PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
November 8, 1890.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. V.--MIGNON'S MESS-ROOM.
(_BY_ TOM RUM SUMMER, _AUTHOR OF "MIGNON'S MA," "MIGNON'S HUB,"
"FOOTLE'S FATHER," "TOOTLE'S TOOTSIE," "UGLY TOM," "YOUR RICH
RICHARD," "A BABY IN BARRACKS," "STUCK," "HOOP-LORE," "WENT FOR THAT
PLEECEMAN," &C., &C., &C., &C., &C., &C., &C., &C._)
["This," writes the eminent Author, "is a _real, true_ story
of the life of soldiers and children. Soldiers are _grand,
noble_ fellows. They are so _manly_, and all smoke a great
deal of tobacco. My drawl is the only genuine one. I could do
a lot more of the same sort, but I charge extra for pathos.
I'm a man.--T.R.S."]
CHAPTER I.
"Three blind mice--
See how they run."
--_Old Song_,
The Officers of the Purple Dragoons were gathered together in their
ante-room. It was a way they had. They were all there. Grand fellows,
too, most of them--tall, broad-shouldered, and silky-haired, and as
good as gold. That gets tiresome after a time, but everything can be
set right with one downright rascally villain--a villain, mind you,
that poor, weak women, know nothing about. GAVOR was that kind of man.
Of course that was why he was to break his neck, and get smashed up
generally. But I am anticipating, and a man should never anticipate.
EMILY, for instance, never did. EMILY--Captain EMILY, of the Purple
Dragoons--was the biggest fool in the Service. Everybody told him so;
and EMILY, who had a trustful, loving nature, always believed what he
was told.
[Illustration]
"I nev-ah twry," he used to say--it was a difficult word to pronounce,
but EMILY always stuck to it as only a soldier can. and got it out
somehow--"I nev-ah twry to wremember things the wwrong way wround."
A roar of laughter greeted this sally. They all knew he meant
"anticipate," but they all loved their EMILY far too well to set him
right.
"'Pon my soul," he continued, "it's quite twrue. You fellows may
wroawr wiv laughtewr if you like, but it's twrue, and you know it's
twrne."
There was another explosion of what EMILY would have called
"mewrwriment," at this, for it was well-known to be one of the
gallant dragoon's most humorous efforts. A somewhat protracted silence
followed. FOOTLES, however, took it in both hands, and broke it with
no greater emotion than he would have shown if he had been called
upon to charge a whole squadron of Leicestershire Bullfinches, or
to command a Lord Mayor's escort on the 9th of November. Dear old
FOOTLES! He wasn't clever, no Purple Dragoon could be, but he wasn't
the biggest fool in the Service, like EMILY, and all the rest of them.
Still he loved another's.
In fact, whenever a Purple Dragoon fell in love, the object of his
affections immediately pretended to love someone else. Hard lines, but
soldiers were born to suffer. It is so easy, so true, so usual to say,
"there's another day to-morrow," but that never helped even a Purple
Dragoon to worry through to-day any the quicker. Poor, brave, noble,
drawling, manly, pipe-smoking fellows! On this particular occasion
FOOTLES uttered only one word. It was short, and began with the
fourth letter of the alphabet. But he may be pardoned, for some of the
glowing embers from his magnificent briar-wood pipe had dropped on to
his regulation overalls. The result was painful--to FOOTLES. All the
others laughed as well as they could, with clays, meerschaums, briars,
and asbestos pipes in their mouths. And through the thick cloud of
scented smoke the mess-waiter came into the room, bearing in his hand
a large registered letter, and coughing violently.