It happened in Scotland--it couldn't have happened anywhere else.
I had been visiting the MacNeils. They sympathised over my wound; they
rallied round with tea and toast; they provided Scotch whisky. My one
objection to the family was their supreme confidence in these
new-fledged lads of the Home Defence, whom I--as a Subaltern of the old
school who had done my time at Sandhurst before the War--scorned with a
dogged contempt which no degree of argument could kill.
It was when I reached the street that I realised that fervid fire in the
soul of Scotch hospitality--a fire which brands it as unique in our
island story. In my coat pocket reposed a bottle of Heather Dew.
The convalescent home where I was being wooed back to brisk health was
situated along the sea-front. Chuckling at the MacNeils' efforts to
modify my views of our Home Defenders and their inefficiency, and
brooding on the folks' kind hearts, I paused to light a cigarette. The
wind blew out the fluttering flame. It also set me sneezing, for I had a
bad cold in the head. I struck another match.
"Hey!" said a voice suddenly behind me. I swerved, choking back a
sneeze. "Hey, hey, hey!" some broad Doric tongue continued.
A heavy hand came plump on my shoulder; a large Highland face was pushed
into mine; a kilt flapped round long bare shanks. I sneezed again.
"Got ye this time, lad!" announced the son of the North, who now
appeared to be a brawny lance-corporal. "Signallin' ye are. Oot to sea.
Ah saw ye blinkin' wi' a licht."
I sneezed again. "I was'd!" I declared as well as the cold in my head
would allow. "It was a batch. I've dever sigdalled id by life. You're
wrog--quite wrog!"
He gripped me firmly by the arm.
"Dinna tell me!" he announced in conclusive tones. "Ah ken better! Ye're
the second spy Ah've cotched. Come along, ma freend Fritz! Ye'll hae the
job o' explainin' to the Colonel whaur ye got that second-lootenant's
uniform."
Hunching his rifle over his shoulder, he marched me back the way I had
come.
"Where are you takig be to?" I enquired thickly. "Take be to your
Cobbadig Officer at wudce. I wad to egsplaid!"
"Ah'll hae nane o' your clavers," he said shortly. "Ye're for the
gaird-room. Dinna tell ma ye're no a German wi' a tongue like yon!"
"I've god a gold id by head!" I shouted at him. "I'b dot a Gerbud! I'b
Lieutedad Dobsod----"
"Haud yer tongue. Ye're a Chooton. An' ye're cotched. That's flat."
I was bundled into a draughty cattle-shed. The door was slammed. I
sneezed. It was a bright prospect. I changed my views on the
inefficiency of our Home Defenders. They now appealed to me as violently
efficient. A night in a tumble-down cow-house! Desolation! Then I
brightened up: the MacNeils' whisky. The cork popped in the silence of
the night.
The door opened. A sentry's head was poked round. Disregarding him, I
raised the bottle to my chattering teeth. Then the lance-corporal
appeared. With a sudden thought I offered him the bottle. A strange look
crept across his face. Gingerly he took the bottle. Then there was a
comfortable sound. He drew a hand across his mouth.
"That's grrand," he said. "Beg pardon, Sir. It's been ma mistake. Jock,
the prisoner is a Scottish officer. Let him gang.... Thank ye, Sir;
thank ye for the whisky."
* * * * *
"The Germans ... a whole company being decimated, the only
survivors, a captain and seventy men, surrendering."
_Pall Mall Gazette._
This indication that the normal strength of a German company is now only
79 is welcome news.
* * * * *
"The air defence of London is now practically under the control
of the home forces, of which Lord French is Commander-in-Chief,
and Admiral Lord French is Commander-in Chief, and Admiral the
gunnery defences of London."--_Provincial Paper._
So now we're all right.
* * * * *
"The spectacle of the snow-clad trees on the London Road, and in
other suburban districts, was pleasant to the eye, although it
made walking a trifle difficult."--_Leicester Mail._
It is our habit to discourage the dangerous practice of tree-gazing
while in motion.
* * * * *