Part 16 (1/2)
”Thank you,” replied Borrodaile's dry voice; ”there are no complaints.
In civil life I am what is known as a 'prospective candidate.' For several years I have been exercising this, the only, method of advertising permitted to a barrister, by nursing a const.i.tuency. That is, I go down to the country once a week, and there reduce myself to speechlessness soliciting the votes of the people who put my opponent in twenty years ago, and will keep him in by a two thousand majority as long as he cares to stand. I have been at it five years, but so far the old gentleman has never so much as betrayed any knowledge of my existence.”
”That must be rather galling,” said Wagstaffe.
”Ah! but listen! Of course party politics have now been merged in the common cause--see local organs, _pa.s.sim_--and both sides are working shoulder to shoulder for the maintenance of our national existence.”
”_Applause!_” murmured Kemp.
”That is to say,” continued Borrodaile with calm relish, ”my opponent, whose strong suit for the last twenty years has been to cry down the horrors of militarism, and the madness of national service, and the unwieldy size of the British Empire, is now compelled to spend his evenings taking the chair at ma.s.s meetings for the encouragement of recruiting. I believe the way in which he eats up his own previous utterances on the subject is quite superb. On these occasions I always send him a telegram, containing a kindly pat on the back for him and a sort of semi-official message for the audience. He has to read this out on the platform!”
”What sort of message?” asked a delighted voice.
”Oh--_Send along some more of our boys. Lord Kitchener says there are none to touch them. Borrodaile, Bruce and Wallace Highlanders_.
Or--_All success to the meeting, and best thanks to you personally for carrying on in my absence. Borrodaile, Bruce and Wallace Highlanders_.
I have a lot of quiet fun,” said Borrodaile meditatively, ”composing those telegrams. I rather fancy”--he examined the luminous watch on his wrist--”it's five minutes past eight: I rather fancy the old thing is reading one now!”
The prospective candidate leaned back against the damp wall of the dug-out with a happy sigh. ”What have you got out of the war, Ayling?”
he inquired.
”Change,” said Ayling.
”For better or worse?”
”If you had spent seven years in a big public school,” said Ayling, ”teaching exactly the same thing, at exactly the same hour, to exactly the same kind of boy, for weeks on end, what sort of change would you welcome most?”
”Death,” said several voices.
”Nothing of the kind!” said Ayling warmly. ”It's a great life, if you are cut out for it. But there is no doubt that the regularity of the hours, and the absolute certainty of the future, make a man a bit groovy. Now in this life we are living we have to do lots of dull or unpleasant things, but they are never quite the same things. They are progressive, and not circular, if you know what I mean; and the immediate future is absolutely unknown, which is an untold blessing.
What about you, Sketchley?”
A fat voice replied--
”War is good for adipose Special Reservists. I have decreased four inches round the waist since October. Next?”
So the talk ran on. Young Lochgair, heir to untold acres in the far north and master of unlimited pocket-money, admitted frankly that the sum of eight-and-sixpence per day, which he was now earning by the sweat of his brow and the expenditure of shoe-leather, was sweeter to him than honey in the honeycomb. Hattrick, who had recently put up a plate in Harley Street, said it was good to be earning a living wage at last. Mr. Waddell, pressed to say a few words of encouragement of the present campaign, delivered himself of a guarded but illuminating eulogy of war as a cure for indecision of mind; from which, coupled with a coy reference to ”some one” in distant St. Andrews, the company were enabled to gather that Mr. Waddell had carried a position with his new sword which had proved impregnable to civilian a.s.sault.
Only Bobby Little was silent. In all this genial symposium there had been no word of the spur which was inciting him--and doubtless the others--along the present weary and monotonous path; and on the whole he was glad that it should be so. None of us care to talk, even privately, about the Dream of Honour and the Hope of Glory. The only difference between Bobby and the others was that while they could cover up their aspirations with a jest, Bobby must say all that was in his heart, or keep silent. So he held his peace.
A tall figure loomed against the starlit sky, and Captain Wagstaffe, who had been out in the trench, spoke quickly to Major Kemp:--
”I thing we had better get to our places, sir. Some criminal has cut my alarm-cord!”
V
Five minutes previously, Private Bain, lulled to a sense of false security by the stillness of the night, had opened his eyes, which had been closed for purposes of philosophic reflection, to find himself surrounded by four ghostly figures in greatcoats. With creditable presence of mind he jerked his alarm-cord. But, alas! the cord came with his hand.