Life in a convalescent hospital for officers is not one continuous
round of gaiety, but it has its incidents for all that.
The other day Sister took Haynes, Ansell and myself to have tea with
some people in the neighbouring village of Little Budford. We were
waiting in the hall for the car when Seymour came along. Seymour is an
adjutant when he is not at home, and he likes to see things done with
proper military precision.
"Here," he said, "you can't go off casually like that. Fall in,
tea-party."
We fell in, and he went to the smoking-room and woke Major Stanley.
"Party for tea ready for inspection, Sir," he reported.
"Who? What? Where?" asked the Major confusedly. "Good Lord, you young
idiot, what a scare you gave me! Thought I was back in France for a
moment. Where's this party paraded?"
"Hout in the 'all, Sir." Seymour led him to where we were standing at
ease.
"Party!" he roared. "Shunsuwere!" We gave two convulsive jerks.
"Smarten up there, smarten HUP! Get a move on! This ain't a waxwork.
Shunsuwere!... Shun!! Party present, Sir."
The Major inspected us.
"I don't like this smear, Sergeant," he said, pointing to Ansell's
upper lip.
Seymour examined the feature in question.
"It don't appear to be dirt, Sir. Some sort o' growth, I think. You
try sand-papering it, me lad, an' you'll find it come orf all right."
"Very good, Sergeant," answered Ansell solemnly.
The Major proceeded to Haynes, and eyed him with disfavour.
"We can't do nothing with this man, Sir," said Seymour deprecatingly.
"'Is legs is that bandy."
"What do you mean, Private Haynes, by appearing on ceremonial parade
with a pair of bandy legs?"
"It wasn't my fault, Sir. 'Strewth, it wasn't. They got wet, Sir, an'
I went an' dried 'em at the cook'ouse fire, Sir, an' they got warped,
Sir."
"Well," said the Major, "don't bring 'em on parade again. Tell your
Q.M.S. I say you're to have a new pair."
"Very good, Sir."
The Major passed on to me, and surveyed my left arm more in anger than
in sorrow.
"Why has this man got his blue band fastened on with pins?" he
demanded. "Why isn't it sewn on? Why hasn't he fastened it on with
elastic? D'you hear me? Are you deaf? Why isn't it sewn on? Why don't
you speak?"
"Please, Sir...."
"Don't answer me back! Sergeant, take this man's name. He is insolent.
Take his name for insolence. You are insolent, Sir. You're a disgrace
to the Army. You're a ..."
"If you've quite finished with my squad, Major," put in Sister in a
quiet voice from the door, "the car is here, and we're late already. I
shall have to push a bit."
I promptly made for the seat beside the driver, explaining that I
wanted to see the speedometer burst. Sister does a good many things,
and does most of them well; but her particular accomplishment is
her motor-driving. After my experiences in different cars at the
Front--especially those driven by Frenchmen--I thought at first that
motoring had no new thrills to offer me; but when Sister takes corners
I still clutch at anything handy.
Surrey began to stream past us. The landscape was extremely beautiful,
but only the more distant parts of it were visible except as a mere
blur. After five or six miles we turned into a long straight stretch
of road.
"The Hepworths live somewhere along this," said Sister. "There's a
lovely sunken garden just in front of the house which I want you to
notice. Hallo! here we are; I thought it was further on."
The car whizzed round and through a drive gateway half hidden in
trees. When I opened my eyes again I looked for the sunken garden; but
except for a few very prim-looking flower-beds the grounds in front of
the house consisted entirely of a lawn, round which the drive took a
broad circular sweep.
"It must be the wrong house," said Sister, and without pausing an
instant in our centrifugal career we rushed round the complete circle
and disappeared through the gate as suddenly as we had come. As we
passed the house I had a fleeting glimpse of an old, hard-featured and
furious female face glaring at us from one of the windows.
On the road we stopped the car so as to regain some measure of gravity
before presenting ourselves at our real destination--next house--but
were still rather hysterical when we arrived.
"You'll hear more of this," said our hostess, when we had reported our
raid. "Old Miss Mendip lives there--a regular tartar; all kinds of
views; writes to the papers."
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