Part 33 (1/2)

”Your Ministers are athletes--yes,” agreed Achille comprehendingly.

”But the--”

”Only intellectually. What I mean is that they are a very downy collection of old gentlemen--”

Achille, murmuring something hazy about ”Downing Street,” nodded his head.

”--And when they came into power, they knew as well as anything that after three weeks or so the country would begin to grouse--”

”Grouse? A sporting bird?” interpolated Achille.

”Exactly. They knew that the country would soon start giving them the bird--”

”What bird? The grouse?”

”Oh, dry up, Wagger!” interposed Blaikie. ”He means, Pet.i.tpois, that the Government, knowing that the electorate would begin to grow impatient if the War did not immediately take a favourable turn--”

Achille smiled.

”I see now,” he said. ”Proceed, Ouagstaffe, my old!”

”In other words,” continued the officer so addressed, ”the Government decided that if they gave the Opposition half a chance to get together, and find leaders, and consolidate their new trenches, they might turn them out.”

”Bien,” a.s.sented Achille. Every one was listening now, for Wagstaffe as a politician usually had something original to say.

”Well,” proceeded Wagstaffe, ”they saw that the great thing to do was to prevent the Opposition from making an impression on the country--from being taken too seriously, in fact. So what did they do? They said: 'Let's arrange for a _comic_ Opposition--an Opposition _pour rire_, you know. They will make the country either laugh or cry.

Anyhow, the country will be much too busy deciding which to do to have any time to worry about _us_; so we shall have a splendid chance to get on with the War.' So they sent down the Strand--that's where the Variety agents foregather, I believe--what you call _entrepreneurs_, Achille--and booked this troupe, complete, for the run of the War.

They did the thing in style; spared no expense; and got a comic newspaper proprietor to write the troupe up, and themselves down.

The scheme worked beautifully--what you would call a _succes fou_, Achille.”

”I am desolated, my good Ouagstaffe,” observed Pet.i.tpois after a pregnant silence; ”but I cannot believe all you say.”

”I _may_ be wrong,” admitted Wagstaffe handsomely, ”but that's my reading of the situation. At any rate, Achille, you will admit that my theory squares with the known facts of the case.”

Pet.i.tpois bowed politely.

”Perhaps it is I who am wrong, my dear Ouagger. There is such a difference of point of view between your politics and ours.”

The deep voice of Captain Blaikie broke in.

”If Lancas.h.i.+re,” he said grimly, ”were occupied by a German army, as the Lille district is to-day, I fancy there would be a considerable levelling up of political points of view all round. No limelight for a comic opposition then, Achille, old son!”

IV

Besides receiving letters, we write them. And this brings us to that mysterious and impalpable despot, the Censor.

There is not much mystery about him really. Like a good many other highly placed individuals, he deputes as much of his work as possible to some one else--in this case that long-suffering maid-of-all-work, the company officer. Let us track Bobby Little to his dug-out, during one of those numerous periods of enforced retirement which occur between the hours of three and six, ”Pip Emma”--as our friends the ”buzzers” call the afternoon. On the floor of this retreat (which looks like a dog-kennel and smells like a vault) he finds a small heap of letters, deposited there for purposes of what the platoon-sergeant calls ”censure.” These have to be read (which is bad); licked up (which is far worse); signed on the outside by the officer, and forwarded to Headquarters. Here they are stamped with the familiar red triangle and forwarded to the Base, where they are supposed to be scrutinised by the real Censor--i.e., the gentleman who is paid for the job--and are finally despatched to their destination.

Bobby, drawing his legs well inside the kennel, out of the way of stray shrapnel bullets, begins his task.

The heap resolves itself into three parts. First come the post-cards, which give no trouble, as their secrets are written plain for all to see. There are half a dozen or so of the British Army official issue, which are designed for the benefit of those who lack the epistolatory gift--what would a woman say if you offered such things to her?--and bear upon the back the following printed statements:--