"My name is Smithlord, sir."
"Ah! Any relation?"
"None," said Smithlord, crossing his thumbs under the bedclothes.
"Do you mind ringing the bell?" he went on, feeling that at all costs he must turn the conversation. "I think it is time for my medicine."
In answer to the Colonel's ring a nurse appeared.
"Nurse Brown has just gone out," she said. "Can I do anything for you?"
"Good Heavens! Rosamund!" cried the Colonel.
"Yes, father, it is I," she replied simply. "I have come to France to find the man I love."
"Murgatroyd?" said the Colonel. "But this gallant fellow was the man who—By the way, let me introduce you. Private Smithlord, my daughter, Rosamund."
The two looked at each other face to face. The intuition and ready wit of the woman pierced the disguise which had baffled the soldier.
"Father," she cried, "it's not Smithlord, it's Lord Smith. George!"
"Rosamund!" cried George. We cannot keep the secret any longer from our readers; it was Lord Smith.
"Tut, tut, sir, what is this?" said the Colonel. "I turned you out of the Regiment three weeks ago. What the deuce," he said, for, like all military men, he was addicted to strong language—"what the deuce does this mean?"
"I was innocent, sir."
"Father, he was innocent."
"He was innocent," said a hollow voice from the next bed.
In amazement they all looked at the officer lying there.
"Rosamund," he cried, "am I so greatly changed?"
The Colonel handed him his pocket mirror.
"Yes," sighed the Major, "I understand. But I am Major Murgatroyd."
"Major Murgatroyd!" they all cried.
"This gallant fellow here, whom I now know to be Lord Smith, saved my life; I cannot let him suffer any longer. It was I who hid the secret document in his pocket. I did it for love of you, Rosamund." He held out his hand. "Say you forgive me, my dear Lord Smith."
Lord Smith shook his hand warmly.
But little more remains to tell. A month later our hero was back in England. Fortunately the Quartermaster had kept his buttons; and in a very short time he was back in the dear old uniform, and the wedding of Second–Lieutenant Lord Smith to Rosamund Blowhard was one of the events of the season.
And what of Major Murgatroyd? He has learnt his lesson; and as commandant of a rest camp on the French coast he is the soul of geniality to all who meet him.
The Ballad of Private Chadd
I sing of George Augustus Chadd, Who'd always from a baby had A deep affection for his Dad— In other words, his Father; Contrariwise, the father's one And only treasure was his son, Yes, even when he'd gone and done Things which annoyed him rather.
For instance, if at Christmas (say) Or on his parent's natal day The thoughtless lad forgot to pay The customary greeting, His father's visage only took That dignified reproachful look Which dying beetles give the cook Above the clouds of Keating.
As years went on such looks were rare; The younger Chadd was always there To greet his father and to share His father's birthday party; The pink "For auld acquaintance sake" Engraved in sugar on the cake Was his. The speech he used to make Was reverent but hearty.
The younger Chadd was twentyish When War broke out, but did not wish To get an A.S.C. commish Or be a rag–time sailor; Just Private Chadd he was, and went To join his Dad's old regiment, While Dad (the dear old dug–out) sent For red tabs from the tailor.
To those inured to war's alarms I need not dwell upon the charms Of raw recruits when sloping arms, Nor tell why Chadd was hoping That, if his sloping–powers increased, They'd give him two days' leave at least To join his Father's birthday feast … And so resumed his sloping.
One morning on the training ground, When fixing bayonets, he found The fatal day already round, And, even as he fixed, he Decided then and there to state To Sergeant Brown (at any rate) His longing to congratulate His sire on being sixty.
"Sergeant," he said, "we're on the eve Of Father's birthday; grant me leave" (And here his bosom gave a heave) "To offer him my blessing; And, if a Private's tender thanks— Nay, do not blank my blanky blanks! I could not help but leave the ranks; Birthdays are more than dressing."
The Sergeant was a kindly soul, He loved his men upon the whole, He'd also had a father's rôle Pressed on him fairly lately. "Brave Chadd," he said, "thou speakest sooth! O happy day! O pious youth! Great," he extemporized, "is Truth, And it shall flourish greatly."
The Sergeant took him by the hand And led him to the Captain, and The Captain tried to understand, And (more or less) succeeded; "Correct me if you don't agree, But one of you wants what?" said he, And George Augustus Chadd said, "Me!" Meaning of course that he did.
The Captain took him by the ear And gradually brought him near The Colonel, who was far from clear, But heard it all politely, And asked him twice, "You want a what?" The Captain said that he did not, And Chadd saluted quite a lot And put the matter rightly.
The Colonel took him by the hair And furtively conveyed him where The General inhaled the air, Immaculately booted; Then said, "Unless I greatly err This Private wishes to prefer A small petition to you, Sir," And so again saluted.
The General inclined his head Towards the two of them and said, "Speak slowly, please, or shout instead; I'm hard of hearing, rather." So Chadd, that promising recruit, Stood to attention, clicked his boot, And bellowed, with his best salute, "A happy birthday, Father!"
The Visitors' Book
"As man of the world," said Blake, stretching himself to his full height of five foot three, and speaking with the wisdom of nineteen years, "I say that it can't be done. In any other company, certainly; at headquarters, possibly; but not in D Company. D Company has a reputation."
"All I say," said Rogers, "is that, if you can't run any mess in the trenches on four francs a day, you're a rotten mess president."
Blake turned dramatically to his company commander.
"Did you hear that, Billy?" he asked.
"Yes," said Billy. "I was just going to say it myself."
"Then, in that case, I have the honour to resign the mess presidency."
"Nothing doing, old boy. You're detailed."
"You can't be detailed to be a president. Presidents are elected by popular acclamation. They resign—they resign—"
"To avoid being shot."
"Well, anyhow, they resign. I shall send my resignation in to the Army Council to–night. It will appear in 'The Gazette' in due course. '2nd Lieut. Blake resigns his mess presidency owing to the enormous price of sardines per thousand and the amount of lime juice consumed by casual visitors.' I'll tell you what—I'll run the mess on four francs, if you'll bar guests."
"Rot, it's nothing to do with guests. We never have any."
"Never have any!" said Blake indignantly. "Then I shall keep a visitors' book just to show you."
So that was how the D Company Visitors' Book was inaugurated. I had the honour of opening it. I happened to be mending a telephone line in this particular trench one thirsty day, and there was the dug–out, and—well, there was I. I dropped in.
"Hallo," said Blake, "have a drink."
I had a lime juice. Then I had another. And then, very reluctantly, I got up to go. Army Form Book 136 was handed to me.
"The visitors' book," said Blake. "You can just write your name in it, or you can be funny, whichever you like."
"What do they usually do?" I asked.