Echoes of the War | Page 7

very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?'
'Glasgow.'
'Both living?'
'Ay.'
'Is your mother terrible proud of you?'
'Naturally.'
'You'll be going to them?'
'After I've had a skite in London first.'
The old lady sniffs, 'So she is in London!'
'Who?'
'Your young lady.'
'Are you jealyous?'
'Not me.'
'You needna be. She's a young thing.'
'You surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?'
'You may be sure.' He tries the jam. 'She's a titled person. She is equally popular as maid, wife and munition-worker.'
Mrs. Dowey remembers Lady Dolly Kanister, so familiar to readers of fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression indeed comes into her face.
'Tell me more about her, man.'
'She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a worsted waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed card.'
The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses control of her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that.
'You'll try one of my cakes, mister?'
'Not me.'
'They're of my own making.'
'No, I thank you.'
But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back again. She planks down a cake before him, at sight of which he gapes.
'What's the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister.'
'That's exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.'
Mrs. Dowey is now a very glorious old character indeed.
'Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch colours pleased you.'
'Wha----t! Was it you?'
'I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always reading hers in the papers.'
The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time.
'Woman, is there no getting rid of you!'
'Are you angry?'
He sits down with a groan,
'Oh, hell! Give me some tea.'
She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her wanting to cry out to every other bit, 'Oh, glory, glory, glory!' For a moment she hovers behind his chair. 'Kenneth'! she murmurs. 'What?' he asks, no longer aware that she is taking a liberty. 'Nothing,' she says, 'just Kenneth,' and is off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his tea is poured out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of self-preservation returns to him between two bites.
'Don't you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have got me.'
'No, no.'
On that understanding he unbends.
'I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.'
'Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!'
'It is, woman, oh, it is,' guardedly, 'and it's also a last meeting.'
'Yes, yes.'
'So here's to you--you old mop and pail. Ave atque vale.'
'What's that?'
'That means Hail and Farewell.'
'Are you a scholar?'
'Being Scotch, there's almost nothing I don't know.'
'What was you to trade?'
'Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.'
'You're a proper man to look at.'
'I'm generaly admired.'
'She's an enviable woman.'
'Who?'
'Your mother.'
'Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.' Bitterly, 'This party never even knew who his proud parents were.'
'Is that'--gleaming--'is that true?'
'It's gospel.'
'Heaven be praised!'
'Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don't think you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.'
'I daresay it's true we'll never meet again, Kenneth, but--but if we do, I wonder where it will be?'
'Not in this world.'
'There's no telling'--leering ingratiatingly--'It might be at Berlin.'
'Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I'll find you there waiting for me!'
'With a cup of tea for you in my hand.'
'Yes, and'--heartily--'very good tea too.'
He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour.
'Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!'
'All the ladies,' slapping his knees, 'likes to go to Paris.'
'Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!'
'You're all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.' He sings:
'Mrs. Gill is very ill, Nothing can improve her But to see the Tuileries And waddle through the Louvre.'
No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, she cries:
'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also:
'Mrs. Dowey's very ill, Nothing can improve her.'
'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse:
'But dressed up in a Paris gown To waddle through the Louvre.'
They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She says ecstatically:
'Hairy legs!'
A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what she is.
'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I must be stepping.'
Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit.
'Where are you living?'
He sighs.
'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. Beggars.' bitterly, 'can't be choosers.'
'Beggars?'
'I've never been here before. If you knew'--a shadow coming over him--'what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was