While en route from the Western to the Italian front we were held up at
an Italian wayside station and, hearing that we had some time to wait,
our cook says, "Nah's our chance to make some tea."
So we dragged our boiler on to the end of the platform, scrounged some
wood, and soon had the fire going and the water on the boil. "Nah we
will get the tea and sugar," says the cook. When we returned we found
that the chimney of the boiler had disappeared, smoke and flames were
roaring up, and the water was ruined by soot.
An Italian soldier was standing by, looking on. "Somebody's pinched our
chimbley," gasped the cook, "and I've got an idea that this Italian
fellow knows somefing abaht it."
Back came the reply from the Italian, in pure Cockney: "I ain't pinched
yer chimbley, mate!"
"What! yer speak our lingo?" says the cook. "What part of the Village
do yer come from?"
"Clerkenwell," was the reply.
"Give us yer mitt," says the cook. "I'm from the same parish. And nah
I knows that yer couldn't 'ave pinched our chimbley. It must have been
one of them scrounging Cockneys."--_H. Howard, 26 Hanover Street,
Islington, N.1._