Part 35 (1/2)

He receives his change, and counts it with a great air of wisdom. The _epiciere_ breaks into a rapid recital--it sounds rather like our curate at home getting to work on _When the wicked man_--of the beauty and succulence of her other wares. Up goes Goffin's hand again.

”Na pooh!” he exclaims.. ”Bong jooer!” And he stumps out to the mess-cart.

”Na pooh!” is a mysterious but invaluable expression. Possibly it is derived from ”Il n'y a plus.” It means, ”All over!” You say ”Na pooh!”

when you push your plate away after dinner. It also means, ”Not likely!” or ”Nothing doing!” By a further development it has come to mean ”done for,” ”finished,” and in extreme cases, ”dead.” ”Poor Bill got na-poohed by a rifle-grenade yesterday,” says one mourner to another.

The Oxford Dictionary of the English Language will have to be revised and enlarged when this war is over.

Meanwhile, a few doors away, a host of officers is sitting in the Cafe de la Terre. Cafes are as plentiful as blackberries in this, as in most other French provincial towns, and they are usually filled to overflowing with privates of the British Army heroically drinking beer upon which they know it is impossible to get intoxicated. But the proprietor of the Cafe de la Terre is a long-headed citizen. By the simple expedient of labelling his premises ”Officers Only,” and making a minimum charge of one franc per drink, he has at a single stroke ensured the presence of the _elite_ and increased his profits tenfold.

Many arms of the Service are grouped round the little marble-topped tables, for the district is stiff with British troops, and promises to grow stiffer. In fact, so persistently are the eagles gathering together upon this, the edge of the fighting line, that rumour is busier than ever. The Big Push holds redoubled sway in our thoughts.

The First Hundred Thousand are well represented, for the whole Scottish Division is in the neighbourhood. Beside the glengarries there are countless flat caps--line regiments, territorials, gunners, and sappers. The Army Service Corps is there in force, recruiting exhausted nature from the strain of das.h.i.+ng about the countryside in motor-cars. The R.A.M.C. is strongly represented, doubtless to test the purity of the refreshment provided. Even the Staff has torn itself away from its arduous duties for the moment, as sundry red tabs testify. In one corner sit four stout French civilians, playing a mysterious card-game.

At the very next table we find ourselves among friends. Here are Major Kemp, also Captain Blaikie. They are accompanied by Ayling, Bobby Little, and Mr. Waddell. The battalion came out of trenches yesterday, and for the first time found itself in urban billets. For the moment haylofts and wash-houses are things of the dim past. We are living in real houses, sleeping in real beds, some with sheets.

To this group enters unexpectedly Captain Wagstaffe.

”Hallo, Wagger!” says Blaikie. ”Back already?”

”Your surmise is correct,” replies Wagstaffe, who has been home on leave. ”I got a wire yesterday at lunch-time--in the Savoy, of all places! Every one on leave has been recalled. We were packed like herrings on the boat. Garcon, biere--the brunette kind!”

”Tell us all about London,” says Ayling hungrily. ”What does it look like? Tell us!”

We have been out here for the best part of five months now. Leave opened a fortnight ago, amid acclamations--only to be closed again within a few days. Wagstaffe was one of the lucky few who slipped through the blessed portals. He now sips his beer and delivers his report.

”London is much as usual. A bit rattled over Zeppelins--they have turned out even more street lamps--but nothing to signify. Country districts crawling with troops. All the officers appear to be colonels. Promotion at home is more rapid than out here. Chin, chin!”

Wagstaffe buries his face in his gla.s.s mug.

”What is the general att.i.tude,” asked Mr. Waddell, ”towards the war?”

”Well, one's own friends are down in the dumps. Of course it's only natural, because most of them are in mourning. Our losses are much more noticeable at home than abroad, somehow. People seemed quite surprised when I told them that things out here are as right as rain, and that our troops are simply tumbling over one another, and that we don't require any comic M.P.'s sent out to cheer us up. The fact is, some people read the papers too much. At the present moment the London press is, not to put too fine a point on it, making a holy show of itself. I suppose there's some low-down political rig at the back of it all, but the whole business must be perfect jam for the Bosches in Berlin.”

”What's the trouble?” inquired Major Kemp.

”Conscription, mostly. (Though why they should worry their little heads about it, I don't know. If K. wants it we'll have it: if not, we won't; so that's that!) Both sides are trying to drag the great British Public into the sc.r.a.p by the back of the neck. The Conscription crowd, with whom one would naturally side if they would play the game, seem to be out to unseat the Government as a preliminary. They support their arguments by stating that the British Army on the Western front is reduced to a few platoons, and that they are allowed to fire one sh.e.l.l per day. At least, that's what I gathered.”

”What do the other side say?” inquired Kemp.

”Oh, theirs is a very simple line of argument. They state, quite simply, that if the personal liberty of Britain's workers--that doesn't mean you and me, as you might think: we are the Overbearing Militarist Oligarchy: a worker is a man who goes on strike,--they say that if the personal liberty of these sacred perishers is interfered with by the Overbearing Militarist Oligarchy aforesaid, there will be a Revolution. That's all! Oh, they're a sweet lot, the British newspaper bosses!”

”But what,” inquired that earnest seeker after knowledge, Mr. Waddell, ”is the general att.i.tude of the country at large upon this grave question?”

Captain Wagstaffe chuckled.

”The dear old country at large,” he replied, ”is its dear old self, as usual. It is not worrying one jot about Conscription, or us, or anything like that. The one topic of conversation at present is--Charlie Chaplin.”

”Who is Charlie Chaplin?” inquired several voices.

Wagstaffe shook his head.