Echoes of the War | Page 4

thing holds aloft a packet of letters.
'Look at this. All his.'
The Haggerty Woman whimpers.
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a
bombardier.'
MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear mother"?'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.'
MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin
"Dearest mother.'"
No one can think of the right reply.
MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say, judging
by yourself.'
She ought to have left it alone.
MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.'
The gloom deepens.
MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did you tell
me?'
MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey
Rifles is the famousest.'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs.
Haggerty. His choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.'
MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, 'Give me the R.H.A. and you can

keep all the rest.'
MRS. DOWEY. 'I'm sure I have nothing to say against the Surreys and
the R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just breeches regiments, I
understand.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'We can't all be kilties.'
MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, 'That's very true.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can't help saying it. 'Has
your Kenneth great hairy legs?'
MRS. DOWEY. 'Tremendous.'
The wicked woman: but let us also say 'Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.' For at
this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less important part of a
clergyman appears upon the stair.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'It's the reverent gent!'
MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, 'I see he has
had his boots heeled.'
It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always walks in,
front of him. This smile makes music of his life, it means that once
again he has been chosen, in his opinion, as the central figure in
romance. No one can well have led a more drab existence, but he will
never know it; he will always think of himself, humbly though elatedly,
as the chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally written
that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets them at every street
corner. For instance, he assists an old lady off a bus, and asks her if he
can be of any further help. She tells him that she wants to know the
way to Maddox the butcher's. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile;
it always comes first, followed by its explanation, 'I was there
yesterday!' This is the merest sample of the adventures that keep Mr.
Willings up to the mark.
Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost terrible. He
can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero without remembering
that he knows some one of the name. The Soldiers' Rest he is connected
with was once a china emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought
his tea service at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it.
Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama, In the course
of his extraordinary comings and goings he meets with Great
Personages, of course, and is the confidential recipient of secret news.
Before imparting the news he does not, as you might expect, first smile

expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an awful
solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When divulging the
names of the personages, he first looks around to make sure that no
suspicious character is about, and then, lowering his voice, tells you, 'I
had that from Mr. Farthing himself--he is the secretary of the Bethnal
Green Branch,--h'sh!'
There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the reverent, and
there is also some furtive pulling down of sleeves, but he stands
surveying the ladies through his triumphant smile. This amazing man
knows that he is about to score again.
MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, 'I thank you. But not at all.
Friends, I have news.'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'News?'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'From the Front?'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'My Alfred, sir?'
They are all grown suddenly anxious--all except the hostess, who
knows that there can never be any news from the Front for her.
MR. WILLINGS. 'I tell you at once that all is well. The news is for Mrs.
Dowey.'
She stares.
MRS. DOWEY. 'News for me?'
MR. WILLINGS. 'Your son, Mrs. Dowey--he has got five days' leave.'
She shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it only trembles a little on its
stem. 'Now, now, good news doesn't kill.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We're glad, Mrs. Dowey.'
MRS. DOWEY. 'You're sure?'
MR. WILLINGS. 'Quite sure. He has arrived.'
MRS. DOWEY. 'He is in London?'
MR. WILLINGS. 'He is. I