Part 18 (1/2)

But we _are_ grateful. When we saw the first sack come tumbling down we felt much as Elijah may have done when the ravens ministered to his wants. Of course no aeroplane has landed in Kut during the siege. That would mean very probable disaster, so close are we to the enemy's lines.

To-night at dinner (?) we were without salt again. This is the third or fourth day of an affliction a hundred times worse than having no sugar. I can recommend all doubters to try dispensing with this necessary commodity for a few days in the preparation and eating of food, and to note the result.

Square-Peg and Tudway eat no bread at all for tiffin; just meat. The utmost effort gives them a spoonful of rice every other day for dinner or boiled cress. But we go through the form of dinner, and that helps a lot. Some messes of different mind have almost dispensed with the regular meal, and merely negotiate their rations at any old time. It is just possible they miss a lot. For some of us think that the decencies and conventionalities of life go a long way. In diluted quant.i.ties they themselves supply motive power to life's wearily knocking engine. They use energy gathered from past events and help us to carry on through gaping periods of our life when nothing seems worth while; and when we are indifferent or impatient with destiny, they are the pacemakers of existence. ”A rich man,” says the future philosopher, ”may afford to dispense with dressing for dinner, but a poor man certainly cannot.”

Now there are, of course, quite a few things said beneath our nightly cloud of tobacco smoke that do not appear in this diary. It would be sacrilege in some cases, and in others, why, one never knows who may come across one's diary. Confession is the salt of life, but suppression the sugar. And does not Maeterlinck tell us that the reservoirs of thought are higher than those of speech, and the reservoirs of silence higher still?

But so far I have not heard that this has been quoted in a court of law. And to show that we are not totally devoid of artistic intentions I must record a sample of our mental gymnastics this evening. We were tilting at a few enthusiastic sentences of Robert Chambers' books.

”We are informed,” I began, ”that this interesting youth was sitting disconsolately awaiting his beloved, his well-shaped head in his hands. Any remarks?”

”Prig,” said Tudway. ”What business has a fellow to have a well-shaped head? Besides, where else could he put it except in his hands?”

”Don't be catty,” said Square-Peg, ”he wasn't in the navy. Why shouldn't he have a well-shaped head?”

”Probably he hadn't,” I suggested mischievously. ”We merely have the novelist's word for that, you know.” At which they both called me an a.s.s.

”If he did have such a head, I don't see why he shouldn't put it in his hands as well as anywhere else?” ventured the senior service.

”Possibly as he was in love he was hanging on to his head, having already lost his heart.” This from the future K.C.

”But if his heart was in his mouth, how----” I was shouted down.

Then we all thought hard.

”What is the point, Curly?” This to me.

”Yes! What's the matter with the sentence after all?”

added S.-P.

”Well, I can't quite say. You see she came along the corridor at midnight, we are told, and saw him, his well-shaped, etc. One doesn't like the excellent shape of his head being shoved in there. The fact, after all, was that his head was in his hands, and she surprised him, sorrowing in solitude.”

”But if his head was well-shaped, why not say so?” said the truthful Tudway.

”Yes,” nodded S.-P., ”that may have been essential. If his head hadn't been well-shaped she mightn't have gushed all over him.”

”Hang it,” I broke in desperately, ”I don't care if it was well-shaped or not. The word doesn't fit. Any other word or none. You see it suggests--er--something outside the matter in hand, she may as well have said his mathematical----”

They considered me beaten, and laughed horribly.

”The next is, 'her superb young figure straightened confronting the sea.' Any remarks?”

”She was playing to the gallery, of course,” said S.-P., ”or else she stood on a thistle.”

”Don't talk rot! I'm with Curly there. 'Superb'

sw.a.n.ks it too much. There's nothing superb in the world except a destroyer at thirty knots.”

”Or the action of a blood filly going through her first pacings,” I prompted. This raised a yell.

”The next is, 'her skirts swung high above the delicate contour of ankle and limb.' Any remarks?”

”That's naughty,” said Square-Peg. ”Besides, it doesn't say which limb.”

”There's no doubt about the limb,” I said, ”unless her arm was meant, in which case her skirts----” But an awful roar interrupted me.