A JOLLY RAG.

I.

When all had returned from leave, Dame Rumour got busy. Some of the lads had been going it, and their exploits had got abroad. Even Billy, the padre, was in the gossip-market, and Ginger was alleged to have been seen in a two-seater with the famous beauty from the hotel. As for Tosher, it was said he had been doing the heavy with the ladies of Glasgow.

To amuse ourselves, we called a secret meeting and decided to hold a court-martial, Nobby being elected president. The following notice was posted up in the hut:

COURT-MARTIAL.
A Court-Martial will assemble in the Hut
on Friday Evening for the Trial of
Billy Greens,
Ginger Thomson,
and
Tosher Johnson.
All witnesses are warned to attend.

John Brown, Adjutant.

There was a great rush on the ‘early doors.’ At 7 P.M. Nobby appeared, dressed up as a stout colonel, with a moustache like Ole Bill. He looked most impressive, and roused a cheer. The members of the court followed. All took their seats, and Billy Greens was ushered in by the court-martial orderly.

‘Before proceeding,’ said Nobby, ‘I should like to know if the accused has any objection, either to me, as president, or to any member of the court.’

‘Yes, sir, I object to you,’ answered Billy.

‘Why?’

‘You’re a rotten old Radical and—a lawyer.’

‘Your objection is out of order. This is a military court, and politics do not enter into the matter. If I am a lawyer, I can assure you there will be no charges—I mean, no six-and-eight.’

‘Question!’ shouted Ginger.

‘Please bludgeon that Imperialist,’ commanded the president.

Ginger was gagged. The case was proceeded with.

‘Corporal Billy Greens, No. 1 Company of the—th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Giddiness on leave; (2) Appearing in public with a formidable female; (3) Holding her hand in a tram-car; (4) Acting the goat in a taxi-cab.’

‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘Evidence, please,’ ordered the president.

Beefy stepped forward with a ponderous-looking document like the Magna Carta. It was really one of Harrods’ voluminous catalogues. Opening it up, he commenced: ‘Sir, the accused, who is a gentleman in holy orders, but meantime a soldier, has hitherto borne an excellent character. But we have received reports from the Platoon Secret Service men stating that on his last leave he has been “going it.” Apparently he went to a small town near London, and commenced to pay attention to a lady of blameless character, but of formidable appearance, and inclined to be frisky and sentimental when receiving the attention of man.’

‘Keep to the point, Mr Jones. Please deal with the first charge,’ remarked the president.

‘I’m just coming to that, sir,’ replied Beefy, turning over Harrods’ catalogue. ‘The first charge is “Giddiness.” Our agents state the accused was wearing a field-marshal’s trousers—an offence punishable by death, according to the Manual of Military Law. He also wore bright-yellow shoes and white socks, ornamented with yellow flowers, which I contend betrays a somewhat frivolous mind. Above the neck of his tunic appeared a white india-rubber collar, and sticking out from under his tunic-sleeves were white cuffs, ornamented with a balance-sheet of his holiday expenses. He also carried an enormous Malacca cane studded with brass knobs, of the type used by lion-tamers and wealthy Jews. In fact, his whole appearance was that of the Bank ‘Oliday kind. Instead of looking like a harmless and shuffling cadet, he really resembled Ole Bill on the burst. So startling was his appearance that a terrier-dog fell off a tram-car, and an ancient cab-horse jumped into an egg-merchant’s window. To save further calamity, the local police had to hide him in a furniture-van and remove him to his lodgings.

‘The second charge is, “Appearing in public with a formidable female.” The lady in question is of uncertain age, but of great stature—six feet high, three feet broad, and built in proportion.’

‘Weight and style, I presume,’ said the president.

‘Yes, sir. I also understand she is the commandant of a V.A.D. Hospital. Prior to the war she was a suffragette who achieved fame by burning down the local bishop’s bathroom.’

‘Has the bishop used Pears’ since that event?’ inquired a member.

‘No, sir. I understand he uses the wash-house.—But to resume. When she appeared in public with the accused (she being of massive mould, and he being of bantam measurements), the contrast was striking. In fact, the difference in height was so great that it is stated she carried a small portable telephone to carry on the conversation. He called her “Gertie,” and she called him “Pickles.” While attempting to enter a very narrow gate in the public park, the lady got wedged, and it is alleged she shouted, “Push me—push me, Pickles.” The accused nobly responded, and relieved the lady from an embarrassing position.’

‘Was the gate damaged?’ asked the president.

‘Slightly bent, sir.—Now for the third charge. The lady, who has been trying to “get off” for quite a number of years, was apparently so bucked with her capture that she aired him on every public occasion. They were always riding in tram-cars. On one occasion a local alderman, who has a reputation for “picking up” unattached females, entered the car they were travelling in. The lady, apparently nervous about getting the glad eye from this civic Lothario, muttered, “Hold my hand, Pickles—hold my hand.” Like a brave man, he did so. In this simple and trusting manner they completed their journey, to the amusement of all.

‘The final charge is, “Acting the goat in a taxi-cab.” Apparently the dear old girl had been overhearing some of the younger V.A.D.’s, her colleagues, relating thrilling experiences of taxi-cabs. She decided to try the experiment, and Pickles drew a pound note from the Penny Savings Bank for that purpose. To avoid observation, they ordered the taxi to meet them in a quiet thoroughfare. But a local press photographer witnessed the amusing struggle of the lady to get inside.

‘“Pickles!” she shouted.

‘“Yes, dear,” he replied.

‘“The door is too small. Push me.”

‘Pickles pushed again, and the lady fell inside. At that moment the camera clicked. Here is the photo, sir;’ and Beefy handed over a charcoal drawing of Billy heaving an enormous lady into a vehicle.

Loud laughter in court.

‘The taxi-man then received secret instructions from the accused to drive ten times round the park—DEAD SLOW. During this performance several of the local special constables saw the lady with the accused in her arms. At intervals they kissed each other. When they alighted from the cab, our Secret Service men discovered a hair-switch and an upper set of false teeth among the cushions. This, sir, is, I think, complete evidence of frivolous conduct.’

‘I see! I see!’ muttered the president, tugging his false moustache. ‘Now, Mr Jones, have you any evidence as to how the accused met this lady? Was he introduced, or was it what we in the army term a “pick-up”?’

‘So far as I know, they were properly introduced. Some years ago, when the accused was a student, he saw the lady bathing in a crimson dress with lace-curtain frillings. He secured an intro. by the aid of a member of a local Dorcas Society.’

‘What about his character?’

‘Hitherto most respectable; but I imagine his association with my friends Messrs. Ginger Thomson and John Brown has, unfortunately, caused him to fall from grace. That’s all, sir,’ concluded Beefy.

‘What have you got to say, my man?’ said Nobby, with the air of a Lord Chief-Justice.

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing! My dear old Pieface, this is a serious business. You go on leave; you wear a field-marshal’s trousers, a padre’s white shirt, shop-assistant’s yellow shoes, and you carry a ship-pole for a walking-stick. You cause an innocent dog to fall off a tram-car, and a hitherto respectable horse to jump into an egg-merchant’s window, and yet you say, “Nothing.” Worse; you try to outdo Charlie Chaplin in a tram-car, and Ole Bill in a taxi. This from a future officer, an ordained padre, and a Tory gentleman will not do. It is preposterous! You must be shot! Must be shot!’ roared Nobby with dramatic fervour, which reminded us of the old com. on the bench.

‘You’re a silly old ass, Nobby!’ said Billy.

‘That’s contempt of court.’

‘You’re a rotten old Radical!’

‘That means execution.’

‘And here goes your bench,’ shouted Billy, making a running jump at Nobby’s table, and kicking it up in the air, sending ink, pens, paper, books, &c. flying right and left.

‘Remanded! Remanded!’ shouted Nobby, brandishing a poker.

The prisoner was seized and put in ‘quod,’ or, in other words, let go. His ragging was over.

II.

‘The next prisoner,’ demanded the president when the table had been restored to its feet and the papers had been tidied up.

Ginger Thomson was marched in, guarded by an escort, who were armed with wet mops. We knew Ginger!

‘Sergeant Ginger Thomson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Posing as a woman-hater; (2) Declining to wash; (3) Joy-riding in a Ford car.’

‘Evidence, please, Mr Brown,’ ordered the president.

‘Sir, this youth, for the past two months, has been posing to all as an enemy of the opposite sex. In a recent discussion he declared that women were soulless, inconstant, mercenary, and loved us only when we had chocolate or plenty of the golden goblins. We believed him to be sincere, and he received homage as the great monk of our platoon. Other remarkable attitudes in controversy convinced many of us that this brilliant but erratic gentleman was simply pulling our legs. By accident we discovered that he is an ardent admirer of the beautiful lady who dispenses ale and bitters at the local hotel. In fact, our agents have procured a grammophone record of a conversation with this fair lady. This is the record,’ I added, turning on the gramophone, the record of which had been faked for the occasion.

‘Edison Bell Record.’

Gur-r-r-gurr-r-r-r.

‘Hello, old girl; how are you?’

‘What cheer, Ginger?’

‘Gin and ginger, quick—awful thirst, old girl! Bring it up to the private room.’

‘Right-o, dearie!’

Gurr-r-gurr-r-r-gurr.

‘There you are, Ginger—don’t! The master’ll hear us. Oh, my hair!... You’ve broken my comb. You mustn’t kiss me. Oh, Mr Thomson!... ‘Oo’d a’ thought it?’

Gurr-r-gurr-r-r-gurr.

‘You’re a dear old thing!’

‘And you’re a giddy boy.... You mustn’t.... If the master sees me sittin’ on your knee, there’ll be trouble.... Ah, don’t!’

Gurr-r-gurr-r-r.

And the record ended, just in time, for Ginger let fly and kicked it to the other end of the room.

‘Tie him up! Tie him up!’ ordered the president.

It was a tough job, but we managed to get his feet tied, then stood him up before the ‘beak.’

‘Carry on, Mr Brown,’ commanded Nobby.

‘That record, sir, absolutely proves that this man deals in terminological inexactitudes.’

‘You mean he is a common or garden chancer?’

‘Yes, sir. The second charge is equally serious. He has an objection to soap, and loathes water like a Bolshevik.’

‘Has he no soap in his possession?’ asked a member.

‘Oh yes, sir, a small piece, which he received three years ago on enlistment. This is it:

‘Note the size. He keeps this for kit inspections, and I understand he is to make it a family heirloom after the war.

‘Now for the third charge—“Joy-riding in a Ford.” During his leave he was seen several times in a palatial petrol tin-can, accompanied by a fair lady. The lady was holding his hand, and the car was doing a cake-walk down the road. Several roosters and pet-poodles are at present in the mortuary. Two maiden ladies demand his life, and the town council have sent in a bill for two policemen and three lamp-posts. That’s all, sir.’

‘Very serious! Very serious!’ muttered Nobby, chewing his Ole Bill moustache. ‘What about his character?’

‘He lost it at St Omer.’

‘Oh!’

‘Found by the A.P.M. (Assistant Provost-Marshal) singing “Home, Sweet Home,” on the top of a lamp-post.’

‘Then he is hopeless?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘Ginger, you are a bad lad,’ commented the president. ‘Have you anything to say?’

‘Yes, sir,’ shouted Ginger, seizing a mop out of the escort’s hand and charging full tilt at the president. He caught Nobby in the chest and heaved him over in excellent style. But the valiant president arose and shouted, ‘Duck him! Duck him!’

Ginger was seized and promptly heaved into the company bathroom. ‘You are a lot of blighters,’ said he on emerging. However, Ginger was a sport, and took it merrily. When he returned to the courtroom he promptly changed the rÔle of prisoner for that of prosecutor.

III.

‘Next prisoner,’ ordered the president, after shaking himself and wiping the traces of the mop off his face.

Tosher Johnson was marched in, guarded by two hefty lads. We were taking no risks with the wild Canadian.

‘Corporal Tosher Johnson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Worshipping the almighty dollar; (2) Always muttering “gaw-damn;” (3) Pulling a railway alarm-cord; (4) “Swanking it” in Glasgow.’

‘Evidence,’ commanded the president.

‘Sir,’ said Ginger, ‘the accused is a Canadian, and therefore a mystery. He blew in about 1915 from out West, and reckoned he was the man to win the war. His career is like that of all backblockers—most varied and adventurous. He commenced life eating pork-pies in Nova Scotia. At the age of twelve he was assistant to a negro medicine-man, who sold corn-cure at a penny a time. The corn-cure, I may say, was made out of wagon-grease stolen from the C.P.R. Having done in the son of Ham for about a hundred dollars, he went West, where he started a shoe-shining parlour and a horse-betting booth. Next he was seen in a fat-reducing advertisement; after which, he floated a company to supply the ladies of Winnipeg with imitation busts.

‘In these ventures he was, like all Canucks, highly successful, and therefore plunged into real estate. This is a get-rich-quick scheme. Tosher was a star turn. He took double-page advertisements in the home papers, and sold corner lots to dukes, commoners, and simpletons. When these “duds” went out to stake their plots in Paradise Alley, they discovered their land was in the Arctic regions, and tenanted only by Eskimos. What did Tosher do? Why, he simply apologised, and said his clerk had made a mistake by turning the map upside-down!

‘Since then he has had a dollar for his crest, a dollar for his god. He has got money in everything from corn-plaster to chewing-gum, and he reckons to fizzle off this ‘ere planet (as he calls it) with about a hundred thousand dollars, earned while chewing cigars and drinking cocktails in Montreal, Toronto, and the mixed-bathing cave up in Banff, Alberta. The fellow’s a marvel!’

‘Look here, Mr Thomson; this is a court-martial. Evidence! Evidence! We’re not here to get the story of how we all lost our money before the war.’

‘Very good, sir! The second charge is, “Always muttering ‘gaw-damn.’” That is the motto on his shirts and socks. When he spits it out with a Chicago tang, he means you to know he’s no soft-headed fellow from Balliol, but a real son of a gun from Chewing-Gum Land. This historic adjective is joined to “guessing” and “calculating.” And he reckons he’s real prime, six-shooting, hot stuff in this gaw-damn land of weasels and crows. And he isn’t slow! He can talk the head off a Dutchman, pulverise a cockatoo, give you a one-pound note for a tenner, and send you away with a feeling that he’s real good, and the best kid that ever dropped out of “Taurauntoe.”

‘The third charge, sir, is, “Pulling a railway alarm-cord” while on leave. Apparently he got into the company of a simple old Scottish gentleman, who was accompanied by his wife and rather charming daughter. Tosher took the corner seat like a conqueror, and muttered, “It was real fine to get away from the gaw-damn Boche.”

‘“Are you just from the Front?” the old gent inquired.

‘“Yip!” he said, lighting a twopenny havana.

‘“You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?”

‘“Sure!”

‘“You fellows are winning the war.”

‘“I guess so.”

‘And in this vein he went on. He spun them yarns as tall as a wireless mast, relating how he had missed the V.C. by going round the wrong corner, lost the D.S.O. because the gaw-damn officer wasn’t there, and was recommended by Joffre for the Legion of Honour for holding up a German army corps with a Woodbine and a six-shooter. These poor, innocent mortals were bewildered. The accused is greater than Louis de Rougemont. He then showed them nicotine-stained fingers, and said it was blood; his vaccination-mark was a cut by a shell; and a birth-mark on his chin was a bit sliced off by a Prussian prince of the gaw-damn Prussian Guard.

‘The old gent and his party were thrilled.

‘“But, say, old friend, have a cigar to chew,” remarked Tosher.

‘“Thanks, I will.”

‘Tosher opened his case, but found it was empty.

‘“Sorry. I guess I’m run out. Where can I get some?”

‘“Not till Carlisle. We have two hours to go yet.”

‘“I reckon we pass other bum towns en route.”

‘“Oh yes.”

‘“Well, I guess I’ll call the guard,” said Tosher, jumping up to the alarm-cord.

‘“You can’t pull that—you’ll be fined.”

‘“What? I’m a Canadian!” And he pulled the cord. The brakes went on with a bang, and the old guard hurried up along the line.

‘“Say, old Father Time,” shouted Tosher.

‘“What’s up?”

‘“Stop yer old bus at the next bum town. I want some cigars to chew.”

‘“I’ll shove ye in jail!” roared the guard.

‘“Easy, old child.”

‘“What’s your name?”

‘“My mother christened me Johnson.”

‘“You’re a Canadian, I suppose?”

‘“Yip!”

‘“All right. I’ll show you I’m a Scotsman.”

‘Tosher didn’t get the cigars. He got “Five quid, or twenty-one days,” at the Police Court.’

‘What did he say to that?’ inquired the president.

‘Oh, he reckoned it was gaw-damn stiff that a bloke who was winnin’ the war couldn’t get out of an express for cigars.’

‘I see! I see!’

‘The final charge, sir, is, “‘Swanking it’ in Glasgow.” He had a maple-leaf in his cap about the size of a young fir-tree, smoked evil-smelling cheroots the size of a submarine, stopped the traffic when he wanted to cross the road, and tried to elope with all the best-looking women in the town.

‘“Who are you?” asked an interested lady.

‘“Tosher Johnson, real prime, and the best kid out of Taurauntoe.”

‘“All right! There’s my card. Call and see me to-morrow.”

‘When Tosher got there her father was waiting for him. The old man was a brain specialist. That’s all the evidence, sir,’ concluded Ginger.

‘Johnson,’ said the president, ‘your career and exploits resemble those of the Arabian Knights and the adventures of Louis de Rougemont. What have you got to say?’

‘Well, boss, I guess Ginger is the brother of Ananias, and the uncle of the Kaiser. He’s just real good at the story-faking business, and after the war we’ll get him to run the Real Estate News, and the selling of corner lots in Greenland and Hudson Bay. As for the “Canuck” being top-dog in the lead-swinging business, I reckon that’s fizzled out. If Oxford can pan out liars like this ‘ere child in the future, we from out West will have to take a back-seat in the boosting business. Why, the fellow ‘u’d make his pile hanging around a Calgary beer-bar, telling them how to make a nigger into a white man, and how to turn a thousand dollar notes into ten million of the hard stuff.

‘As for “gaw-damn,” “guessing,” and “calculating,” seems to me you need some new language to tickle this old country up. You are a long-faced lot o’ wowsers, tied up by regulations and B.C. institooshuns. When you want to meet a prime girl, you need an intro.; and if you’re keen on eating with a duke, you’ve got to show your birth-certificate, and prove your father didn’t bring you into this world o’ woe without a nine-carat wedding-ring. It makes me real tired to walk around and see your orders: “Keep off the Grass;” “Keep to the Right;” “No Smoking Allowed;” “Private—Trespassers will be Prosecuted.”

‘That’s your whole gaw-damn system. You ain’t a free-thinking crowd; you’re a bunch of kids kept in order by bamboo canes and laws made by Moses. Even your little rabbits, that we gives to our dawgs, are protected by ancient statoots with about a ton of sealing-wax hanging on the tail.

‘As for your women, you don’t know how to make them smile. They’re the best-lookin’ kids on the planet, and they’re just real glad that we wild men are over to tickle them up and make them dance. Say, boys, but you are just dead-slow. Why, I can get anything in petticoats, from an heiress to a barmaid, by giving them a Taurauntoe glad eye, and saying, “Come on.” You fellows are the fag-end of an old system, and if it weren’t for us prime hustlers from out West, you’d be losing this fightin’ business.’

‘Look here, old cow-punching Bill, this isn’t a bally entertainment. It’s a court-martial. You’re on your trial for your life. What have you got to say?’

‘We never says anything out West.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Shoots!’ And Tosher banged three rounds of blank ammunition in the air.

‘Seize him! Seize him! He’s an outlaw and a desperado!’ roared Nobby.

We rushed Tosher, but he let fly at his escort, and seized Nobby in his powerful arms and dumped him out of the window.

Ginger then caught the Canadian’s legs and threw him.

‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’ shouted Tosher.

‘All right, we’ll let you off, if you stand a drink.’

‘Sure! Come on, boys;’ and off we went to have another jolly hour at the canteen.

Tosher was a sport, and he kept us laughing all the night.

There’s nothing like the army—for jolly good fun!