Part 24 (1/2)

”I see there is another clergyman here,” said Sam, looking at Mr.

Parker.

”Yes, and I must say I am surprised to see him. Let me warn you, Colonel. He is, I fear, altogether heterodox. I don't know what kind of Christianity he teaches, but he has actually kept on good terms with the Porsslanese near his mission throughout all these events. He is disloyal to our flag, there can be no question of it, and he openly criticizes the actions of our governments. He should not be received in society. He ought to be sent home--but, hist! some one is going to sing.”

It was the young lieutenant who had seated himself at the piano and was clearing his throat as he ran his hands over the keys. Then he began to sing in a rather feeble voice:

”Let the Frenchy sip his cognac in his caffy, Let the Cossack gulp his kva.s.s and usquebaugh; Let the Prussian grenadier Swill his d.i.n.kle-doonkle beer, And the Yankee suck his c.o.c.ktail through a straw, Through a straw, And the Yankee suck his c.o.c.ktail through a straw.

”Let the Ghoorka drink his pugaree and pukka, Let the Hollander imbibe old schnapps galore.

Tommy Atkins is the chap Who has broached a better tap, For he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.

Blood and gore, For he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.

”When at 'ome he may content himself with whisky, But if once he lands upon a foreign sh.o.r.e-- On the Nile or Irrawady-- He forgets his native toddy, And he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.

Blood and gore, And he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.

”He's a connoisseur of every foreign vintage, From the claret of the fat and juicy Boer To the thicker n.i.g.g.e.r brand That he spills upon the sand, When he draws his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.

Blood and gore, When he draws his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.”

”Fine, isn't it!” exclaimed Sam's neighbor, the captain, who was standing by him, as they all joined in hearty applause. ”I tell you Bludyard Stripling ought to be our poet laureate. He's the laureate of the Empire, at any rate. Why, a song like that binds a nation together.

You haven't any poet like that, have you?”

”No-o,” answered Sam, thinking in shame of Shortfellow, Slowell, and Pittier. ”I'm afraid all our poets are old women and don't understand us soldiers.”

”Stripling understands everything,” said the captain. ”He never makes a mistake. He is a universal genius.”

”I don't think we ever drink c.o.c.ktails with a straw,” ventured Sam.

”Oh, yes, you must. He never makes a mistake. You may be sure that, before he wrote that, he drank each one of those drinks, one after another.”

”Quite likely,” whispered Cleary to Sam, as he came up on the other side.

”I wish I could hear it sung in Lunnon,” said the captain. ”A chorus of d.u.c.h.esses are singing it at one of the biggest music-halls every evening, and then they pa.s.s round their coronets, lined with velvet, you know, and take up a collection of I don't know how many thousand pounds for the wounded in South Africa. It stirs my blood every time I hear it sung.”

The party broke up at a late hour, and Sam and Cleary walked back together to the hotel.

”Interesting, wasn't it?” said Cleary.

”Yes,” said Sam.

”Canon is a good t.i.tle for that parson, isn't it? He's a fighter. They ought to promote him. 'Bombsh.e.l.l Gleed' would sound better than 'Canon Gleed,'” said Cleary.

”'M,” said Sam.

”And that old general looked rather queer in that red and gilt bob-tailed Eton jacket,” said Cleary.

”Yes, rather.”