The First Hundred Thousand | Page 9

not cut or slash a biscuit, what are you to do
with it? Swallow it whole?
"Private McNulty?" queries the Captain.

Private McNulty, in a voice which is shrill with righteous indignation,
gives the somewhat unexpected answer--
"Sirr, I plead guilty!"
"Guilty--eh? You did it, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
This is what Private McNulty is waiting for.
"The men in that room, sirr," he announces indignantly, "appear tae
look on me as a sort of body that can be treated onyways. They go for
tae aggravate me. I was sittin' on my bed, with my knife in my hand,
cutting a piece bacca and interfering with naebody, when they all
commenced tae fling biscuits at me. I was keepin' them off as weel as I
could; but havin' a knife in my hand, I'll no deny but what I gave twa
three of them a bit cut."
"Is this true?" asks the Captain of the first witness, curtly.
"Yes, sir."
"You saw the men throwing biscuits at the prisoner?"
"Yes, sir."
"He was daen' it himsel'!" proclaims Private McNulty.
"This true?"
"Yes, sir."
The Captain addresses the other witness.
"You doing it too?"

"Yes, sir."
The Captain turns again to the prisoner.
"Why didn't you lodge a complaint?" (The schoolboy code does not
obtain in the Army.)
"I did, sir. I tellt"--indicating Corporal Mather with an elbow--"this
genelman here."
Corporal Mather cannot help it. He swells perceptibly. But swift
puncture awaits him.
"Corporal Mather, why didn't you mention this?"
"I didna think it affected the crime, sir."
"Not your business to think. Only to make a straightforward charge. Be
very careful in future. You other two"--the witnesses come guiltily to
attention--"I shall talk to your platoon sergeant about you. Not going to
have Government property knocked about!"
Bobby Little's eyebrows, willy-nilly, have been steadily rising during
the last five minutes. He knows the meaning of red tape now!
Then comes sentence.
"Private McNulty, you have pleaded guilty to a charge of destroying
Government property, so you go before the Commanding Officer.
Don't suppose you'll be punished, beyond paying for the damage."
"Right turn! Quick march!" chants the Sergeant-Major.
The downtrodden McNulty disappears, with his traducers. But Bobby
Little's eyebrows have not been altogether thrown away upon his
Company Commander.
"Got the biscuits here, Sergeant-Major?"

"Yes, sirr."
"Show them."
The Sergeant-Major dives into a pile of brown blankets, and presently
extracts three small brown mattresses, each two feet square. These
appear to have been stabbed in several places with a knife.
Captain Blaikie's eyes twinkle, and he chuckles to his now scarlet-faced
junior--
"More biscuits in heaven and earth than ever came out of Huntley and
Palmer's, my son! Private Robb!"
Presently Private Robb stands at the table. He is a fresh-faced,
well-set-up youth, with a slightly receding chin and a most dejected
manner.
"Private Robb," reads the Captain. "_While on active service, drunk
and singing in Wellington Street about nine p.m. on Saturday, the
sixth_. Sergeant Garrett!"
The proceedings follow their usual course, except that in this case some
of the evidence is "documentary"--put in in the form of a report from
the sergeant of the Military Police who escorted the melodious Robb
home to bed.
The Captain addresses the prisoner.
"Private Robb, this is the second time. Sorry--very sorry. In all other
ways you are doing well. Very keen and promising soldier. Why is
it--eh?"
The contrite Robb hangs his head. His judge continues--
"I'll tell you. You haven't found out yet how much you can hold. That
it?"
The prisoner nods assent.

"Well--find out! See? It's one of the first things a young man ought to
learn. Very valuable piece of information. I know myself, so I'm safe.
Want you to do the same. Every man has a different limit. What did
you have on Saturday?"
Private Robb reflects.
"Five pints, sirr," he announces.
"Well, next time try three, and then you won't go serenading policemen.
As it is, you will have to go before the Commanding Officer and get
punished. Want to go to the front, don't you?"
"Yes, sirr." Private Robb's dismal features flush.
"Well, mind this. We all want to go, but we can't go till every man in
the battalion is efficient. You want to be the man who kept the rest
from going to the front--eh?"
"No, sirr, I do not."
"All right, then. Next Saturday night say to yourself: 'Another pint, and
I keep the Battalion back!' If you do that, you'll come back to barracks
sober, like a decent chap. That'll do. Don't salute with your cap off.
Next man, Sergeant-Major!"
"Good boy, that," remarks the Captain to Bobby Little, as the contrite
Robb is removed. "Keen as mustard. But his high-water mark for beer
is somewhere in his boots. All right, now I've scared