door. 'Bust
me if I know where all the rain comes from.'
'Any luck?' asked the Lead Driver, leaning over to rearrange the strip
of cloth which, stuck in a jam-tin of fat, provided what--with some
imagination--might be called a light.
'Five packets--twenty-five fags,' said the Centre Driver. 'There was
two or three wantin' to swap the 'baccy in their packets for the fags
in the other chaps', so I done pretty well to get five packets for
mine.'
''Twould 'a' paid you better to 'ave kep' your 'baccy and made fags out
o' it wi' cig'rette papers,' said the Wheel Driver.
'Mebbe,' agreed the Centre Driver. 'An' p'raps you'll tell me--not
being a Maskelyne an' Cook conjurer meself--'ow I'm to produce the
fag-papers.'
The Gunner chuckled softly.
'You should 'a' done like old Pint-o'-Bass did, time we was on the
Aisne,' he said. 'Bass is one of them fag-fiends that can't live
without a cigarette, and wouldn't die happy if he wasn't smokin' one.
'E breathes more smoke than 'e does air, an' 'e ought to 'ave a
permanent chimney-sweep detailed to clear the soot out of 'is lungs an'
breathin' toobs. But if Pint-o'-Bass does smoke more'n is good for 'im
or any other respectable factory chimney, I'll admit the smoke 'asn't
sooted up 'is intelleck none, an' 'e can wriggle 'is way out of a hole
where a double-jointed snake 'ud stick. An' durin' the Retreat, when,
as you knows, cigarettes in the Expeditionary Force was scarcer'n
snowballs in 'ell, ole Pint-o'-Bass managed to carry on, an' wasn't
never seen without 'is fag, excep' at meal-times, an' sleep-times, an'
they bein' so infrequent an' sketchy-like, them days, wasn't 'ardly
worth countin'. 'Twas like this, see, that 'e managed it. You'll
remember that, when we mobilised, some Lost Dogs' 'Ome or Society for
Preventin' Christian Knowledge, or something, rushes up a issue o'
pocket Testaments an' dishes out one to everybody in the Battery.
Bound in a khaki cover they was, an', comin' in remarkable 'andy as a
nice sentimental sort o' keepsake, most of 'em stayed be'ind wi'
sweet'earts an' wives. Them as didn't must 'ave gone into "Base kit,"
cos any'ow there wasn't one to be raked out o' the Battery later on
excep' the one that Pint-o'-Bass was carryin'. Bein' pocket
Testaments, they was made o' the thinnest kind o' paper an' Bass tole
me the size worked out exackly right at two fags to the page. 'E
started on the Creation just about the time o' Mons, an' by the time
we'd got back to the Aisne 'e was near through Genesis. All the time
we was workin' up thro' France again Bass's smokes were workin' down
through Exodus, an' 'e begun to worry about whether the Testament would
carry 'im through the campaign. The other fellers that 'ad their
tongues 'anging out for a fag uster go'n borrow a leaf off o' Bass
whenever they could raise a bit o' baccy, but at last Bass shut down on
these loans. "Where's your own Testament?" he'd say. "You was served
out one same as me, wasn't you? Lot o' irreligious wasters! Get a
Bible give you an' can't take the trouble to carry it. You'd ha' sold
them Testaments at a sixpence a sack in Woolwich if there'd been buyers
at that price--which there weren't. An' now you comes beggin' a page
o' mine. I ain't goin' to give no more. Encouragin' thriftlessness,
as the Adjutant 'ud call it; an', besides, 'ow do I know 'ow long this
war's goin' to last or when I'll see a fag or a fag-paper again? I'll
be smoking Deuteronomy an' Kings long afore we're over the Rhine, an'
mebbe," he sez, turnin' over the pages with 'is thumb an' tearin' out
the Children of Israel careful by the roots, "mebbe I'll be reduced to
smokin' the inscription, 'To our Dear Soldier Friend,' on the fly-leaf
afore I gets a chance to loot some 'baccy shop in Berlin. No," 'e sez.
"No. You go'n smoke a corner o' the _Pet-it Journal_, an' good enough
for you, unprovident sacriligeous blighters, you--givin' away your own
good Testaments."
'Young Soapy, o' the Centre Section, 'im that was struck off the
strength at Wipers later through stoppin' a Coal-Box, tried to come the
artful, an' 'ad the front to 'alt the Division padre one day an' ask
'im if 'e'd any spares o' pocket Testaments in store, makin' out 'e'd
lost 'is through lendin' it to 'is Number One, who had gone "Missin'."
Soapy made out 'e couldn't sleep in 'is bed at night--which wasn't
sayin' much, seein' we mostly slep' in our seats or saddles them
nights--becos 'e hadn't read a chapter o' the Testament first. An' the
old sky-pilot was a little bit surprised--he'd 'a bin more surprised if
'e knew Soapy as well as I did--an' a heap pleased, and most of all
bowed down wi' grief becos 'e 'adn't no Testament that was supernumary
to War Establishment, and so couldn't issue one to Soapy. But two days
later 'e comes 'unting for Soapy, as pleased as a dog wi' two tails,
an' smilin' as glad as if 'e'd just converted the Kaiser; an' 'e lugs
out a big Bible 'e'd bought in a village we'd just passed through, an'
writes Soapy's name on the fly-leaf an' presents it to 'im, and tells
'im 'e'll come an' 'ave a chat any time 'e's near the Battery. The
Bible was none o' your fiddlin' pocket things, but a good substantial
one, wi' pitchers o' Moses in the bulrushes an' Abraham scarifyin' 'is
son, an' such like. An' the leaves was that thick that Soapy might as
well 'ave smoked brown paper or the _Pet-it Journal_. But that wasn't
the worst of it. Soapy chucked it over the first 'edge soon as the
padre 'ad gone, but next day the padre rolls up and tells Soapy a
Sapper 'ad picked it up and brought it to 'im--'im 'avin' signed 'is
name an' rank after "Presented by----" on the fly-leaf. An' 'e warns
Soapy to be more careful, and 'elps 'im stow it in 'is 'aversack, where
it took up most the room an' weighed a ton, an' left Soapy to
distribute 'is bully beef an' biscuits an' cheese an' spare socks and
cetera in all the pockets 'e 'ad. An even then poor Soapy wasn't
finished, for every time the padre got a chance 'e'd 'op round an' 'ave
a chat, as 'e called it, wi' Soapy, the chat being a cross-examination
worse'n a Court-Martial on what chapter Soapy 'ad been readin,' an'
full explanations of same. Soapy was drove at last to readin' a
chapter, so 'e could make out 'e savvied something of it.'
The Gunner tapped out his pipe on the heel of his boot and began to
re-fill it.
'If you'll believe me,' he said, 'that padre got poor Soapy pinned down
so he was readin' near a chapter a day--which shows the 'orrible
results that can come o' a little bit of simple deception.'
'An' how is Pint-o'-Bass goin' on wi' his Testament?' asked the Lead
Driver.
''E don't need to smoke it, now we're in these fixed positions an'
getting liberal supplies from these people that sends up to the papers'
Tobacco Funds. But 'e's savin' up the rest of it. Reckons that when
we get the Germans on the run again the movin' will be at the trot
canter an' gallop, same's before; an' the cigarette supplies won't be
able to keep up the pace. An' besides, 'e sez, 'e reckons it's only a
fair thing to smoke a cig'rette made wi' the larst chapter down the
'Igh Street o' Berlin the day Peace is declared.'
[1] England.