Ginger and McGlusky

Front matter

'I

Class r_: i

Rnnlc v

Dedication

Other men must write the history of the great war, mine is the task of the novelist only, and this novel I dedicate as a simple tribute to the wonderful women who have so royally acted as nursing sisters to the Empire’s matchless men — God bless them.

A. G. Hales.

CHAPTER I McGLUSKY AND GINGER ARRIVE IN FRANCK

Y E will na.’

' Won’t I ? Who’ll stop me ? r ‘ A dinna say A’ll stop ye, but if ye lift yer han' ter yon laddie, ye big owergrown gommerilR All pound y’r carcase until ye’re sae saft yer frien’s wull be able ter pour ye inta a bottle an’ no’ hae ta cork ye doon ta keep ye theer.’

The big, Roman-nosed gaunt man in the uniform of an Anzac private soldier looked round upon a sea of faces, as he very calmly but emphatically stated his intentions. There was no sign of anger upon his rugged face, and his lounging figure was not tremulous with passion. He spoke as one stating a fact which he was ready and willing to demonstrate without further parley.

‘ A’m no’ quarrelsome, ye ken,’ he continued, throwing out one big knotted hand in a wide and comprehensive gesture towards the crowd, ' A'm a poet aiT a lover o’ peace an’ concord ; this hell’s broth ye ca' war doesna appeal ta me. A was suckled on peace, an’ A love it, but gin yon body wi’ th’ face o’ a transport mule an’ a mind like a mud-heap lays a han’ on ma laddie, A’ll alter th’ geography o’ his face so's tiT mither av all th’ monkeys wud no’ care ta ca’ him kin/

The crowd of soldiers grinned joyously, but being fighters themselves, they knew by instinct this was no boaster ; they began to drop remarks that proved that the person whose physiognomy had been so poetically described was no favourite with them. That worthy, truth to tell, was not as beautiful as an artist’s dream — unless the artist did his dreaming on a demi-john of old Bourbon rum. A big fellow belonging to the artillery, but loutish in his carriage, in spite of all the drill sergeants had done for him ; in civilian life he was the sort of person who would spend most of his time keeping a corner post from falling down, by propping it up with his shoulder, the kind of human who discovers sufficient exertion in brushing flies off his own face on a summer’s day — not lazy, but born tired — the sort of man who leans against the fence with a straw in his mouth and gives advice, whilst his wife digs the garden and plants the winter vegetables. Strong as a dray-horse, but lacking virility. This person’s face was ablaze with anger ; his big fists were clenched ; from his spurs to the crown of his cap, he was the personification of unbridled anger. A little way from him stood a slim, boyish soldier, with a flaming head of hair that could have given an African sunset three or four shades of colour and a bad beating ; his belt was on the ground at his feet, his tunic unbuttoned ready for stripping, and he was expostulating vigorously with two Anzacs who held him.

* Och, Shnowy, let me go ; Oi’m not afraid av th’ big baste.’

The soldier addressed as Snowy looked about as youthful as the red-headed imp he was helping to hold ; his hair was so fair it was nearly white, and his good-looking face had never known the need of a barber’s tools.

‘ You’re too light f’r him, kid, you’re not nine stone, and he’s thirteen — and fit.’

‘ Oi’ll hit him thirteen times to his wanst, an’ that’ll make ut even, Shnowy.’

‘ You keep still an’ leave him to th’ Old Timer, you limb of evil,’ growled the man who was helping Snowy hold the boy back.

* Och, Flamingo, sew y’r ugly mouth up. Is th’ Auld Timer ter be dhry-nursin’ me till Oi die av auld age? ’

The artilleryman did not like the comments passed upon him by the soldiers, and he turned his sullen face upon them and shouted :

‘ The kid called me a ’

* Ginger,’ demanded the big man who had stepped in as champion for the youth. * Ginger, did ye ca' yon mon by a name that reflected on his mither ? ’

‘ Och, an’ Oi did, sorr.’

‘ Then, wee mannie, ye did na dae richt, an’ A’ll apologeese f’r ye ter yon gunner. Mon, eef yer mither was no’ married when she brocht sic a thing as yersel' inta th’ world, she was punished enough f’r her sidesteppin’ by th’ sicht o’ sic a face as yer ain wi’oot havin’ her shame pitchforked at yersel’, an’ eef she was lawfu’ wedded, th’ wee laddie ha’ leed, an’ that’s no’ lawfu’, but A’m theenkin’ y’r feyther ’

‘ I’m goin’ to lick that kid.’ The hoarse voice of the gunner broke in on the apology of the gaunt Anzac.

* Bide a wee, bide a wee, well hae th’ justice o’t first. Ginger, for why did ye say sic a thing to yon mon ? Noo, wee mannie, tell th’ truth, y’r on y’r honour/

Thus appealed to, Ginger faced the elderly man who had constituted himself both judge and champion.

1 Sorr, he mis-called the padre — our padre/

‘ That didn’a justify ye in miscallin' his mither. Ginger, an’ th’ good padre wud be th’ first ta rough ride ye f’r doin’ it.’

* Och, an’ indade, sorr, Oi wasn’t thinkin’ av his mother when Oi said ut. Oi don’t belave he ivver had a mother ; they foind thim sort in a dhrain afther a political meetin’, he’s a misfit an’ a misscue, an’ a dirty-tongued baste. Anyhow, sorr, if yez had heard what he said about th’ padre, ye’d have found a worse name f’r him thari Oi did, an’ the worse ut was th’ betther ut’d fit him.’

The gunner here interjected something concerning the padre and all holy Romans in general, that would bum a book if it was put in print. Ginger’s champion went towards him mincingly, on his toes, like a balletdancer, and Snowy let a smile like a new dawn illuminate his face.

‘ Och, an’ ut’s my throuble, sorr, let me ate av ut/ stormed Ginger, but the Flamingo put a half-nelson grip on him and choked him into quietness.

The gaunt old warrior went close to the gunner.

* A ha’ no’ a veesitin' card wi’ me, but ma name’s McGlusky, an’ p’raps this wull do in place o’ ma card/

He brought the back of his right hand across the gunner’s mouth and stepped quickly back and threw himself easily into a posture of defence. ‘ A’m no* a Holy Roman masel’,’ he said in an explanatory fashion, ' but A ken mony who air, an’ richt fine men il in a scrap too ; as f’r th’ padre, he was wi’ us in Gallipoli, an’ though he’s no’ a big mon, he’s got mair pluck an’ spunk than a forty-acre paddock full o 1 things like yersel’ — noo come on.’

The gunner needed no second invitation. He bounded forward, and as he did so a big black object hurtled through the air, and plunging into the ground, burst with a rending roar, scattering earth and stones and bits of trees and shreds of iron in all directions. Half a dozen men fell in various attitudes, but the elderly man who had called himself McGlusky turned a sort of double handspring, and then rolled over several times as if he had been fired out of a giant catapult, nor did he stop until he brought up with some violence against the wheel of a gun carriage. The youth ‘ Ginger ’ rushed to him ; kneeling by his side, the lad cried in accents filled with anxiety :

' Och, an’ are yez kilt this toime, sorr ? Sorra’s th’ day we ivver came ta France.’

Slowly the big veteran lifted his gaunt frame into a sitting posture, and began wiping dirt and gravel from his eyes and mouth.

‘ Whisht, Ginger,’ he whispered thickly, * whisht* wee laddie, A’m no’ an angel yet.’

‘ Glory be,’ chanted the youth, ‘ Oi thought yez, was, ye looked loike wan a minnit ago, sorr.’

The young, fair-haired soldier who had stepped forward with a w^ater-bottle in one hand and a flask in the other, drifted into the conversation in a casual w T ay, by drawling :

‘ Funny idea you must have of angels, Kid ; the Old Timer looked more like something in a circus than a he-angel, wdien he hit the gun wheel. Good job the gun carriage was there though, or the Old Timer’d be travelling yet.’

‘ Bad cess to yez, Shnowy, sew yer face up anMcape ut sewn up. Ye’ve no dacint feelin’s at all, at all.’

Snowy chuckled and handed both the water and the flask to the man on the ground. McGlusky helped himself, and when he handed the nearly empty flask back to its owner, Snowy remarked in his quaint way, after a rapid glance at the wee drop of whisky that was left :

‘ The Old Timer may look like an angel, Ginger, but if angels drink like him, I wonder it ever rains.’

' A’m better noo,’ interpolated McGlusky ; then, with an expression of wonder on his cast-iron face, he added,

‘ Losh, laddies, it were a waesome punch yon gunner gie’d ma. Say, Snowy, where did he swat ma ? A’m theenkin’ A’ll ha’ ta be carefu’ th’ next round, or A’ll get hurtit before A beat him.’

A slow smile twisted the lips of Snowy, the- Anzacs’ great sharpshooter, but Ginger exploded on the spot.

' Divil run away wid th’ gunner, sorr, he didn’t hit yez at all.’ Then, with a fine atmosphere of contempt,

' Th’ gunner cudden’t hit yez off y'r fate loike that, sorr, not if yez lent him a sledgehammer ; ut was er German shell that did ut, wan av thim Jack Johnsins we heard about on th’ way here.’

* A’m a bit dizzy in ma upper story yet ; A ha’ na clear recollection o’ events ; th’ last A remember th’ gunner was cornin’ at ma like a bull at a gate, an’ A thocht he must ha’ landed ma a bit clip on th’ chin ; A felt shook up a wee bit tie, ye ken. Hoo did a shell get here, Snowy ? ’

‘ Oh, they drop ’em behind our lines sometimes.

Old Timer ; they want to blow up our reserve communications, you know/

McGlusky pondered over this information, shaking his grizzled head as if he had bees in it. When he had collected his ideas, he took up his parable, saying :

‘ A’m no’ thankfu’ ta half-witted Wullie o’ Berlin Fr interferin’ wi’ th’ sportin’ arrangements o’ gentlemen. A ha’ a sma’ matter tae settle wi’ a mon, if A’m no mistaken. Ginger ’

‘ Yes, sorr.’

‘ Where’s th’ gunner ? ’

‘ Och, sorr, nivver moind th’ gunner, he’s adjacent, but he’s busy, sorr.’

‘ An’ what’s keepin’ th’ buckie beesy, wee laddie ? *

' Th’ padre’s kapin’ him busy, sorr, or he’s kapin’ th’ padre busy ; th’ Howly Father’s washin’ about half Alsace Lorraine wid bits av threes in ut out av th’ gunner’s eyes.’

' A’m hopin’ he’s no’ blin’, Ginger.’

‘ He’s not blind, Old Timer, but he’s got a bit to go on with, so have half a dozen others ; you only missed gettin’ it by th’ skin o’ your teeth.’

The rugged Scot Australian dusted his face with his Anzac hat, and pondered over his deliverance.

‘ Laddies, A’m theenkin’ th’ Lord is savin’ ma f’r a purpose. He wull na cut ma off like a flower. A dinna ken wha’ work he has in store f’r ma, but A’ll dae it wi’ all ma micht ; maybe He’ll be wantin’ ta mak’ a general oot o’ ma ta swat th’ ungodly Pheelistines who air treadin’ th’ little nations unner foot ; weel, weel, A’m no prood, A’ll no’ seek th’ deesteenction, but A’ll no’ refuse it if its offered ma.’

Snowy’s eyes were dancing ; he had not fought all through the Gallipoli campaign with this raw giant without learning some of his idiosyncrasies.

* Did they give you the V.C. while you were in England for blowing up the ammunition depots at Gallipoli, you two ? ’ was Snowy's query after he had helped the veteran to his feet.

* They didn'a ; they said they cud na, because we were neither o' us sojers, an' only sojers cud win honours, but they gie’d us leave ta join oop in a regular way, an’ noo we’re here.’

‘ Kind of ’em,’ drawled Snowy.

' Na sae bad, conseederin’ ; ye ken we’d been fechtin’ in Gallipoli wi’oot leave.’

‘ Disgraceful conduct, Old Timer ; men have had — had poetry written about ’em for less than that.’

Mac missed the sarcasm in the slow voice ; he was too busy hunting in his clothes for a paper. He found it, and Ginger winced.

‘ Y’r gey wise sometimes, Snowy, though ye ha’ a great gift o’ makin’ a fule o’ yersel’ noo an then ; ye spoke true this time aboot th’ poetry. A ha’ made a wee bit masel’ on Ginger. A’ll read a bittie o’t.’

‘ Och> an’ yez will not, sorr. What have Oi ivver done ter yerself, sorr, that yez should illusthrate me wid poethry. Ye can take yer belt ta me, if yez loike, but th’ dam poethry’s not fair, is ut, Snowy ? Poethry’s not f’r men, uts f’r— f’r faymales, an’ ondacent fay males at that — lasteways none av th’ dacint wans ’ll sthand th’ poethry yez make, sorr. Three boardin’ houses we sthayed at in London, Snowy, an’ in aich av thim th’ landlady gave us th’ key av th’ street, thro wed us out neck an’ crop, bag an’ baggage, bekase he wrote what he called a lyric on thim. Oi don’t know what a lyric is, but thim landladies said he tuk more liberties wid their anatomy than a masseur at a Turkish bath takes wid th’ anatomy av a fat proize foighter rejucin’ weight/

‘ Th’ women mistuk ma meanin’, Snowy. A reverence a’ women, they're little bits o' heavin/

* Yez didn’t say that about th’ last wan, sorr, th’ wan that jabbed yez from behind wid th’ toastin’ fork.’

‘ Maybe A did na, Ginger — whiles she was beesy wi’ th’ toastin’ fork an me on ma knees seekin’ refuge unner th’ dinin’ room table. Ye ken A’m no’ feared o’ th’ steel in a fecht, Snowy, but A’m no’ likin’ it when a woman ha’ been toastin' muffins f’ r breakfast an’ serves it up hot fra behin’. When a woman’s gey angry,’ he added pathetically, ‘ she’s onparticular where she jabs a mon.’

‘ You two seem to have been having the time of your lives in London, thrown out of three boarding houses in a month.’

‘ In a week,’ chirruped Ginger. ‘ The Auld Timer didn’t start mashin’ landladies until th’ last sivin days.’

‘ Hope you didn’t destroy the poetry you made for the ladies, I’d — I’d love to read ’em out to the boys in th’ trenches,’ murmured Snowy with dangerous sweetness.

‘ Th’ women destroyed ’em,’ replied Mac sadly.

‘ They must ha’ been hot stuff, Old Timer.’

‘ They were true ta nature, Snowy : th’ last one was composed on a fine gran' woman, but she had bowlegs. Ye ken the fule fashion all th' women ha’ o’ wearin’ short frocks th’ noo ; eef they dinna want a mon ta ken they’re as bandy as a Greek boatman, f’r i6 why dae they wear frocks na longer than kilts, th’ bow-legged yins, an’ th’ spindle-shanked yins, an’ th’ knock-kneed yins too ? A poet ha’ tae be true ta nature ye ken that fine ; if he is no’, he’s no true ta

art. A put wha’ A saw in ma lyrics, an’ ’

‘ Och, ter blazes wid his lyrics/ chortled Ginger, who seemed to have a decided grudge against the poetic muse. ‘ The first lan’lady he wrote his ondacent stuff to was a foine woman : she brung me me breakfast in bed, tay an’ toast an’ ham an’ eggs, fit fer a juke, an’ at dinner she heaped me plate twice, an’ there was alwis plenty av raisins in th’ puddins. She fed us loike fightin’ cocks, an’ on Sunday she dhressed in wan av thim frocks which is all th’ fashion, ut was most short enough ter call it an apron an’ not a frock, but Oi didn’t moind, th’ faymale cud cook grub loike a seraphim, an’ she only put on her war duds ter plaze th’ Auld Timer, Shnowy, f’r she was as swate on him as a hen turkey is on a gobbler in the love say son. Whin th’ Auld Timer sees her in that frock, he sez : “ Losh, luk at th’ legs av her, wee laddie, yez cud drive a gun carriage through ’em an’ not touch ayther soide, she’s as bow-legged as a camel-ridin’ Bedouin.” She heard part av what he said, an’ her face wint as red as a divil that’s been half baked an’ half boiled. “ Was he referrin’ to me, son ? ” she sez whin she got me alone. “ He was not, mam,” sez Oi, perjurin’ me pore soul f’r his sake, an’ — an’ f’r th’ sake av th’ ham an’ eggs f’r breakfast. “ He was talkin’ about a Turkish princess we tuk prisoner at Gallipoli,” an’ Oi sent th’ woman away happy, an’ thin he wrote her a lyric, an’ put th’ same things in ut, only worse, an’ we lost our happy home.’

i?

‘ Oh, haud yer gab, Ginger, A’m fashed wi’ y’r bletherin’ ; th’ only soul ye’ve got lives in yer stummick. Noo, Snowy, show me where th’ Anzacs are campin’, A’.ve got ter report masel’ f’r duty.’

M So the trio marched through the greatest camp Britain had ever created, and McGlusky’s fierce eyes sparkled as he noted the mighty array.

‘ This luks like real war, laddies ; our army at Gallipoli was only a corpril’s guard compared ta this. Losh, it beats th’ Assyrians av old.’

‘ Who was thim, sorr ? ’

‘ A dinna richtly ken who they weere, wee laddie, but they were heathen o’ some kind, ’nd had an army that covered th’ groon’ like grasshoppers ; they were goin’ ter skelp th’ army o’ th’ Lord, but He blew ’em all oot wi’ his breath in yin night.’

* Do yez belave ut, sorr ? ’

* A do, wee mannie.’

* Thin, sorr, why don’t the Lord blow out th’ Germans ? ’

McGlusky halted in his stride.

* Laddie, a fule can ask mair questions in a minnit than Solomon cud answer in a month. Dinna ye go speirin’ inta th’ ways o’ th’ Lord ; ask ma anything wi’in reason, an’ A’ll do ma best ter satisfy y’r cravin’ f’r knowledge — but by ma soul y’r so thirsty f’r information, ye’d pump a bench o’ bishops dry in a week. Noo, quick march, use y’r een an’ shut y’r capacious mouth. Yon’s a gran’ sicht — a gran’ sicht, millions on millions o’ men an' a’ fechters — every mither’s son o’ them. They’ll skelp th’ mad Kaiser.’

But Ginger would not be put off in this way. Twenty strides farther on he opened fire on the veteran again.

i8

* Sorr, is th’ Kaiser sure mad ? ’

< A’m theenkin’ he maun be, else/ with a great wave of his hand, * why wud th’ daft buckie try ta fight these yins, the pick o’ th’ earth an’ th’ salt thereof ? ’

‘ Thin tell me, sorr, fer why did th' Lord let a mad baste get on a throne an’ make war on th’ worruld ? ’

* A’m no’ sure, mannie, but A’m theenkin’ th’ Lord wanted ta purge th’ world o’ th’ Germans, they’re a race o’ ravishers an’ bullies, ye ken.’

‘ Och, sorr, thin why didn’t th’ Lord blow ’em all out in a night, loike he did thim Assyrians, an’ not fill th’ world wid th’ weepin’ an’ wailin’ av Frinch an’ British widdies an’ orphins ? ’

* Ye onreeleegious slip o’ Satan, wud ye question th’ ways o’ Providence ? Here’s th’ only answer ye’ll unnerstan’.’

As he spoke, McGlusky launched a kick in the direction of the Irish boy, but Ginger, who knew by past experience the form the Scot’s theology was apt to take, sprang nimbly out of range.

‘ Talk tae him. Snowy, for a wee bittie,’ growled Mac, ‘ he means na harm, ye ken, but the questions th’ impie speirs at ma amaist mak’s ma faith in ma releegion slip its anchor.’

' He’s got a deuce of a thirst for information, and that’s a fact, Old Timer,’ cooed the wonderful marksman soothingly, and then added, ‘ Don’t let him worry you, pardner, I think half his questions are put out of sheer contrariness.’

* Na, na, dinna dae th’ wee laddie eenjustice, he’s got a wunnerfu’ brain, eef he didn’a find oot things, he’d — he’d bust.’

And Snowy chuckled as he chewed his quid of plug tobacco, for Ginger’s hunger for information did not always lead him into theological pastures, and Snowy had a scarlet recollection of some of the questions the wayward Irish boy had put to him in the days when they had fought the Turks side by side in the East. Ginger, whistling like a bird, kept himself discreetly in the rear, and McGlusky noticing it, remarked sotto voce :

* Th’ wee mannie ha’ peecked up a wunnerfu’ assortment o’ knowledge.’

‘ He has,’ assented Snowy, and the grin that illuminated his face would have cracked a cup.

Chapter II

S OLDIERS on active service are not demonstrative folk as a rule ; most of their emotions are first worn razor-edged, and then so badly blunted that they keep them well out of sight and hearing, but one of their own kind, a real fighter, can usually stir them from their normal apathy. But to few men is it given to receive such a welcome into camp as the old Anzac regipients gave to McGlusky. They caught sight of him coming into their lines just as they were off duty, and with one spontaneous yell they engulfed him.

‘ Whisht, laddies, whisht, they’ll be hearin’ ye in Berlin,’ he cried warningly, as hundreds of sinewy hands were thrust out to grip him.

‘ Here he is, whiskers and all,’ chanted some one, and a storm of laughter shook the daredevil crew.

‘ Aye,’ he said with a tinge of bitterness in his voice, “ here A am, whuskers an’ a’, but A’ve got orders ta tak’ me whuskers off th’ nicht, an’ A’m goin’ ta tak’ ’em off, but A’m theenkin’ it’ll no’ be lucky — Samson had na luck, ye ken, after he were shorn.’

' Samson gave up his whiskers f ’r a woman. What are you giving up yours for, Mac ? ’

The voice that put the query was bubbling with merriment, the dour man took it seriously.

‘ A’m gi’en up mine f'r duty ; th’ General at Aidershot said A’d ha’ ta shave or stay oot o’ th’ airmy, an’ A axed him if A micht wear ’em until A joined up again wi’ ma regiment. A was afeared, ma buckies, ye wad na ken ma eef A came amang ye wi’ ma lugs bare.’

‘ Wonder the General trusted you out of England with your hair on.’

‘ A had served ane campaign o’ three years’ length wi’ him, an’ he kenned ma, he knew A’d tak’ ma whuskers off th’ nicht A joined ma regiment, if A had ta bite ’em off inside. A’m no’ a leear, an’ eef any mon amang ye is insinuatin’ A am, A’ll be obleeged eef he wull step oot here th’ noo an’ eef A dinna twist his innards like a wire entanglement, ye may marry ma ta a mummy an’ ca’ me Pharaoh.'

Ginger’s welcome by his old comrades of the fateful Eastern campaign was as warm as that given the veteran, and it was not long before he was being introduced in rough soldier fashion to the men of the new Australian and New Zealand contingents which were brigaded with the veterans of Anzac fame.

' A nice quiet kid, but not much devil about him,’ was the general verdict of the new acquaintances, whereat Snowy and the old brigade grinned hugely, but all Snowy said was :

“ They don’t know Ginger — yet.'

That night McGlusky shaved his long beard and moustaches ; he made almost a religious rite of it, but the face that emerged from the tangled forest of hair fairly delighted Ginger.

‘ Och, sorr,’ he cried, ‘ an’ if Oi’d only knowed you was hidin' away a face loike that in them old whiskers, Oi’d ha’ burnt ’em off in y’r shleep. Yez look young enough ter be ma big brother. Och, Oi’ll marry yez to a countess wid a pot o’ money, whin we get back ter Blighty.’

‘ Ma face feels like a ham ta ma, wee laddie.’

‘ Faith, divil a bit do ut look like a ham, sorr, uts an iligant face, hard as railroad iron, an’ th’ mouth o’ yez will frighten any Fritz who sees yez, sorr. Uts — uts loike the doorway ter hell wid th’ hinges off ut, uts betther’n a wolf thrap ; all yez want is three new front teeth to make up f’r thim wans th’ Turk shot out av yer head th’ day yez was clamberin’ up the heights av Gallipoli in th’ first big fight. We’ll buy some, sorr, th’ first toime .we get lave an’ go ter Paris.’

‘ A’m theenkin’ that wud be a sinfu’ waste o’ good siller, Ginger, A’ll be scrappin’ wi’ Germans th’ morn, please God, an’ A’m told most German bodies ha’ gude teeth ; A’ll keep ma eyes open when A’m scrappin’, an’ th’ first German A see wi’ fine front teeth, A’ll drop ma rifle an’ just gie him a clump wi’ ma fist ; eef A dinna bring his teeth oot, they’ll ha' ta be screwed in. A’m theenkin’ that’s no’ unlawfu’, th’ Turk took mine, an’ the Turks an’ Huns air allies ; between ’em they owe ma twa teeth fra th’ top an’ yin fra th’ bottom o’ ma mouth, an’ laddie, A’m no’ a lover o’ them that dinna pay wha’ they owe.’

‘ Bedad, yez’ll get th’ teeth if yez say so, Oi know that, but, sorr, how will yez fix ’em in y’r mouth ? ’

The big man looked into the eager boyish face with an expression of mild surprise.

‘Hoots, wee mannie, did ye no’ ken A was a bush blacksmith ance in Australia ? A niver fitted teeth inta a body yet, but A ha’ fitted a tyre ta a waggon wheel, an’ A ha' pulled monay a mon’s watch ta pieces an’ put it thegether agin. A’d tak’ shame ta masel’ eef A cud na fix in ma ain teeth — a bush blacksmith maun be a handy mon, ye ken/

* Och, if Oi lose any teeth, Oi’m goin’ ter wait till Oi go ter Paris ter get ’em in, sorr. Will yez be afther drivin’ yer own in wid a hammer ? ’

‘ Hec, na, na, ye gommerill, maybe th’ German body A get ma teeth fra wull ha’ a bit gold in his pooch, A’m theenkin’ it wull na be unsoldierly ta tak’ it frae him f’r a gude purpose. Gie Jamie McGlusky th’ gold ta mak’ a mouth plate an’ th’ teeth ta fix ta it, an’ a wee hammer an’ a smooth stane f’r an anvil, an’ gin A dae na fix my teeth as beautiful as tombstones in a cemetery y’r at leeberty ta tie a napkin roon ma neck at meals an’ — an’ feed ma wi’ a spoon.’

‘ Sorr ? ’

* Aye, Ginger.’

' Y’r a jaynius, yez can make or mend maist anything.’

‘ Na, na, laddie, no’ a genius, but A ken th’ Almichty gie’d a mon brains ta theenk oot ways ter help hissel’. Some men air brocht oop sae badly, Ginger, they think shame ta dae a day’s work wi’ their han’s ; th’ mair useless th’ puir saft bodies air, th’ finer gentlemen they conseeder themsel’s. That’s ane o’ th’ greatest curses o’ Englan’, mannie. Mony o’ th’ feckless fules dinna ken if it’s th’ end they put in a saddle, or th’ end that carries a hat that was intended by th’ Creator f’r a theenkin’ machine. Dae ye mind that gommerill they ca’ed King Alfred we was readin’ about in th’ buik ? ’

‘ The wan that had na gumption enough to cook cakes, sorr ? ’

* Yes, that yin, an’ they kept him king after that, an’ th’ ither yin who didn’t ken hoo a woman managed to get an apple inta a dumplin’, because he cud na see th’ hole — fancy sic a feckless fule body rulin’ a keengdom. Men like them yins should be made ter work f’r their livin’, nothing teaches a body sound sense like hard work. Some day when the world has grown wiser, mannie, reverence an’ respec' wull fa’ on th’ men an’ women who dae th’ works w'ork, not on th’ fules who loaf through life. Did ye ivver watch a bee-hive from its beginnin’ to its endin’, Ginger ? ’