The truly busy man cannot be actively and consciously unhappy. The truly miserable and despondent person is never continuously and actively employed. Fits of deep depression there may be for the worker when work is impossible, but, unless there be mental and physical illness, sleep is the other anaesthetic, refuge—and reward.
The Wise thank God for Work and for Sleep—and pay large premia of the former as Insurance in the latter.
To Damocles de Warrenne—to whom the name “Trooper Matthewson” now seemed the only one he had ever had—the craved necessity of life and sanity was work, occupation, mental and physical labour. He would have blessed the man who sentenced him to commence the digging of a trench ten miles long and a yard deep for morning and evening labour, and to take over all the accounts of each squadron, for employment in the heat of the day. There was no man in the regiment so indefatigable, so energetic, so persevering, so insatiable of “fatigues,” so willing and anxious to do other people’s duty as well as his own, so restless, so untiring as Trooper Matthewson of E Troop. For Damocles de Warrenne was in the Land of the Serpent and lived in fear. He lived in fear and feared to live; he thought of Fear and feared to think. He turned to work as, but for the memory of Lucille, he would have turned to drink: he laboured to earn deep dreamless sleep and he dreaded sleep. Awake, he could drug himself with work; asleep, he was the prey—the bound, gagged helpless, abject prey—of the Snake. The greediest glutton for work in the best working regiment in the world was Trooper Matthewson—but for him was no promotion. He was, alas, “unreliable”—apt to be “drunk and disorderly,” drunk to the point of “seeing snakes” and becoming a weeping, screaming lunatic—a disgusting spectacle. And, when brought up for sentence, would solemnly assure the Colonel that he was a total abstainer, and stick to it when “told-off” for adding impudent lying to shameful indulgence and sickening behaviour. No promotion for that type of waster while Colonel the Earl of A—— commanded the Queen’s Greys, nor while Captain Daunt commanded the squadron the trooper occasionally disgraced.
But he had his points, mark you, and it was a thousand pities that so fine a soldier was undeniably subject to attacks of delirium tremens and unmistakeably a secret drinker who might at any time have a violent outburst, finishing in screams, sobs, and tears. A most remarkable case! Who ever heard of a magnificent athlete—regimental champion boxer and swordsman, admittedly as fine and bold a horseman and horse-master as the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major or the Riding-Master himself—being a sufficiently industrious secret-drinker to get “goes” of “d.t.,” to drink till he behaved like some God-and-man-forsaken wretch that lives on cheap gin in a chronic state of alcoholism. He had his points, and if the Brigadier had ever happened to say to the Colonel: “Send me your smartest, most intelligent, and keenest man to gallop for me at the manoeuvres,” or the Inspector of Army Gymnasia had asked for the regiment’s finest specimen, or if one representative private soldier had to be sent somewhere to uphold the credit and honour of the Queen’s Greys, undoubtedly Trooper Matthewson would have been chosen.
What a splendid squadron-sergeant major, regimental sergeant-major, yea, what a fine officer he would have made, had he been reliable. But there, you can’t have an officer, nor a non-com., either, who lies shrieking and blubbering on the floor coram publico, and screams to God and man to save him from the snakes that exist only in his own drink-deranged mind. For of course it can only be Drink that produces “Snakes”! Yes, it is only through the ghastly alcohol-tinted glasses that you can “see snakes”—any fool knows that.
And the fools of the Queen’s Greys knew it, and hoped to God that Matthewson would “keep off it” till after the Divisional Boxing Tournament and Assault-at-Arms, for, if he did, the Queen’s Greys would certainly have the Best Man-at-Arms in the Division and have a mighty good shot at having the Heavy-Weight All-India Champion, since Matthewson had challenged the Holder and held an absolutely unbroken record of victories in the various regimental and inter-regimental boxing tournaments in which he had taken part since joining the regiment. And he had been “up against some useful lads” as Captain Chevalier, the president and Maecenas of the Queen’s Greys’ boxing-club, expressed it. Yes, Matthewson had his points and the man who brought the Regiment the kudos of having best Man-at-Arms and Heavy-Weight Champion of India would be forgiven a lot.
And Damocles de Warrenne blessed the Divisional Boxing Tournament, Assault-at-Arms, and, particularly, the All-India Heavy-Weight Championship.
Occupation, labour, anodyne…. Work and deep Sleep. Fighting to keep the Snake at bay. No, fighting to get away from it—there was no keeping it at bay—nothing but shrieking collapse when It came….
From parade ground to gymnasium, from gymnasium to swimming-bath, from swimming-bath to running-track, from running-track to boxing-ring, from boxing-ring to gymnasium again. Work, occupation, forgetfulness. Forget the Snake for a little while—even though it is surely lurking near—waiting, waiting, waiting; nay, even beneath his very foot and moving….
Well, a man can struggle with himself until the Thing actually appears in the concrete, and he goes mad—but Night! Oh, God grant deep sleep at night—or wide wakefulness and a light. Neither Nightmare nor wakefulness in the dark, oh, Merciful God.
Yes, things were getting worse. He was going mad. MAD. Desert—and get out of India somehow?
Never! No gentleman “deserts” anything or anybody.
Suicide—and face God unafraid and unashamed?
Never! The worst and meanest form of “deserting”.
No. Stick it. And live to work—work to live. And strive and strive and strive to obliterate the image of Lucille—that sorrow’s crown of sorrow.
And so Trooper Matthewson’s course of training was a severe one and he appeared to fear rest and relaxation as some people fear work and employment.
His favourite occupation was to get the ten best boxers of the regiment to jointly engage in a ten-round contest with him, one round each. He would frequently finish fresher than the tenth man. Coming of notedly powerful stock on both sides, and having been physically educated from babyhood, Dam, with clean living and constant training, was a very uncommon specimen. There may have been one or two other men in the regiment as well developed, or nearly so; but when poise, rapidity, and skill were taken into account there was no one near him. Captain Chevalier said he was infinitely the quickest heavy-weight boxer he had ever seen—and Captain Chevalier was a pillar of the National Sporting Club and always knew the current professionals personally when he was in England. In fact, with the enormous strength of the best heavy-weight, Dam combined the lightning rapidity and mobility of the best feather-weight.
His own doubt as to the result of his contest with the heavy-weight Champion of India arose from the fact that the latter was a person of much lower nervous development, a creature far less sensitive to shock, a denser and more elementary organism altogether, and possessed of a far thicker skull, shorter jaw, and thicker neck. Dam summed him up thus with no sense of contemptuous superiority, but with a plain recognition of the facts that the Champion was a fighting machine, a dull, foreheadless, brutal gladiator who owed his championship very largely to the fact that he was barely sensible to pain, and impervious to padded blows. It was said that he had never been knocked out in all his boxing-career, that the kick of a horse on his chin would not knock him out, that his head was solid bone, and that the shortness of his jaw and thickness of his neck absolutely prevented sufficient leverage between the point of the jaw and the spinal cord for the administration of the shock to the medulla oblongata that causes the necessary ten-seconds’ unconsciousness of the “knock-out”.
He was known as the Gorilla by reason of his long arms, incredible strength, beauty, and pleasing habits, and he bore the reputation of a merciless and unchivalrous opponent and one who needed the strictest and most experienced refereeing. It would be a real terrific fight, and that was the main thing to Dam, though he would do his very utmost to win, for the credit of the Queen’s Greys, and would leave no stone unturned to that end. He regretted that he could not get leave and go to Pultanpur to see the Champion box, and learn something of his style and methods when easily defending his title in the Pultanpur tournament. And when the Tournament and Assault-at-Arms were over he must find something else to occupy him by day and tire him before night. Meanwhile life was bearable, with the fight to come—except for sentry-go work. That was awful, unspeakable, and each time was worse than the last. Sitting up all night in the guard-room under the big lamp, and perhaps with some other wakeful wretch to talk to, was nothing. That was well enough—but to be on a lonely post on a dark night … well—he couldn’t do it much longer.
Darkness and the Snake that was always coming and never came! To prowl round and round some magazine, store, or boundary-stone with his carbine at the “support,” or to tramp up and down by the horse-lines, armed only with his cutting-whip; to stand in a sentry-box while the rain fell in sheets and there was no telling what the next flash of lightning might reveal—that was what would send him to a lunatic’s padded cell.
To see the Snake by day would give him a cruel, terrible fit—but to be aware of it in the dark would be final—and fatal to his reason (which was none too firmly enthroned). No, he had the dreadful feeling that his reason was none too solidly based and fixed. He had horrible experiences, apart from the snake-nightmares, nowadays. One night when he awoke and lay staring up at his mosquito-curtain in the blessed light of the big room-lamp (always provided in India on account of rifle thieves) he had suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of fear. He sat up. God!—he was in a marble box! These white walls and roof were not mosquito-netting, they were solid marble! He was in a tomb. He was buried alive. The air was growing foul. His screams would be absolutely inaudible. He screamed, and struck wildly at the cold cruel marble, and found it was soft, yielding netting after all. But it was a worse horror to find that he had thought it marble than if he had found it to be marble. He sprang from his cot.
“I am going mad,” he cried.
“Goin’?… Gorn, more like,” observed the disrobing room-corporal. “Why donchew keep orf the booze, Maffewson? You silly gapin’ goat. Git inter bed and shut yer ’ead—or I’ll get yew a night in clink, me lad—and wiv’out a light, see?”
Corporal Prag knew his victim’s little weakness and grinned maliciously as Dam sprang into bed without a word.
The Stone Jug without a gleam of light! Could a man choke himself with his own fingers if the worst came to the worst? The Digger and Stygian darkness—now—when he was going mad! Men could not be so cruel…. But they’d say he was drunk. He would lie still and cling with all his strength and heart and soul to sanity. He would think of That Evening with Lucille—and of her kisses. He would recite the Odes of Horace, the Aeneid, the Odyssey as far as he could remember them, and then fall back on Shakespeare and other English poets. Probably he knew a lot more Greek and Latin poetry (little as it was) than he did of English….
Corporal Prag improved the occasion as he unlaced his boots. “Bloomin’ biby! Afraid o’ the dark! See wot boozin’ brings yer to. Look at yer! An’ look at me. Non-c’misshn’d orficer in free an’ a ’arf years from j’inin’. Never tasted alc’ol in me life, an’ if any man offud me a glarse, d’ye know what I’d dew?”
“No, Corporal, I’d like to hear,” replied Dam. (Must keep the animal talking as long as possible for the sake of human company. He’d go mad at once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed.)
“I’d frow it strite in ’is faice, I would,” announced the virtuous youth. A big boot flopped heavily on the floor.
“I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock,” observed Dam, to make conversation. Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon the other boot and reply—so lengthening out the precious minutes of diversion. Every minute was a minute nearer dawn….
“Do yer? Well, you’re bloomin’ well wrong, Maffewson, me lad. My farver ’ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep’ it up all day a Sund’y, ’e did—an’ in the werry las’ bout ’e ever ’ad ’e bashed ’is ole woman’s ’ead in wiv’ a bottle.”
“And was hanged?” inquired Dam politely and innocently, but most tactlessly.
“Mind yer own b—— business,” roared Corporal Prag. “Other people’s farvers wasn’t gallows-birds if yourn was. ’Ow’d you look if I come and punched you on the nose, eh? Wot ’ud you do if I come an’ set abaht yer, eh?”
“Break your neck,” replied Dam tersely.
“Ho, yus. And wot ’ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frows you into clink? Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!”
Dam shuddered.
Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam’s heartfelt blessing.
“Don’t you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson. I’m yore sooperier orficer. You may be better’n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Dam could have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), but if I ’olds up my little finger you comes to ’eel—or other’ow you goes ter clink. ’Ung indeed! You look after yer own farver an’ don’ pass remarks on yer betters. Why! You boozin’ waster, I shall be Regimental Sargen’ Majer when you’re a bloomin’ discharged private wiv an ’undred ‘drunks’ in red on yer Defaulter’s Sheet. Regimental Sarjen’ Majer! I shall be an Orficer more like, and walk acrost the crossin’ wot you’re asweepin’, to me Club in bloomin’ well Pickerdilly! Yus. This is the days o’ ? Demockerycy, me lad. ‘Good Lloyd George’s golden days’ as they sing—and steady fellers like me is goin’ to ave C’missh’ns—an’ don’ you fergit it! Farver ’ung indeed!”
“I’m awf’ly sorry, Corporal, really,” apologized Dam. “I didn’t think….”
“No, me lad,” returned the unmollified superior, as he stooped to the other boot, “if you was to think more an’ booze less you’d do better…. ’Ow an’ where you gets ’old of it, beats me. I’ve seed you in delirium trimmings but I ain’t never seed you drinkin’ nor yet smelt it on yer. You’re a cunnin’ ’ound in yer way. One o’ them beastly secret-drinkin’ swine wots never suspected till they falls down ’owlin’ blue ’orrors an’ seem’ pink toadses. Leastways it’s snakes you sees. See ’em oncte too orfen, you will…. See ’em on p’rade one day in front o’ the Colonel. Fall orf yer long-face an get trampled—an’ serve yer glad…. An’ now shut yer silly ’ed an’ don’t chew the mop so much. Let me get some sleep. I ’as respontsibillaties I do….”
A crossing outside a Club! More likely a padded cell in a troopship and hospital until an asylum claimed him.
In the finals, “Sword versus Sword Dismounted,” Dam had a foeman worthy of his steel.
A glorious chilly morning, sunrise on a wide high open maidan, rows of tents for the spectators at the great evening final, and crowds of officers and men in uniform or gymnasium kit. On a group of chairs sat the Divisional General, his Colonel on the Staff, and Aide-de-Camp; the Brigadier-General, his Brigade-Major, and a few ladies, wives of regimental colonels, officers, and leading Civilians.
Semi-finals of Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting, Tug-of-War, Fencing, and other officers’ and men’s events had been, or were being, contested.
The finals of the British Troops’ Sword v. Sword Dismounted, was being reserved for the last, as of supreme interest to the experts present, but not sufficiently spectacular to be kept for the evening final “show,” when the whole of Society would assemble to be thrilled by the final Jumping, Driving, Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting, Sword v. Lance, Tug-of-War, and other events for British and Indian officers and men of all arms.
It was rumoured that there was a Sergeant of Hussars who would give Trooper Matthewson a warm time with the sabre. As the crowd of competitors and spectators gathered round the sabres-ring, and chairs were carried up for the Generals, ladies, and staff, to witness the last and most exciting contest of the morning’s meeting, a Corporal-official of the Assault-at-Arms Executive Committee called aloud, “Sergeant O’Malley, 14th Hussars, get ready,” and another fastened a red band to the Sergeant’s arm as he stepped forward, clad in leather jacket and leg-guards and carrying the heavy iron-and-leather head-guard necessary in sabre combats, and the blunt-edged, blunt-pointed sabre.
Dam approached him.
“Don’t let my point rest on your hilt, Sergeant,” he said.
“What’s the game?” inquired the surprised and suspicious Sergeant.
“My little trick. I thrust rather than cut, you know,” said Dam.
“I’ll watch it, me lad,” returned Sergeant O’Malley, wondering whether Dam were fool or knave.
“Trooper Matthewson, get ready,” called the Corporal, and Dam stepped into the ring, saluted, and faced the Sergeant.
A brief direction and caution, the usual preliminary, and the word—
“On guard—Play” and Dam was parrying a series of the quickest cuts he had ever met. The Sergeant’s sword flickered like the tongue of a—Snake. Yes—of a Snake! and even as Dam’s hand dropped limp and nerveless, the Sergeant’s sword fell with a dull heavy thud on his head-guard. The stroke would have split Dam’s head right neatly, in actual fighting.
“Stop,” shouted the referee. “Point to Red.”
“On guard—Play”
But if the Sergeant’s sword flickered like the tongue of a snake—why then Dam must be fighting the Snake. Fighting the Snake and in another second the referee again cried “Stop!” And added, “Don’t fight savage, White, or I’ll disqualify you”.
“I’m awf’ly sorry,” said Dam, “I thought I was fighting the Sn——”
“Hold your tongue, and don’t argue,” replied the referee sternly.
“On Guard—Play.”
Ere the Sergeant could move his sword from its upward-inclined position Dam’s blade dropped to its hilt, shot in over it, and as the Sergeant raised his forearm in guard, flashed beneath it and bent on his breast.
“Stop,” cried the referee. “Point to White. Double”—two marks being then awarded for the thrust hit, and one for the cut.
“On guard—Play.”
Absolutely the same thing happened again within the next half-second, and Dam had won the British Troops’ Sword v. Sword Dismounted, in addition to being in for the finals in Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Jumping (Individual and By Sections), Sword v. Lance, and Tug-of-War.
“Now jest keep orf it, Matthewson, and sweep the bloomin’ board,” urged Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles as Dam removed his fencing-jacket, preparatory to returning to barracks. “You be Best Man-at-arms in the Division and win everythink that’s open to British Troops Mounted, and git the ’Eavy-Weight Championship from the Gorilla—an’ there’ll be some talk about promotion for yer, me lad.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” replied Dam. “I am a total abstainer.”
“Yah! Chuck it,” observed the Sergeant-Major.
Of no interest to Women nor modern civilized Men.
The long-anticipated hour had struck, the great moment had arrived, and (literally) thousands of British soldiers sat in a state of expectant thrill and excited interest, awaiting the appearance of the Gorilla (Corporal Dowdall of the 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery—fourteen stone twelve) and Trooper Matthewson (Queen’s Greys—fourteen stone) who were to fight for the Elliott Belt, the Motipur Cup, and the Heavy-Weight Championship of India.
The Boxing Tournament had lasted for a week and had been a huge success. Now came the pièce de resistance, the fight of the Meeting, the event for which special trains had brought hundreds of civilians and soldiers from neighbouring and distant cantonments. Bombay herself sent a crowded train-load, and it was said that a, by no means small, contingent had come from Madras. Certainly more than one sporting patron of the Great Sport, the Noble Art, the Manly Game, had travelled from far Calcutta. So well-established was the fame of the great Gorilla, and so widely published the rumour that the Queen’s Greys had a prodigy who’d lower his flag in ten rounds—or less.
A great square of the grassy plain above Motipur had been enclosed by a high canvas wall, and around a twenty-four foot raised “ring” (which was square) seating accommodation for four thousand spectators had been provided. The front rows consisted of arm-chairs, sofas, and drawing-room settees (from the wonderful stock of Mr. Dadabhoy Pochajee Furniturewallah of the Sudder Bazaar) for the officers and leading civilians of Motipur, and such other visitors as chose to purchase the highly priced reserved-seat tickets.
Not only was every seat in the vast enclosure occupied, but every square inch of standing-room, by the time the combatants entered the arena.
A few dark faces were to be seen (Native Officers of the pultans[23] and rissal[24] of the Motipur Brigade), and the idea occurred to not a few that it was a pity the proceedings could not be witnessed by every Indian in India. It would do them good in more ways than one.
Although a large number of the enormously preponderating military spectators were in the khaki kit so admirable for work (and so depressing, unswanksome and anti-enlistment for play, or rather for walking-out and leisure), the experienced eye could see that almost every corps in India furnished contingents to the gathering. Lancers, dragoons, hussars, artillery, riflemen, Highlanders, supply and transport, infantry of a score of regiments, and, rare sight away from the Ports, a small party of Man-o’-War’s-men in white duck, blue collars, and straw hats (huge, solemn-faced men who jested with grimmest seriousness of mien and insulted each other outrageously). Officers in scarlet, in dark blue, in black and cherry colour, in fawn and cherry colour, in pale blue and silver, in almost every combination of colours, showed that the commissioned ranks of the British and Indian Services were well represented, horse, foot, guns, engineers, doctors, and veterinary surgeons—every rank and every branch. On two sides of the roped ring, with its padded posts, sat the judges, boxing Captains both, who had won distinction at Aldershot and in many a local tournament. On another side sat the referee, ex-Public-Schools Champion, Aldershot Light-Weight Champion, and, admittedly, the best boxer of his weight among the officers of the British Army. Beside him sat the time-keeper. Overhead a circle of large incandescent lamps made the scene as bright as day.
“Well, d’you take it?” asked Seaman Jones of Seaman Smith. “Better strike while the grog’s ’ot. A double-prick o’ baccy and a gallon o’ four-’arf, evens, on the Griller. I ain’t never ’eard o’ the Griller till we come ’ere, and I never ’eard o’ t’other bloke neether—but I ’olds by the Griller, cos of ’is name and I backs me fancy afore I sees ’em.—Loser to ’elp the winner with the gallon.”
“Done, Bill,” replied the challenged promptly, on hearing the last condition. (He could drink as fast as Bill if he lost, and he could borrer on the baccy till it was wore out.) “Got that bloomin’ ’igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar giddy baccy-pouch and yaller baccy you inwested in at Bombay?” he asked. “Yus, ’Enery,” replied William, diving deeply for it.
“Then push it ’ere, an’ likewise them bloomin’ ’igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar giddy fag-papers you fumble wiv’. Blimey! ain’t a honest clay good enough for yer now? I knows wots the matter wiv you, Billy Jones! You’ve got a weather-heye on the Quarter Deck you ’ave. You fink you’re agoin’ to be a blighted perishin’ orficer you do! Yus, you flat-footed matlot—not even a blasted tiffy you ain’t, and you buys a blighted baccy-pouch and yaller baccy and fag-pipers, like a Snottie, an’ reckons you’s on the ’igh road to be a bloomin’ Winnie Lloyd Gorgeous Orficer. ’And ’em ’ere—fore I’m sick. Lootenant,—Gunnery Jack,—Number One,—Commerdore!”
“Parding me, ’Enery Smiff,” returned William Jones with quiet dignity. “In consequents o’ wot you said, an’ more in consequents o’ yore clumsy fat fingers not been used to ’andlin’ dellikit objex, and most in consequents o’ yore been a most ontrustable thief, I will perceed to roll you a fag meself, me been ’ighly competent so fer to do. Not but wot a fag’ll look most outer place in your silly great ugly faice.”
The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared a distinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette.
“Harthur Handrews,” he said, turning to his other neighbour, “’Ave yew ’appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of ’is mermydiuns ’ere-abahts, by any chawnst?”
“Nope. ’An don’ want. Don’ wan’ see nothink to remind me o’
Ther blue, ther fresh, ther hever free,
Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin’ sea.
Not even your distressin’ face and dirty norticle apparile. Why do you arksk sich silly questchings?”
“Willyerm Jones is amakin’ a needle for ’im.”
“As ’ow?”
“Wiv a fag-paper an’ a thread o’ yaller baccy. ’E’s makin’ a bloomin’ needle,” and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch, papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones’s labours and generosity.
Having pricked himself severely and painfully with the alleged cigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to stick two papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished, and bounteous cigarette.
“I ’fought I offered you to make yourself a cigarette, ’Enery,” observed the astounded owner of the materia nicotina.
“I grabbed for to make myself a cigarette, Willyerm,” was the pedantically correct restatement of Henry.
“Then why go for to try an’ mannyfacter a bloomin’ banana?” asked the indignant victim, whose further remarks were drowned in the roars of applause which greeted the appearance from the dressing-tents of the Champion and the Challenger.
Dam and Corporal Dowdall entered the ring from opposite corners, seated themselves in the chairs provided for them, and submitted themselves to the ministrations of their respective seconds.
Trooper Herbert Hawker violently chafed Dam’s legs, Trooper Bear his arms and chest, while Trooper Goate struggled to force a pair of new boxing-gloves upon his hands, which were scientifically bandaged around knuckles, back, and wrist, against untimely dislocations and sprains.
Clean water was poured into the bowls which stood behind each chair, and fresh resin was sprinkled over the canvas-covered boards of the Ring.
Men whose favourite “carried their money” (and each carried a good deal) anxiously studied that favourite’s opponent.
The Queen’s Greys beheld a gorilla indeed, a vast, square, long-armed hairy monster, with the true pugilist face and head.
“Wot a werry ugly bloke,” observed Seaman Arthur Andrews to Seaman Henry Smith. “’E reminds me o’ Hadmiral Sir Percy ’Opkinton, so ’e do. P’raps ’e’s a pore relation.”
“Yus,” agreed Seaman Smith. “A crost between our beloved ’Oppy an’ ole Bill Jones ’ere. Bill was reported to ’ave ’ad a twin brother—but it was allus serposed Bill ate ’im when ’e wasn’ lookin’.”
The backers of Corporal Dowdall were encouraged at seeing a man who looked like a gentleman and bore none of the traditional marks of the prize-fighter. His head was not cropped to the point of bristly baldness, his nose was unbroken, his eyes well opened and unblackened, his ears unthickened, his body untattooed. He had the white skin, small trim moustache, high-bred features, small extremities, and general appearance and bearing of an officer.
Ho, G’rilla Dowdall would make short work of that tippy young toff. Why, look at him!
And indeed it made you shudder to think of that enormous ferocity, that dynamic truculence, doing its best to destroy you in a space twenty-four feet square.
Let the challenger wait till G’rilla put his fighting face on—fair terrifyin’.
Not an Artilleryman but felt sure that the garrison-gunner would successfully defend the title and “give the swankin’ Queen’s Greys something to keep them choop[25] for a bit. Gettin’ above ’emselves