_Fond Father._ "Oh, I say, you ought to have known that. Fancy--the Straits of Maca.s.sar!"

_Army Candidate._ "Well, I didn't, anyhow. By the way, where are they, dad?"

_Fond Father._ "Oh--where are they? Oh--er--they're--well, they're---- but don't you think we'd better go to lunch?"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A HORSE-MARINE

_Club Wag._ "Well, good-night, Admiral."

_Warrior._ "There's a stupid joke. Admiral! Can't you see my spurs?"

_Wag._ "Oh, I thought they were your twin screws."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Sentry_ (_on the simultaneous approach of two persons_).

"Who goes there?--two ways at once!"]

MILITARY DIALOGUES

II

ARMY REFORM

SCENE.--_The canteen of the Rutlandshire Regiment, at Downboro', an airy, plastered hall with high windows. A bar at one end is backed by a rampart of beer barrels. A double line of barrack tables and benches runs down the room. The hour is 5 p.m. At one of the tables sits Mr. W. Wilson, late Private in the regiment, in all his glory of a new check suit with an aggressive pattern, a crimson tie, a horseshoe pin, an aluminium watch-chain, a grey "bowler" and a b.u.t.tonhole of violets. Privates W. and G. Smith, P. Brady, E. Dudd and other men of H. company are at the table, or standing near it._

_Mr. Wilson (pa.s.sing round a great tin measure containing beer, after taking a preliminary pull himself)._ Of course I do 'ear more, being in the smoke, than you 'ear down in this provincial 'ole; and there's generals and statesmen and such-like comes and stays at our place, and when they gets tied up in a knot over any military question, as often as not they says, "Let's ask Wilson, the under-gardener. 'E's a hex-military man; 'e's a 'ighly intellergent feller"; and I generally gets them out of their difficulty.

_Pte. W. Smith._ D'ye know anything about this army reform?

_Mr. Wilson (with lofty scorn)._ Do I know anything about it?

_Pte. G. Smith._ D'ye think they're going to make a good job of it?

_Mr. Wilson._ Naaw. And why? Becos they're goin' the wrong wai to work.

They're arskin the opinion of perfeshernal hexperts and other sich ignoramuses, and ain't goin' to the fountain 'ead. Oo's the backbone of the English service?

_Pte. P. Brady._ The Oirish private.

_Mr. Wilson._ Right you are, my 'Ibernian--always subsitooting British for Hirish--and the British compiny is the finest horganisation in the world. Give the private a free 'and and a rise of pay, and make the compiny the model of the army, and then yer can put all the hexperts and all the Ryle Commissions and their reports to bed.

_Pte. Dudd._ As how?

_Mr. Wilson._ As 'ow, yer old thick head? It's as plain as a pike-staff.

Taike this question of responsibility. When some one comes a bloomer, and the paipers all rise 'ell, the civilian toff, 'oos a sort of a commander-in-chief in a Sunday coat and a chimney-pot 'at, 'e says, "It ain't me. Arsk the real commander-in-chief," and the feeld-marshal 'e says, "Arsk the hadjutant-general," and the hadjutant-general, 'e says, "Arsk the hordnance bloke." Now in the compiny there ain't none of that.

If the colonel goin' round at kit inspection finds the beds badly made up, or jags and sight-protectors deficient, or 'oles in the men's socks, 'e goes fierce for the captin' and threatens to stop 'is leave; and the captin' don't say, "Oh, it's the hadjutant, or the quarter-master, or the chaplain what's to blame," no, 'e gives the subalterns and the coloured-sergeant beans, and they slip it in to the sergeants and corprils in charge of squads, and the beds is set up straight, and the men put down for jags and sight-protectors, and the 'oles in the socks is mended.

_Pte. W. Smith._ That's so, old pal. What else would you recermend?

_Mr. Wilson_ (_reaching out for the measure)._ Thank yer. This 'ere army-reforming's a dry job. Now as to the metherd of attack. When the regiment goes out field-firing the henemy's a line of hearthenware pots, touched up on the sly by the markers with a dash of white; the captains count the telergraph posts up the range and give the exact distance; and the men goes 'opping along in line like crows on a ploughed field, the sergeantes a-naggin' 'em about the 'Ithe position and the coprils calling them back to pick up empty cartridge cases. Is that the wai, that you, George Smith, and you, Bill, and you, Pat, used ter creep up to the rabbit warrens when we used ter go out in the herly morning to a.s.sist the farmers to keep down the ground gime--poaching the colonel called it? No, we hexecuted wide turning movements and never showed no more than the tip of a nose. Let drill of attack alone, I say, and develop the sporting hinstinct of the private.

_Omnes._ 'Ear, 'ear.

_Mr. Wilson._ And this matter of mobility. Why, if you or me or any of us was on furlough at 'Ampstead or Margit, we was never off a 'orse's or a moke's back as long as the dibs lasted. Give us the bra.s.s, and we'll find the mobility.

_Pte. W. Smith._ Why don't yer write to the Prime Minister, and give him your ideas?

_Mr. Wilson._ I shall. A few hintelligent ex-privates in the Cabinet, a rise of pay for privates and two days' rabitting, and a trip to Margit every week would sive the British Army.

TRAMPS

["In spite of the demand for recruits, the number of tramps remain, undiminished."--_Daily Paper._]

Why does not patriotic fire My all too torpid heart inspire With irresistible desire To seek the tented camp, sir, Where Glory, with her bronze V.C., Waits for the brave, perhaps for me?

Because I much prefer to be A lazy, idle tramp, sir.

I toil not, neither do I spin.

For me, the laggard days begin Hours after all my kith and kin Are weary with their labours; The heat and burden of the day They bear, poor fools, as best they may, While I serenely smoke my clay And pity my poor neighbours.

When Afric burns the trooper brown, By leafy lanes I loiter down Through Haslemere to Dorking town, Each Surrey nook exploring; Or 'neath a Berkshire hay-rick I At listless length do love to lie, And watch the river stealing by Between the hills of Goring.

Why should I change these dear delights For toilsome days and sleepless nights, And red Bellona's b.l.o.o.d.y rites That bear the devil's stamp, sir?

Let others hear the people cry "A hero he!"--I care not, I, So I may only live and die, A lazy, idle tramp, sir.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT A COUNTRY HOUSE.

"Well, my dear Admiral, and how did you sleep?"

"Not at all, General. Confounded b.u.t.terfly flew in at the window, and was flopping around all night--couldn't get a wink of sleep."

"Ah, dashed dangerous things, b.u.t.terflies!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "PRIVATES, BUT NOT FULL" (1875)

_First Driver (after a long day)._ "The 'orse 'rtillery's a-getting quite aristercratic. It don't dine till eight o'clock!!"

_Second Driver._ "Stroikes me to-morrow the 'orse 'rtillery'll be too aristercratic to dine at all!!"]