Front matter of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox
recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. Front matter,
epigraph and introduction. The lad I love is a soldier, lad a hoe
Never be sad, Never be sad. He's sailed away far over the sea.
He's sailed away to fight for me, for his king and his country
over the sea. And maybe some day he'll come back to me, my
soldier, lad a Hoe, Never be sad Jesse's song from Brownie Boy Introduction.
The sketches and stories in this little volume must be read as fiction,
but they are all or nearly all, founded on fact, and built up
from scenes and incidents I myself either witnessed or heard firsthand during my sojourn in
France and Flanders as special correspondent for a London morning newspaper, Private Pinkerton.
I met in the flesh several times, a gallant young English gentleman, if
there ever was one, A cool and clever fighter, a dead shot,
but shy as a schoolgirl when it came to the telling of his own adventures.
I have rarely met a millionaire so engaging, so kindly, so well
loved by the boys, but so courageous withal of course, Pinky is not
his real name. The tale of Brownie Boy is a true tale. Pinky
related it to me at the lad's funeral, when under the soft sunshine of
a perfect summer's day, they laid him to rest, and the village school
children strewed wild flowers upon his grave. Signed Harold Ashton Hampstead, nineteen sixteen,
end of Front Matter, Section one of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton.
This libri box recording is in the public domain. Chapters one and two.
Chapter one the Idyl of Skeleton Tree, your booked relief sniper for Windy
Nook, said the major, handing Private Pinkerton his orders very well, Sir,
replied Private Pinkerton, saluting stiffly. A thrill ran down his spine.
He breathed quickly and felt himself swaying slightly as his heels clicked to the salute
Relief for Windy Nook. It seemed too good to be true. This was
the first big job for Pinkerton of the something rifles, Pink at Eton,
Pinky at Oxford, and Pinky still in the great world, at home away
in dear old Blighty, where he was a millionaire, with castles and deer
forests and salmon streams and all that sort of thing to play with. And
strange to say, Pinky yet again in the rough and tumble, the mud
and dust, the desperation and death of Flanders, just a grizzlehead, grimy
faced private with never a soul, dreaming of his identity. Still Pinky,
that's windy Nook, continued the major, indicating with a flick of his hand,
a sort of grayish promontory on the horizon, topped by a skeleton tree.
And that's your tree, twigget. Sniper Smithson's been there for some days
now, solitary confinement, Potton the Prussian parisher. But since lunchtime there's been
no sign of Smithsonian activity. He may be oversleeping himself, or he may
be quite so, Sir, Private Pinkerton nodded another thrill trickled. He looked
across to Windy Nook with increased interest, proprietorial interest. A German howitzer shall
bursts smack over the tree at that very instant, the ragged skeleton seemed to
shiver and shrug its naked shoulders under the detonation. A hot shop said the
major, Hey, what well, good luck and good hunting. Private Pinkerton
waited until moonrise to make his journey to Windy Nook, for daylight traveling in
that region meant certain death. The moon was near, the full misty and
uncanny. In the ghostly light, she shed and now and again entirely blotted
out in a moving curtain of somber cloud. The trenchers, German and British
alike were shrouded in a miasmic film, which made of this grim akerage a
goblin land for demon happenings. Just the night for a trip to Windy Nook,
and so to Skeleton Tree. Private Pinkerton, millionaire, crawled and crept
and crouched with one of his spare socks he had but two pairs in the
wide wide world, wrapped round the lock of his rifle to keep the damp
out, his bandolier stuffed with cartridges, his tucker slung at his shoulder,
and something he couldn't for the moment make out what, Something hard in his
inside pocket, against which his heart was beating up like the third of a
drum. Halfway to the tree, he rested for a spell and listened again
to the drumming of his heart. It wasn't funk or fright or fear.
Private Pinkerton was just tuned up to concert pitch, that's all. A full
orchestra of sensations was alive inside him. The band was playing the overture to
the Grand Opera of Windy Nook, was racing allegro. But the drum,
the big drum, was a little too persistent, so he shoved his hand
into his pocket and pulled it out. It was his checkbook. What earthly
rite had a common trench tommy with a checkbook, except for drawing a blank
check on the bank of paradise or perdition. Anyway, you never know your
luck in this dismantled world. So Private Pinkerton, with a grim chuckle to
himself, stowed the book away in an easier pocket and crawled on under the
shifting light of the moon. Dawn, cold and gray was breaking. As
he reached Skeleton Tree. The country all round was bleached and desolate. Not
a sound, not a movement, not even the squeal of a shell or
the snarl of a rifle to break the spell. Skeleton tree leaned over in
the half light like an old old man with nutcracker jaws, decrepit and palsied
up. In the branches, there was a smudge of something dimly visible,
whether human or not, living or dead. Private Pinkerton could not, for
the life of him tell, so he climbed the tree to make sure.
In the increasing light, the smudge materialized into something definite. A swaddle of
khaki lying along the lower limb, a pale face, a limp hand with
a smear of blood across the back of it, a rusted rifle, and
just below a little heap of empty cartridge cases. Is that you Smithson?
It's all right, brand I'm your relief if you ask Smithson, Yes,
a horse whisper came from one end of the heap of khake. Have you
brought any ammunition? I am clean out. Jis my blasted luck. Plugged
one of the bloyers with my last cartridge. But I showed too much of
myself and the sausage he let fly at the same time. Got you yes,
and not half got me neither mate pipped done in mate, wallop through
the lung. I've about a quart of blood already. There's a pull down
there. NOI big enough to sail a toy boat in. You'll be able
to see it when it gets a bit lighter. Heave up alongside. There's
room enough for two two's company mate. There never was a truer word spoke
than that. Have you got a drop of suffer a drink? I'm that
dry. I could swig a ditch for Private Pinkerton crawled up the rough trunk
and lay down by the side of Sniper Smithson giving him the drink. His
soul was craving for anything I can do for you. It was quite clear
that the man was dying, Quite clear too that he himself knew it.
You have friends at home. If I can do you a little, yes,
you ken mate. Lois still beside me, and keep your eyes skin
for that toughter reads over there. You'll see it clear enough. As soon
as the sun gets up. The gent what did me in? Is still
there? And he pulls a very pretty trigger, So look out, plug
him and I'll die happy mate, in about an hour. I shall last
till then, if I lie still and breathe judicious I'll show you him another
drop for God's sake. Thanks, you're a peal the right sort. I'd
like to have just one more go at him myself, if only the sun
would hurry up. But it seems to be getting darker instead of lighter.
And I'm dog tired, mate, dog dog tired. Then lie still and
go to sleep for a spell, Old pell, said Private Pinkie, making
a pillow with his arm for the dying soldier and speaking softly and soothingly.
Don't you worry about our friend over there. I'll settle his hash right enough.
I'm pretty nippy with the rifle, though, I'd prefer a rocketing Pheasants
and a dose of number three any day. But that chap over there's a
sitter and I'll plug him, you bet. Pheasants, murmured the dying man.
The long tails my word, mate, that didn't half remind me of
him. Thornycroft and the Drive, the finest poach and pitch in the hole
of Norfolk. Thornycroft, the Drive, cried the millionaire. Why that's my
my he paused, as a vision of the old days flashed into his mind.
Smithson, Smithson, that's name came back too, that mean little poacher
with the ferretie who could hit anything with his old breech loader, a wild
hopeless rascal, but adored by his mother as all wild hopeless rascals are.
Smithson by gum, the weak whisper of Sniper Smithson broke into his meditations.
You're part of the world too, mate, you know Thorny, Yes,
mate, I know Thorny ever poached the drive. No such luck, mate,
replied the millionaire with a sigh. You can't very well poach on your
own preserves. I own the show, the whole bloom and show mate,
the whole bloom and show mate. Well, I'm the dying soldier laughed.
It was a one specter of a laugh. What are you laughing at,
asked Private Pinkerton, as he wiped the damp lips of the man lying in
his arms. At you and me together in this shimuzzle, mate, a
cock pheasant and a cock sparra roostin in the same old tree. It'd make
a hedgehog laugh. Go to sleep, old chap, said Pinkerton. I'll
call you at sunrise and then we can both have a go at the beggar
over there, all right, mayte and don't forget, And as Sniper Smithson
slept like a tired child in its mother's arms, the sun rose in a
blaze of splendor in the light of it. Private Pinkerton softly disengaged his arm,
pulled out the check book and inscribed, carefully, therein worldly solace for
the old mother of the sinner who lay by his side, doubtless streaming of
the long tails, and the old sweet wickednesses of Thornycroft, and the drive.
He folded the check addressed it distinctly. He was a careful, methodical
millionaire, as most of them are, and stowed it away for safety in
an inner pocket. In case, he said, as he peered through the
branches at the tuft of reeds across the way, in case the beggar who
pipped my mate should pip me, By God, there he is. There
was a slight movement in the reed tuft a head, a German head,
and no more appeared. Private Pinkerton took a long, steady sight under the
sunshine. Boy got him certain you've pipped him. It was the voice of
Sniper Smithson, a lazy, half awake voice. You might have called me,
mate, lie still whole bird. No need to worry any longer.
It's all serene, said Private Pinkerton. I ain't worryin, whispered the soldier,
I'm only laughing. Tell the boys when you get back, tell them
with my compliments. It's it's a damn funny world. And so, saying
Sniper Smithson, passed out of it. That concludes chapter one of Private Pinkerton
Millionaire. The section continues with chapter two, the Battle of the Bagpipes.
Hot, dusty and tired. The patrol party, headed by Sergeant Major Singleton,
who was known as Pants because his name happened to suggest something in the
underwear line, crowded into the small estamina in the little old Norman village of
Body, and called lustily for beer. The landlady, a fat, motherly
dame, kissed the whole lot affectionately, beginning with pants and finishing up with
a left and right upon the blushing cheeks of Private Pinkerton brought out the foaming
tankards and surrendered joyfully. The surrender was necessary. This estaminee was needed urgently
for the billet of Captain Crabtree, who would be along presently, and Captain
Crabtree's compliments. He was very hungry, in fact, born hungry. Could
Madame oblige by laying in a stock of new laid eggs, ah we Madame
would be charmed. Her whole farmyard was at the disposal of the grand heroes
of the British Army. She flung open the back door. There entered a
lively chorus of cackles, quacks, crows, chucks and clucks. Look and
listen, messieurs, My poultry even now seem to know what is required of
them. They are laying their hardest lechre poulet deenn bong, said the Sergeant
Major, and hasten you mompety went on the buxom Dame, turning to Pinkerton,
haysen you amidst the feathered choristers and collect their tribute whilst it is still
warm. Meanwhile, Messieurs, I will set about preparing the house a lawn.
The millionaire had collected his capful of what he considered to be the newest
of the new LAIDs, and was stepping very carefully toward the estaminae again when
earthquake and eclipse burst all around him. The roof of the hen house collapsed
with the clatter of smashed crockery. Something whistled over his head like the noise
of a mighty rushing wind. And what a moment before had been the happiest
poultry run in northern France was now a pitiful hash of blood and feathers.
Most of the flower of Madame's gallant flock had laid their last egg in this
world. A German shell had wrought this havoc. Of the more fragile shells
which Pinkerton carried into the house, not one was even cracked. There were
no raw edges to Pinki's nerve. Yet did I air something break outside,
inquired the Sergeant Major, with his flagon at half cock. Yes, Sir,
replied Pinkerton. Not the Captain's eggs. I trust it was an omelet,
se said he wandered. But eggs eggs, Private Pinkerton, here they
are, Sir, intact, said Private Pinkerton, placing the cap down on
the table very tenderly. And that little disturbance in the backyard Germans, Sir,
just like their infernal cheek, muttered the Sergeant Major. After our Captain's
lightly boiled two and a half minuts, he finished his aisle and strode out
into the dismantled backyard to reconnoiter. Yes, he said, on his return,
Germans right enough, coming up and over Rand to steal a march on
us many, Sir, only about fifteen hundred Fasand replied Sergeant Major Singleton casually,
I don't know whether to stay here and older players. He gazed half
dealtfully upon the seven stalwarts gathered around him, or whether to hexacu a strategicoimean
movement to the rear. Perhaps, all things considered, we had better do
a bunk. It's a grievous shame to leave all that good beer, Madame
la monsieur on cord de la petite bass syllaboo plate, and having en cord
to their heart's content, the gallant's little patrol stole cautiously out of the front
door, as another shell came up with a roar and buried itself in the
great Norman tower of the adjoining church, which swallowed the pill with the ease
of an elephant bolting a bun. Private Pinkerton stayed behind to cash the eggs.
Then he rejoined his companions and scuttled over the crest of the hill.
At the very moment the enemy patrol entered the village at the other end,
they took speedy and complete possession. The church tower was rigged up as a
signaling station, and by the time the sun was setting in an indignant blaze
of flame and fury over distant Armontiere Madame, to her intense mortification, found
herself enrolled, reluctant handmaiden at the service of the brutal bosh in her own
estaminae. She fed them on her own victims, the dead hens from her
decimated poultry run, and as she cooked, she shed tears, tears of
anger rather than grief, into the casserole. The coming night betokened riot and
revelry. Silver helmets flashed, and red fat faces glowed under the lamplight,
hocks and hicks mingled in bibulous chorus. Not so very far away, the
gallants British Patrol of eight were morosely, nay savagely, discussing the situation.
They gloomed along under the fretful moonshine, seeking and seeking vainly for some plan
whereby they might recapture the lost position and save a few eggs to pacify the
delicate palette of Captain crabtree. Desultory fighting hereabouts during the last few days had
strewn the surrounding country with some remnants, dead and alive of the hard pressed
but unquenchable British Army. Providence directed Private Pinkerton's weary steps to one of them,
a Scottish piper of huge, goliath girth, raptulee, snoring amid the
ruins of a pig stye, with his pipes still cuddled beneath his brawny arms,
and a vast litter of empty bully tins lying around him. Yee,
gods, what an appetite, mused Pinkerton, surveying with increasing wonder the empty
tins. Then an idea suddenly smote him, smote him hard under the fifth
rib, a wild mad hair and scarum. Idea, but an idea,
he kicked. The sleeping piper. Awake, Jock, Jock, he cried
to the blinking giants. Have you enough breath in that great gasoma of yours
to blow like hell for the wee space at ten minutes? If you have,
then there's a fiver for ye. For a fiver, replied the piper,
now thoroughly awake to the situation, having been struck in his tender spot.
For a fiver, i'd blow the back of my head. Oh ah
ay, and you ain't a boot, then help me to collect some of
these tens and come along quick and join the boys. The Devil's going to
dance tonight, laddie, and you shall lead the giddy Scottish. I am
mad, inquired the scott taking a great deep breath. Are you mad?
We are Devil's dancing? And are that I'm naboon? For hell? Thank
ye? Raging, ramping, roaring mad, cried Pinkerton. Where all stark,
staring lunatics tonight, and all you've to do is to blow like mad.
The campbells are coming, Annie Laurie, Bornie Dundee, any old thing.
As soon as you get the signal, this is going to beat cock
fighting jock, My lad will ye and a five pound note into the bargain
one pooned in advance, said the cautious highlander, And the remainder handed over
upon the levery of the goods, and it's a bargain, hell or otherwise.
Solemnly, the twain shook hands on the transaction, then loaded up with
empty tins and the pipes tuned for the fourthcoming Fray, Private Pinkerton and Piper
mcquirk of the ninety ninth Kilties sought and found the Sulky patrol just as the
moon was setting. By midnight, the German staff, swelling in Madame's neat
estiminae, had reached the solemn owlish state of drunkenness, nodding like Mandarin's,
dribbling like babes. Most of them were too sleepy and sodden even to strafe
the miserable Englishes. They lay back, unbuttoned and gross, snorting like pigs.
Suddenly, from amongst the churchyard tombs outside the most unearthly hubbub broke loose,
fiendish noises never heard before or since on this earth filled the air,
crash upon crash, clatter, overwhelming clatter, yells, screams, the flickering
of ghoulish lights in which ghosts danced and gibbered, And above and overall,
the frantic, hellish scream of ten thousand souls in writhing torment. That was
the satanic bagpipe serenade of Piper mcquirk, with a pressure to the square inch
behind his endeavor. No Piper mortal or immortal ever equalled before or since.
Frightened out of their wits, the boozed and utterly bewildered Germans tumbled, pell
mell out of the stamina, only to meet and retreat in mortal dread from
a tarring specter of the Brocken, dancing half naked in the glare and emitting
noises awful enough to make the hair of the sphinx stand on end. In
a word, Piper mcquirk earning with magnificent endeavor his five pound note, and
behind him Private Pinkerton clashing maniac symbols, composed of a couple of bully beef
tins, supported by Sergeant Major Singleton, who simply howled and waved his long
arms, and in the rear the remainder of the patrol, avenging angels,
piling horror upon horror with mouth organs and mutilated meat tins. It was enough.
No Germans ever ran faster than these scared roisterers. Not a shot was
fired on either side, but in less than five minutes, never a bosh
was left within half a mile of body, and a swift and scared patrol
was speeding eastward to go and tell the Kaiser that the sky was falling and
the end of the world at hand. Far away. The heavy artillery of
both sides heard the commotion and opened fire boom boom, boom into the astonished
night. Our brave patrol, utterly and absolutely blown, lay snug, though
gasping on their heaving bellies, as the shells streaked overhead. Jock, Jock,
you've earned your fiver if ever man did, panted Pinkerton, as the
two heroes reclined side by side waiting for the duets of shell and shrapnel to
cease. Maybe, replied the giant Scott with a groan. Maybe I've won
the fiver, but I've lost mudbricks. That concludes chapter two of Private Pinkerton
Millionaire and is also the end of section one Section two of Private Pinkerton Millionaire
by Harold Ashton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapters three
and four. Chapter three, Brownie Boy, there's a girl at home,
began, ay boy. Then he sighed a portentous sigh and carefully tore away
the top of a packers of woodbines. Ever Gasper pink said, he suddenly
ashamed of his streak of sentiment, and switching off the conversation into another channel
well slipped in Pinkerton encouragingly as he accepted the gift, and tomorrow Brownie Boy
took a mighty lungful of the spluttering cigarette. Tomorrow's a birthday nineteen and never
been kissed except by her love and George and her family and relations which don't
count. When I get home again to Bloighte with half my face blowed away
and the Victoria Cross, I don't think in my left hand trouser pot when
that miracle comes off, Pinky, Jesse and me are going to get turned
off at Saint George's and over square with the Yellelujah chorus to give us a
send off and a snug little fish and chip shop to keep the abbey going.
However, that's neither here nor there, as the sausage said to the
shell which went between his legs. And it's a long wait the Tipperary,
and the present problem is out to get Jess a birthday souvenir, something bright
and shiny. There's a little shop window in the app where we skeltered through
yesterday, a hand gallop there being Germans about where I saw a diamond necklace
ticked it up at sullenough price five Frank's pinky dirt price even for diamonds in
these days. I guess the bullet owl in the window pane saw allowed the
price. No luck, too busy to stop. But I'll be passing that
way again to night, and I'll bring the sparkler's back DV or not.
Bye bye, Pinky, And now then Ginger, lad, and come over,
We're off on the giddy ran down again. Whoa steady, steady old
horse, Ginger winnied, lovingly, snuggling his velvet nose under his master's left
ear. Goodbye and good luck to the burglary brownie boy, said Pinkerton.
It's no crip crack, and I'm are but straight business, replied the scout,
and tightening the girths, he vaulted into the saddle and pattered the arching
neck of the rat tiled charger who had carried him so bravely and so far
on many desperate chasers. Gingef for pluck, he laughed over his shoulder as
he rode away. My compliments to the Royal Engineered gents and asked him to
be good enough to keep the post bag open until the last moment. Valuable
consignment of precious stones, addressed lant Street borough S Tatar boys, and off
he rode as fine and fearless a figure as ever sat on a horse.
Now, Private Brown was the pet of his regiment. He was only a
boy, just eighteen, and that's why everybody called him Brownie Boy, from
the officer commanding down to the cook. He was a trooper in the something
Hussars. And whilst most of the cavalry horses and men were eating their heads
off in billets behind the line in the Castro neighborhood, before the tremendous turmoil
of the First Battle of Epra had burst over Flanders, Brownie, to his
joy, found himself detailed off for scouting duties. He could see it anything
with four legs and a tail, and he could ride it anywhere. He
and his rat rudded Nag were always game for desperate endeavor into the jaws of
death. These two would dance as merrily as if the adventure were nothing more
than a steeple chase. Before the joy horse could snap whisk, they'd be
through them and away. Lucky it was, indeed for the horse that he
had been docked another six inches of horsair on Old Ginger's waggler. Brownie would
say, with a twinkle of his bright eyes, and we should have been
nipped many a time. The pair board a charmed life. The Goddess of
good luck had waved her wand over them. Nothing could harm them until a
telephone wire ran from the observation tower on the crest of the little hill,
four miles north of the Eppe, down to the billets where Private's Pinkerton and
his crowd were resting. Sergeant Major Singleton was, as usual, improving the
shining hour by reeling off a commanding lecture on tactics. When the bell tinkled
and four words trembled over the wire. Enemy outpost entering. Yeap oho,
remarked the Sergeant Major. This slect chad, my lads is postponed. Signy
dye. A taxi sheltered pants, three gammage growlers, each with its flag
up as if accosting for a fair along the shell swept highway. Happened by
the merest chance to come along at this very moment. It might have been
the strand Old Pants bundled five men into each taxi, and jumping himself into
the first one, cried out to the driver, niep full pelt, and
never mind the speed limit, right, sir. The driver clapped down the
little flag, spake the bell, and down the long white road they tore
in a whirling cloud of dust. No sign of war. Peace lay over
the country like a benediction. The gentle occupations of husbandry were going on as
usual in the fields. The birds were caroling their evening hymn. The sky
was blue and serene, and not a gun growled out of the mist,
which enveloped and hid distant Armontiere from view. Pinkerton heard two of the Tommies
in the taxi immediately behind him burst into poetic melody, led by Private Winkles,
who, as he frequently declared, was a while on hymns. Nigh
is draw orin nigh shadows of the evenin stale across the sky. Eye Now
then altogether, boys, there was a sudden turn in the road, And
before they were aware of it, the boys, in the very middle of
now the day is over, found themselves in the street of the village of
Niebe, with the snarl of rifle bullets in their ears, and a strange
scene of melodrama. Immediately before them on a rearing, plunging horse sat Brownie
Boy, managing the lashing beast with one hand and firing his rifle like a
revolver with the other, while around him danced and capered a horde of bewildered,
savage Germans. They were sure of their prey, these merciless, murdering
huns, but they were afraid to close in. Brownie Boy and his gallant
horse were holding the lot, both fighting magnificently. The villagers, old men,
women, maids and children were crowding at their doors, watching the scene,
entranced, mesmerized, heedless of the bullets whining around them. One woman,
supremely unconscious of the bizarre effects of the picture she created, had hoisted
her baby on her shoulder. As Pinkerton leaped from his car, jamming a
clip of cartridges into the magazine of his rifle, he saw a German officer
standing well out of the way of the turmoil and deliberately taking a photograph of
the scene. Pinkerton dropped on one knee, took a swift sight, aiming
just under the shining helmet, and fired as the camera clicked. Ah got
you at any rate, use swine sheltered Pinkerton as the officer jerked up his
arms, tossing the camera high in the air as he fell, and then
to Brownie. He yelled a fierce yell of encouragement, Brownie Boy, keep
it up, lad, keep it up, We're here. The taxi troop
leapt out and ran for the assault, not daring to fire for fear of
hitting Brownie. The plucky scout, hearing the rallying cry and recognizing the voice,
waved his free arm and roared back, good old Pinge, Come on,
boys, come on, I've got the di'monds lad. With true huntsman's
skill, he lifted Ginger to another charge. The grand old horse, in
his downward plunge, smote down to Germans with a left right battering ramble from
his fore hoofs. One man's head was smashed to pulp. The other's shoulder
was shattered, but it was Old Ginger's last fight. A bullet fired at
random hit him under the eye, and he fell with a crash backwards with
his master underneath. Pinioned and helpless with one arm broken, Brownie Boy met
his end without flinching. A dozen cowardly bayonets were plunged into him before old
Pants, Pinkerton and the rest of the boys, with hoarse cries of anger,
could fling themselves upon the murderers. It was a fight to the death,
death to the Germans, cold steel against cold steel, with the odds
fairly even, and no hun ever whelp can stand up against the lightning thrust,
the cut and come again of the British bayonet. Swift and bloody retribution
fell upon the murderers of Brownie Boy. One or two crawled away like wounded
rabbits, but the others were all dead, dead before their victim. Brownie
Boy was still breathing as Pinkerton pillowed the brave scout's head upon his knee and
wiped tenderly the cold clammy lips. Tell the boys, I did my best,
Pinky, he said, an old ginger too. He fought like a
good plutton. Don't let them make cats meat of old Ginger. Plant us
alongside of one another. And the diamonds, Pinky, the diamonds for Jessee.
I've got them all right, feel in my inside pocket, pink,
old Bird. Sorry to bother you, but my arms broke. Of course,
they ain't real diamonds. For four fifty but Jess won't care. She'll
understand. Pinkerton extracted the little packet of glass beads and transferred it with great
care to his own person. Think you'll manage to catch the post, pink
I'll catch it, or bust old man, leave it to me, said
Pinkerton. Thanks, you're at hof. I'll put in a word for you,
Pinky, old pal wherever I'm going, I guess it it will be
a different Allelujah chorus from the one I was counting on. The children strewed
many flowers upon the grave in the little burying ground beyond the village, and
before they had faded, a wooden cross was planted amid blooms with this memoriam
roughly carved in loving memory of Brownie Boy and his horse Ginger. What is
the meaning of those English words, father, said a little girl to the
old village cure, as the two stood side by side contemplating the scene.
It is a tribute, mappetite, replied the white haired priest to the valor
of two great souls, requiest cat in pache. He crossed himself as he
bowed before the simple memorial, Come my child. That concludes chapter three of
private Pinkerton millionaire. The section continues with chapter four, My soldier Lad.
Thanks to a bosh bullet hole in the petrol tank of his car, Pinkerton
missed the post saw and stiff but unwounded. After his strident bow at practice
in the village street of Nieppe, over the mutilated body of Brownie Boy,
he tottered into Camp sad overwrought and completely done. The pathetic little five franc
packet of diamonds for Jesse lay like Lad at his heart. He had promised
her dying sweetheart to deliver them. A promise to a dying man was to
Pinkerton a sacred duty. I must find a way, mused Pinkerton. A
way. Somehow luck found the way. Good fortune. It's the only sweetheart
I ever had declared, the millionaire, and perhaps the last is still faithful.
A huge six foot sixth century stood at the leather hinged door of the
pigstye in which Pinkerton's colonel happened to be billeted at this particular period. He
flashed a warning of sharp blue steel within an inch of Pinkerton's stomach. Alt
says he who goes summoned report Colonel details outpost engagement, the YEP deaths,
casualties, prisoners, said Pinkerton in a monotonous undertone, and so dog tired
that he almost fail like leaning up against the point of the century's bayonet to
rest his utter weariness. He pulled himself together, however, as he stood
stiff as a new ramrod before Colonel Cumberpatch. This great man and gallant soldier
was sitting before a rickety table made from a box labeled Huntley and Palmer's Best
ginger Nuts, signing warrants and requisitions with a leaky fountain pen, and looking
horribly fierce. His face was a brick dust red, his grizzled mustache was
erect with rage. An aroma of pig infolded him and his ginger nuts as
with a garment. He went on writing, seemingly utterly oblivious of his visitor's
presence. Pinkerton never moved, but kept up his imitation of a ramrod until
he felt the pins and needles beginning to stab him and the earthen floor of
the piggery swaying. Then he coughed a tiny, apologetic cough. The Colonel
looked up his face and angry sunset glare well he wrapped out. Was it
I have to report, sir, began Pinkerton, But Colonel Cumberpatch swept him
down with a bellow, how how dare you come before me, sir,
before me with a face like that? Go and wash it, sir,
this isn't a pigs. Then, remembering that it wo say pigs, he
spluttered and changed the trend of his remark. A face like that. Why
haven't you washed it? Because, sir, and begging your pardon, replied
Pinkerton, greatly daring they happen to run out of scented soap, and don't
answer me, sir, By gad, sir, haven't you been in the
army long enough to know what discipline is? These damned terriers, God help
them and me, But I suppose they don't know any better. Pinkerton suddenly
changed his tone, for getting for one faithful moment that he was only a
tommy and one of these damned terriers. Look here, Patch, old man,
he said, for the Lord's sake, keep your hair on. The
incensed colonel sprang up in a tempest of ungovernable fury, racking the ginger nut
boxers as though a shell had exploded among them. What he yelled, you,
you infernal familiar hound of Satan, you impertinent sweep, addressing your kernel
as though he were no more than a fragment of a quolt. Sir,
A counterpane, sir, patch, indeed, I'll patch you. Why Corporal
Haddock, the tall century was inside the pisty in a moment, Yes,
sir, he saluted, with a magnificent sweep of his right hand, bringing
it down with a resounding smack. Take this man out at once, corporal,
and shoot him again. That's beautiful salute, Yes, sir at door,
and I presume no at once, take him away, wash his infernal
face, and then shoot him the malevolent mackerel. Yes, sir. Corporal
Haddock's face was rock like, inscrutable as he moved towards Pinkerton, but one
eye flickered in a reassuring wink, and Pinkerton, wearied beyond further self control,
collapsed in a weak cackle of hysterical laughter. The world was spinning round
him like an absurd teetotum himself. The pivot with the pigstye, the kernel,
the ginger nuts, and Corporal Haddock, all swimming by in a silly
sort of dance. He made a wild grab at one of them, fouled
a biscuit box so suddenly and so alarmingly imbued with lively motion, and the
rest was darkness, utter and profound centuries ages eons past. He opened his
eyes at length to find the kernel bending over him and dosing him with a
hot aromatic mixture of rum and whiskey out of a cut glass sugar bowl,
and the corporal standing by, statuesque and immovable as the sphinx. A transformed
kernel, This kind fatherly fierceness us all vanished the perfect bedside manner. Oh,
my eternal, everlasting aunt, says he. If it isn't old Pinky
Pinky playing the sublime ridiculous ass and a stinking piggery masquerading, no sir,
replies Pinkerton, struggling up to a sitting posture, but still feeling mortally weak
and flabby, No sir, ass if you like, but playing the game,
and a damn fine game. It is too patch a beg pardon Colonel
Bubble and squeak, says the colonel, All of a fluster, you of
all men in the world, rolling in it, absolutely rolling in it here,
corporal. Corporal Haddock came forward the regulation three paces and saluted again with
imperturbable gravity. What would you do, Corporal Haddock, if you suddenly woke
up and found yourself a millionaire begging your pardon, Sir, answered the corporal,
I should immediately send out round a corner for a barrel of beer.
Sir, well, there's some sense in that, says the colonel. But
with you, Pinkerton, I intend to stick it out, Sir, declared
the millionaire, taking another swig at the cut glass sugar bowl and finding it
infinitely invigorating. It's a great game patch. It beats cock fighting, beats
it hollow. I'll admit I went in for it at the start, more
for fun, for adventure than anything else. But it's grown on me.
I can't shake it off, and I'm going to see it through. Mad
mad mused the colonel. I never met a march hare madder. But when
he heard Pinkerton's story of the day's fight, the death of Brownie Boy,
and the moving, if sentimental adventure of the five franc diamond necklace, a
cord thrilled somewhere within him, and he swore that Jesse should get her diamonds,
even if he had to go to General headquarters himself and to get the
King's messenger to deliver them. But it's my job, sir, says Pinkerton,
laying down the empty sugar bowl. I promised the boy, and dammy,
Pinky, you shall keep your promise. By thunder you shall. I'll
get you a pass for special emergency leaves straight away. My car is leaving
for the base tonight. You can take it and easily catch the midnight boat.
And meanwhile, the fierce old soldier's countenance wrinkled into a sort of a
smile, wash some of the stains of war from that amiable mug of yours.
My tutney terrier stoke up at the canteen and good luck and a quick
run to Old England. Colonel Cumberpatch offered his hand in sheer friendliness. Pinkerton,
with the critical lie of Corporal Haddock upon him, threw himself up and
saluted. Corporal Haddock could not have done it better himself. Thirty yards leave
was his limit, and that is more than enough, thought Pinkerton, with
a sigh. To call upon another man's sweetheart. He felt lonely and sad
and not a little nervous. The task which lay before him was a delicate
one, and on no hand with women, either in Belgravia or the borough,
a petticoat always flabberghasters me. And with this sort of petticoat, Lord
help me. Looking ahead, in his too productive imagination, he pictured a
squalid scene with a drab of a wench as the tells old heroine, and
himself a sorry unit in the comedy, with nothing to offer love in distress
but a handful of tupper hapney tinsel. He was tempted to break his journey
on the way to Lant Street, Borough and by a more substantial and valuable
memento, but the vision of Brownie Boy and his dying appeal came back to
him, and he decided to carry on according to the contract made and sealed
in the blood sprinkled village streets of Nye app Lant Street. He found with
difficulty. More difficult still it was to discover Jesse's abode, hidden amid a
scramble of tumble down houses and dark death trap stairways. At last, his
patience and his climbing were rewarded at the top of a creaking stair. He
found the door with number eight painted roughly upon it. It was open a
few inches, and Pinkerton heard the sound of singing, soft but remarkably sweet.
The lad I love is a soldier, lad hey Ho, Never be
sad, Never be sad. He sailed away far over the sea. He
sailed away to fight for me, for his king and his country over the
sea. And perhaps some day he'll come back to me, my soldier,
lad hey Ho, never be sad. He tapped on the door. The
song ceased, and a musical voice cried come in. That concludes chapter four
of Private Pinkerton Millionaire, and is also the end of section two Section three
of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. This LibriVox recording is in the public
domain. Chapters five and six. Chapter five, William the Conqueror. The
little room in which Pinkerton found himself was clean and neat. A big bunch
of wild flowers in an empty marmalade jar, a bright yellow canary in a
bright blue cage with a sprig of groundsel tucked between the wires, flanked by
a lump of sugar, and a large memorial card stamped with trumpeting angels in
black and silver, performing an urgent solo over the world in the midst of
life, we are in death. Framed under the canary, disclosed to Pinkerton
at a glance that he was in the presence of a judicious, if somewhat
homely recognition of nature and art. Economy too, struck a triumphant note from
the marmalade jar, over which, as he entered, a slim form was
bent in the pretty occupation of arranging the simple blooms. For a moment.
The girl did not look up, but went on with her crooning, My
soldier, lads back over the sea, heh over the sea, over the
sea. He swore when he left he'd be true to me, faithful and
loving and fond to me. But now that he's back. It's fickle,
is he, And it's off he has danced with some other. She my
soldier lad hey, ho, you can put him on the table, she
said, if they ain't too lively to walk off on their lonesomes. Then
she raised her head, a haughty young head, negligently crowned by a tumble
of red gold hair, and saw Pinkerton, Lord love us, She cried,
I thought you were the shrimps. No, No, I'm not the
shrimps. I'm sorry, I Pinkerton stammered nervously, utterly, at a loss
what to say and how to meet the situation. He had no fear of
shattering shellfire or roving bullets. But he saw before him a pale, resolute,
young face, a glow of eager eyes, and he was afraid.
The girl saw him, wavering with the quick animal instinct of her class.
Her mind leapt at the truth. You've come from Elf, she said,
and her hand sped to her heart and fluttered there. Yes, I've come
from Elf and he's dead. Killed. Oh I know, I know,
I know. You needn't make no pretty speeches to me, breaking it gentle
and all that Elfie's killed, yes, replied Pinkerton, struggling hard to find
some flow of word comfort. But nothing came. He remained dumb and helpless,
dead killed. Oh Elf, Elfie, and you promised me to take
care. The cry came from Jesse's heart. The foolish little sentence, you
promise to take care, lost all its foolishness in the poignancy of its utterance.
You promised, you promised, Elfie. It was cruel of you,
the stricken child, for she was little more than a child, raised her
face pathetically to Pinkerton and stretched out her hand. Wasn't it wasn't it too
bad? She began, And this on my birthday. Pinkerton took the cold
limp fingers in his own brown hand. Jesse, he said, quietly,
sit down here by me, and if you can cry, cry, don't
mind me, Just cry, little girl, cry, and have it out.
Jesse's pretty, rough little head drooped upon the outstretched arm, and at
last the merciful floodgates opened. As the tears flowed. Pinkerton sat quietly by
the shaking little figure of Brownie Boy's sweetheart, still holding her hand. Presently,
the storm of tears abated, and out of the sobs, Jesse found
her voice again. Tell me, tell me about it, she said.
Did he was he brave? He was the bravest soldier in the British Army,
declared Pinkerton, stoutly. Alf. We called him Brownie Boy, that
was his pet name, and we all loved him. Jesse. Alf was
my own particular pal, and he died in my arms in the finest spite.
As Zeba was fifteen to one the odds were, Oh, cried the
girl, breathing quickly, tell me, tell me so Private Pinkerton told Jesse
the moving tale of her gallant, fearless lover, until she forgot her sorrow
at the thrill of his words. For the words came now unbidden and readily
enough, not a little, to his astonishment, And when at the end
of the recital he produced the little neckclaud though the tears flowed afresh, they
were not the outcome of a broken heart, but the tribute of a brave
lass to her gallant soldier lover. Oh but I am proud of him,
my soldier lad she cried, and she wept no more. Won't you stay
to tea, asked Jesse, my poor little birthday tea. Father said he'd
be in, but there's no sign of him. So I suppose it's the
usual with him, she sighed. He used to work at the blacking factory
until the war broke out, and nobody seemed to want any blacking any longer,
and father got the push. Perhaps it's as well for father drunk,
or the blacking he made, kit, said Pinkerton, astonished at the assimilative
powers of the working classes. What an extraordinary taste, Jesse smiled, sadly.
Not the blacking exactly, she explained. Gin oh ah, yes,
assented Pinkerton out of work. Gin yes, I understand, and I suppose
you have to keep him, yes, answered Jesse shortly, dressmaking, mending,
trimming hats, and Dad drinks most of that too. Oh it's a
cruel, rotten world. But are we downhearted? I'll put the kettle on
and tidy myself up a bit and cut the bread and butter. And as
the shrimps haven't walked up stairs yet, you can go out and buy a
bagful. It's only just round the corner. Blinks, a millionaire foraging for
shrimps in the borough should surely be a picture for the gods in hi Olympus
to cackle over. But if Pinkerton was a millionaire, he was also a
private soldier, and searching for shrimps presented few terrors to him. He soon
found mister Blinks, an affable fat man who was not only pleased to part
with the shrimps, but eager to add to them a pair of aromatic bloaters.
The tea party of two, all told, was a grand success.
Jesse smiled. She almost laughed, in fact, at her visitors Printer's hand
clumsily fumbling at the armor plate of the slippery monsters of the deep. You
don't do it like that, she cried. Here let me show you.
Pinkerton, who had never eaten shrimps before in his life, picked out a
fat one and handed it solemnly to the girl. I shall be charmed,
he said. Do you know, Jesse, this is my first acquaintance with
shrimps. They're really not half bad. What never eaten shrimps before? Well?
I never Where was you brought up? And who? Why would you
believe it? You haven't told me your name yet. What is it?
Pinkerton replied Jesse's guest, making a sad mess of his fifteenth shrimp. And
the other name William, answered Pinkerton, blushing. Oh that's the same name
as the Kaysers. I don't like it much, sorry, said Pinkerton.
But I couldn't help it. It was thrust upon me. But I and
the Kaiser are not the only Williams on the beach, no, assented Jesse.
Now, I, come to think of it, there was a chap
called William the Conqueror wasn't there. I'm sure you're much more like him and
brave bravers, lions and tigers, or you wouldn't have been my ELF's pal
William the Conqueror. That's you. But I'm going to call you Bill.
Time was slipping by the most delightful TEA party must heave an end. But
there is still business to be done in this little room in the borough.
Serious talk between Jesse and Bill, a solemn consideration of ways and means.
There is the future to be weighed, the future of a busy little dressmaker
with her drag of toil, toil, incessant toil, and the burden of
the old man who drinks the blacking drinks and drinks by the way, Jesse
says Bill, telling the lie which the recording angel writes down against him in
invisible wink with a quill plucked from the bird of paradise. I know a
rich lady, a lady in the country who is looking for a companion with
quick fingers and a clever needle, And you, Jesse, are the very
one. Bless my soul, what's luck? If you can oblige me with
a pen and ink, I'll fix the whole thing. Up at once.
So, with the aid of a penny bottle of blue black and an old
pen outrageously cross nibbed, Pinkerton writes a few magic lines to missus Millwood,
the homely housekeeper at Thorneycroft, sticks the envelope down, addresses it, and
then, remembering something, opens it again and adds a PostScript, which Jesse,
peeping over his shoulder, reads, PS, don't forget to send for
her at once and next my word, says Private Pinkerton. I must scoot,
Jesse, or I shall miss the train, and when I get back,
I shall be shot at dawn for a deserter. Goodbye, Jesse,
and many happy returns. He held out his hand. Goodbye, and God
bless you, murmurs the girl. But Bill, aren't you going to for
the sake of Brownie boy? Won't won't you kiss me? The pig sty
was just the same, and so was the six foot and a bit century,
and so was the fiery faced colonel. As Private Pinkerton entered to make
his report back again, says the colonel, And how did you improve the
shining hour, Pinky? A grand time, sir, I learned how to
eat shrimps and help to kiss another fellow, sweetheart, the devil you did?
Was it full love? No, sir, replied Pinkerton. For remembrance,
For remembrance, h M, said the colonel Hey ho sidhe Private Pinkerton.
That concludes chapter five of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues with chapter
six. The Green Death attack at dawn ran the whispered order. Private Pinkerton
shivered as he lay in the long, narrow damp trench. He felt like
an ill fitting drain pipe in a badly dug drain, muddy, discust,
and utterly miserable. There was a very ugly leak two in the cistern which
held his courage. It was oozing away and he couldn't cork the leak.
Buck up, Pinky, buck up, He addressed himself, angrily, tightening
his belt another hole as he shifted sidewise, But the polesy took him once
more in its grip. It shook him till his teeth rattled. Am I
am I a coward? He puts the question to his inner consciousness, and
listening for the answer, received a heavy jab in the ribs from the mud
smothered lump of humanity lying next to him. Stop rattling that blasted dice box
year, stow it totters for God's sake, or we shall have all the
double sixes jumping out of the pack afford a moon's goorne Dan. Six months
ago, mister Pinkerton, a gentleman to the fingertips and a mildish, peace
loving man, would have apologized in a few courtly dignified phrases tonight, in
this evil gloom breeding trench. He remembered, in time to save his reputation,
that he was an expletive private and no more. He replied to the
orator next door, with a flow of language that would have paralyzed a Billingsgate
fish porter, and he felt world's better for it. Oh, pinky you,
you blasphemous sound. Mister Pinkerton, pulling his wait now and having let
off a very considerable pressure of steam, was a man once more. The
polsy had vanished. No swearing, no token, no smoking in this little
only of OLiS. It was the fatherly voice of Sergeant Major Singleton tag a
dawn, boys, and don't you forget it, which being translated should read
attack at dawn. Lay quiet, my children, and watch for the looming
up of the horizon. What you see then, or what you ought to
see, will be the Frommel's Ridge. And when you hear three blasts from
the whistle, it's up guards and am free blasts, dear razzle lads,
the lads raz old, lying there in the mush on their bellies, seeing
nothing but comforted and cheered vastly by the paternal voice of their beloved pants.
It's a first trench, you've got to take, the voice went on the
first trench so far, and no Foreader, and don't you forget it any
Foreader, And it's mincemeat. You'll be turned into every mother's son. Of
ye, you'll be hearing grandmother and her children gruntin presently over your bloomin head's.
Don't be alarmed, Lilo, No matter what you hear and feel,
it'll only be Granny clearing the way for you, opening up the pearly gates
of paradise. So to speak, Lilo, and wait for the whistle.
So far the night had been fairly quiet, suspiciously quiet. Now and again,
high over the Frommel's Ridge, the German flares flamed and danced, The
star shells popped and fizzled in an entertaining fifth of November sort of frolic.
Then the night closed in again blacker than ever. Pinky boy, a horse
whisper from next door. Pinky, have you said your prayers? Tucked into
your little bed, warm and snag, then you can sing me to sleep,
seeing me to sleep. Boh, mother, deare it is not Nightwhile
boom the earth shook at the opening, roar again in boom, again,
and yet again. The great concert of death, destruction, and damnation had
begun. Grandmother and her children were at it. And though the huge guns
of our artillery were over a mile behind, the trench in which Private Pingerton
lay on his cold, cold stomach, shook and trembled at the thud of
them. Grandmother, Husky, Harriot, and surly Sam, accompanied by a
big and uproariously noisy family of smaller ones Saucy Sarah, Jane, jumping Jimmy,
talking Tom, and Oler and Henry, were putting in their fastest and
most furious work high high overhead. The terrific shells screamed and scurled in their
maniac rush across the sky. Here and now, for the first time,
the awful grandeur of it held Pinkerton in its magic thrall. He looked up.
He could see nothing, but he could hear the pinions of the Angel
of Death sweeping the sky, and over them, the very heavens seemed to
shudder. The roar continued its demoniac fury, increased, swelling and reverberating,
until it seemed that the uttermost roots of hell had been torn up, red
hot, and flung athwart the world. The battering was so fearful, so
intense, so everlasting, so shattering to the senses that when Pinkerton's tingling ear
was assailed by three shrill whistleblasts, he paid no heed and obeyed no order,
until somebody of giant size and strength seized him by the slack of his
trousers and flung him over the barricade into the wild, gibbering night, balling
into his ear. Run run, run, run like hell, didn't you
hear it? So like hell? He ran, ran, in a sort
of whirling dream, dimly conscious in the breaking dawn that he was one of
a scampering crew of hundreds of gray green specters flitting across the somber territory of
No Man's Land between the British and the German trenchers. The thunder of the
great guns was still behind him. Owls roared, and wind above day broke
swiftly, as though some invisible hand had torn the sable curtain of night from
the draped windows of the sky. Right ahead, he could see the shells
bursting like volcanic eruptions amid the Prussian parapets, and at each crash smoked a
whirlwind of dust and earth. Run, run, run, voices still chorused
around him, and he ran, leaping for the line of tossed and tumbled
sandbags and the tangle of barbed wire that lay immediately before him. Death sure
and certain, But what are death to die? Then suddenly the fearful tumult
ceased, and in the broadening dayshine Private P. Kerton seemed to awake to
the consciousness that he was leading the charge on the lower slope of the Ridge
of Promous with a belt, a dozen men behind him glory, and the
Germans in front. He hurled himself upon a heap of sandbags and yelled to
the men behind him, come on, boys, shove him over. The
boys came on and shoved'em over. Headlong. They pitched into the German
trench. It was a deep trench, not yet fully illuminated by the morning
light, and as Pinkerton fell into it, he saw before him the shadowy
form of a huge German leaning back against the trench wall, grimly staring at
him with arms extended, an attitude preparatory. So he imagined for a death
grip, but tensely, uncannily still, No, you don't, he yelled,
anticipating the spring and shutting his eyes, he lunged with all his weight
behind his bayonet. He felt the breastbone of his enemy crunch as the cold
steel went in. His foot slipped on the wet clay, and before he
could disengage he had rolled over, with the spitted German on top of him.
As he fell, he was dimly conscious of other deeds of massacre going
on around him. With steel point and clubbed rifle. There was no cry
for quarter, though the Germans, crouching and squatting in this grisly drain,
must have outnumbered Pinkerton and his little band of braves by five to one,
and there seemed to be no resistance. It was sheer murder in the midst
of this unholy business. Pinkerton still vainly endeavoring to free himself from the embarrassment
of the dead German, whose unwieldy body lay over him. Observed the familiar
figure of old Pants letting himself down carefully into the trench. A fat man
and heavy, slow but sure. He was the last, but by no
means the least of Pinkerton's ferocious little crew. On the way across from trench
to trench, he had pick'd up a revolver. As he landed with a
squelch on the slippery floor of the German pit, he shoved his weapon into
the face of a crouching bosh. Hands up, he cried. The German
soldier did not move, hands up or by. Sergeant Major Singleton never fired.
For ats the touch of the revolver barrel. The German rolled over sideways
and lay as he fell grotesquely, with one leg, stiff and crooked in
the air for all the world, like a waxwork dummy, knocked if it
stand. Then with a gasp, Singleton understood, Turning to the little crowd
of furious invaders who were still smashing at the enemy and bayonetting them with savage
gusto, he yelled at them to cease. Stop it, do your hair,
stop at boys, Stop it, you pirates, you body snatchers.
Though they were seeing red and letting fly around them for all they were worth.
The tough discipline crowd belonging to Old Panther's company recognized his voice and paused,
in their bloody business stop it. Why the because sheltered the sergeant major.
Because you're killing dead men. They're all stone cold corpses, every man,
jag of em. Easy, all my sons. Switch off the red
light. They called it the green death. One of the lyddite shells from
the British guns had burst low over this particular section of the invested trench,
and the shock of it and the choking fumes had smitten every German soldier there
dead, head on the instant, dead in the attitude of life, just
as he was standing or crouching or sitting rifle in hand, face, alert
eyes, staring, staring further and even more horrible. The bursting shell marks
its passage by staining everything within its area a yellowish green. Heaving himself at
last by a mighty effort from the encumbering body of his giant assailant, Private
Pinkerton for the first time had a full view of his face. It was
a vivid green the green death that concludes chapter six of Private Pinkerton Millionaire and
is also the end of section three Section four of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold
Ashton. This liberal box recording is in the public domain Chapter seven and eight.
Chapter seven the wolf in the fold, face downwards in an attitude of
peaceful slumber. Across two tightly stuffed sandbags lay Private Pinkerton. But though he
was as still as a mouse and breathing as sweetly and regularly as a slumbering
babe, he was as wakeful and wary as a cat at a mouse hole.
He had lain there for the best part of an hour, watching a
speck on the German ramparts opposite, with the sight of his rifle slipped up
to six hundred. It was a long shot, but like the sniper of
Skeleton Tree, Pinkerton could pull a pretty trigger, and so could the other
chap across the way the gentleman visualized by the little smudge over the enemy trench.
Sometimes the speck seemed to waver, to flicker. Twice a thin red
flame had flashed from it. The first bullet came like a humming bee,
and Pinkerton felt the wind of it by his ear. On the wings of
the second came death. Rifleman Sprightly, a good shot who was so restless
in this monotonous trench life that he was known as Jack in the Box,
raised himself for a moment and stretched out to borrow a cigarette. He had
disclosed himself for no longer than it takes a man to wink. But that
was enough. Again, the little red tongue of flame flickered, with the
half of an oath on his lips. Jack in the Box toppled over and
lay like a log across Pinkerton's legs. Still, Pinkerton never moved. The
pressure of a dead man flattening him down upon the hot, hard sandbag had
no more effect on him than to cause him to growl. Pull him off.
Somebody, for God's sake, Somebody pulled him off. And there the
incident ended, so ordinary a happening of war that nobody took any intro estin
it at all. Here was a dead man, clear him out of the
way, somebody. The man who lugged Jack off Pinkerton's hampered legs. His
task accomplished, went on eating his bread and butter. Private Pinkerton realized soundly
and sanely enough that the next flash might sign his own death warrant in a
crimson scrawl, but the acceptance of it brought no tremor to his finger.
Pressed against the cool, thin curve of steel, he lay and watched the
speck, Relieved now of the dead weight across his legs. Snuggling down lower
and lower in his hard bed, he managed to get hold of the dead
man's cap and propped it on the ridge of the parapets. It was an
old, fraid tattered device, but it came off this time got him by
gad good shot, Oh good shot, indeed, drawled the young voice.
The voice of Eaton unmistakably got the parisher smack in the middle of the napper.
Sure, Sir, queried Pinkerton over his shoulder. It is not a
usual private, what's your infernal name? To question the words of your superior
officer, drawled the young subaltern. Good naturedly enough, But that was such
a damn good shot that I'll forgive you. Slip down into this blighted drain.
There's nothing doing at present up there. Heaven, pottered the red I
want a word with you. Here's half a crown for you for valor,
said the officer in a mixed tone of condescension and congratulation, as if he
had been conferring the Victoria Cross upon the respectful young man standing before him.
Thank you, sir, said Pinky, with an immobile face, as he
pocketed the silver, and now Private Pinkerton went on the subaltern. You're an
intelligent sort of blighter. You know, the men in this particular section of
hell that we've taken on on a repairing lease until the resurrection. You've got
a sort of way with you. I don't know why, No more do
I, sir, Private Pinkerton saluted grimly. But the men will trust you
and open out. There's some than rotten in the state of what you call
them. Quite a lot of the men are uneasy, They're restless and worried.
They don't know where they are half their time. Evidently something on their
minds got the jumps. For months and months, they've been brave as tigers
and threatened for the chance to climb out of this filthy drain and have a
whack at the stink and crowd of measly mudlarks across the way. But just
now, I believe the young officer lowered his voice to a confidential pitch that
if those Kaiser's kittens were to upend and onto us, our chaps would cut
and run like a lot of scared school girls in a bullock field. It's
extraordinary. It's damned extraordinary, and it's heartbreak. And they've been doped or
something. They're as flabby as stale kippers. Have you any idea, none
at all, Sir, replied Pinkerton, wondering what the boy was driving at.
Well, here's another half crown. It's your job to find out and
sprinkle the insect powder of your persuasion over the microbe that's gnawing at the immortal
souls of your pals. You shall have a free hand, for God's sake,
do something to ginger up this bit of trench. It's dead serious.
It's got to be done, and done quickly. If you can't talk them
out of their dejection, drive some sense into em with the toe of your
boot. I can't kick a whole company, Sir, replied Pinkerton, but
I'll do my best. Thanks, said the boy, with just a little
shake in his voice that made the private soldier respect him all the more.
It's a bargain shake. He put out his hand in the grip of friendliness,
which followed Pinkerton felt the metallic pressure of another half crown. The shades
of night were falling fast when Private Pinkerton came upon the leviathan figure of Piper
mc quirk, squatting by fearless flossy the machine gun at an angle of the
trench. He was swaying to and fro, groaning with his head upon his
hands, His pipes unheeded, lay at his feet. And if ever a
man was the perfect incarnation of the Uga despair, Piper mcquirk was that man.
Hello, mac began Pinkerton, opening his campaign on a cheerful note.
What's up? Piper mcquirk looked up wearily and shook his red head. Pinky.
He replied, I cannot highly tell, but tis something uncanny an awful.
Would you be so kind as to cast and inquire an eye at my
tongue? He opened his mouth and in the gloaming, produced a flickering length
of something in the shadows of the evening, remarked Pinkerton. All cats and
all tongues are gray. But if you'll hold on, I'll see what I
can do. He struck a match one of those wrench asphyxiators and held it
under the piper's nose until mcquirk spluttered and wheezed like a damp squib. When
at last the flame flared up, it disclosed a tongue like the skin of
a speckled toad. MM commented, Pinkerton, any symptoms, Piper mcquirk rolled
off a list which would fill a column advertisement of the most sensational of all
patent medicines. I thought I'd try to breathe into the pipes, he added,
just to see how the bellows worked, Pinky. But at the very
first puff, something went off at the back of my ears, like the
cracker doom, and the agony of it was worse than ten thousand toothaches.
Then I saw becks before the eyes, ay, millions of specs, laddie,
bad dreams, miserable thoughts, lack of vital force, loss of appetite,
all that and more. And it's not only me, but the rest
of the lads most are our lot. Pinky man Monet's offer. Pinkerton speedily
discovered that mcquirk's mournful tile was only too true. Even old Pants had got
it whatever it was, and got it badly. He confessed that he felt
little better than a shadow of himself, and jumped like a nervous coult this
sid and war scarred veteran. Whenever a shell pot or a whiz bang whiz
banged in all fifteen, the two good men, valiant men and true confessed
to fear, dread of something indefinite, but uncanny and horrible. What could
it be? Was this some new insidious devilment conceived by the huns, some
invisible intangible gas pumped from the opposite trenches, or a new microbe bred in
the ghastly laboratory of armageddon, the germ of terror. Pinkerton worked hard,
desperately hard among the despondent ones one and all. They only groaned at him.
Sick at heart, he turned back along the trench, baffled and bewildered,
to confess his failure, when suddenly specks began floating and flickering before his
eyes. Something went click at the back of his head, and mortal fear
gripped him as in a vice by gum. He muttered to himself, I've
got it at last. The long hospital train, emblazoned with the Red Cross
and heavily passengered with casualty, crawled into the base terminus at Boulogne. The
medical officer and his orderly were ticking off the arrivals as if they were so
many bales of merchandise consigned for delivery. Twenty four stretcher cases, light wounds,
heads, arms and legs, forty one lying down cases, bronchial thirty
six setting up cases various. Then a pause, as from the end portion
of the train, certain muffled sounds emerged. A pause followed by the appearance
of our sixteen nights of the rueful Countenance, led by three of the stoutest
hearts that ever quailed before the Specter of castor Oil, Sergeant Major Singleton,
otherwise known as pants Piper, Sandy mcquirk of the Irrepressible ninety ninth and Private
Pinkerton and sixteen Morgan cases. Sir cataloged the faithful orderly, producing his scissors
preparatory to snipping off the identifying labels of mcquirk, Pants and Company. Sixteen
walking cases repeated the medical officer as he licked the stump of his indelible pencil.
Let me see what did you say? They were corporal squills sixteen walk
and cases repeated the orderly mumps. The three half crowns were burning a hole
in Pinkerton's trouser pockets. And as he passed Corporal Squills, an idea struck
him. Have you got good teeth, my son? He asked? The
orderly flashed a double row of them in a cheerful grin, in guarantee as
good as set as any of you terriers, he said, Then will you
kindly gnasham for all your worth? On behalf of me and my two pounds.
Private Pinkerton pressed the three coins into the palm of the surprised young soldier.
We'll have seven and sixpence worth, he said, And now then up
and nashum. That concludes chapter seven of Private Pinkerton Millionaire and continues with chapter
eight The Prussian Blues. It was at the base that I first met the
inglorious three Pinkerton. Piper mc quirk and the brindle had war bitten son of
a gun known all the way from Cathay to camberwell as pants. Otherwise,
Sergeant Major Singleton Swanker was there too, but of him Anon they were gloomy
and angry, and anybody who happened to touch either of them on the roar
might look out for squalls. You only had to mention one word out of
the variegated diction of the British Army to set the feathers flying, and that
one word was mumps. They were getting well, but was still mightily sore
when I tumbled across them, sitting savagely on overturned wine casks in Alisa's snug
little bar back of the tantillery's station. There were still certain glandulous swellings marking
the visage of the huge and terrible piper, whose awesome appearance was enhanced by
about a week's growth of fiery, straggling beard of the consistency and the appearance
of a badly molting doormat Old Pants had grown side whiskers at which the whole
world sniggered in passing. Even Kay's little lot, newly landed on an alien
shore, would cackle as they pass. The dour Sergeant Major with his saddle
bags a stream in the blowing morning. Pants would eye them severely as they
swung by. All right, you expliev expliev expliev explievs. Do you think
I'm going to shave myself to please a lot of explivs like you? Wait
until you get into the trenches and begin to cry for your mammies. Oh,
you expletives. And Piper mcquirk, stalwart friend and ally, would add
in his picturesque Kayland fling of best Scott Shrapnell a few suitable words of heathery
benediction, and the incident temporarily would close. Then Private Pinkerton would lead the
pair in his quiet way, one under each arm, to the goblin cave
reigned over by Elise. Well, if you won't have another foaming gobbler tob
Elissa's sudden death, said Pinkerton, let me offer you a cigarette, a
genuine straight cut. He suddenly flashed before my eyes a gold case so bejeweled
and chased and everything else that I gasped and shaded my eyes. I always
thought, said I, that you were a lunatic plutocrat. That's me,
replied Pinkerton, blinking rapidly in that funny little way of his. But you
needn't give the game away, my dear friend k A grimy thumb towards the
other two. Keep it dark, he whispered, if only they knew it
would bust the whole bloom and show. But that gold diamond, ruby,
amethyst, sapphire, emerald top has case surely murmured Pinkerton, shutting up his
shining treasure with a snap. Thereby hangs a tail, and straightway he launched
into it. This happened, he began, before we were all cemented in,
consolidated and joined up like drain pipes in an irrigation pasture, when we
could move and breathe and bust about a bit. I got a job,
a general headquarters job, which was quite promising as a picnic. It was
to act as guide to a staff major on a long motor scoot from P
somewhere to Z somewhere. Our route, which was carefully marked out, embraced
a long road running through a sort of gully, and known by the jocks
who got such a dusting there as the Pass of Killy Cranky. The pass
was seemingly as safe as Bond Street on a Saturday afternoon. For one brigade
of our cavalry was in occupation of one side of it, and the something
Lancers with another big crowd on the other side. Entering the pass, we
were held up by a sentry of the B Something's alt, says he,
noticing me, but not twigging the Major, who was behind in the car.
I'm in a hurry, said I, and I haven't the time areb
blowed? Replied the sentry. A re's the wrong password in this circus or
out old cock? And at that instant he spotted the Major fuming behind.
What the devil began the Major, whereupon the sentry upped and saluted. BEG
pardon, sir, He said to me, Oh, I hadn't observed the
gentleman behind with a strip of his chest protector round his hat, pass gent
with the red flannel bandage. Wha, said red flannel, sheltered mcquirk,
swinging round fiercely on his wine cask. Calm yourself, Mac, responded Pinkerton.
There's nothing personal in the illusion. And then to me, poor old
Mac, he's still thinking of the mumps. The very sight of red flannel
will set his teeth chattering. So to resume, we passed, and I
kept on laughing all the time as we drove along. What's the joke?
Asked the Major. The strip of chess protector around your hat, Sir,
said I, pointing to the scarlet band which marks the nests and the agamemnons
of the British Army. Anyway, it saved our bacon this time, retorted
the Major. You never know your luck, said I, and you never
do. We hadn't gone another mile along that blessed road when there was a
fearful clown are on ahead, and a mass of figures suddenly loomed out of
the mist making for us. Hell for leather here, Easy on, you
fatheads, sheltered the Major. We are British. The next moment they were
on us, and a gruff voice grunted out gardoon out of dat gar germans
by gosh, and my friend with the chess protector round his at Pinkerton chuckled,
stuffed up to the armpits with papers and plans and things which would not
only give away our own private little show, but upset the carefully laid plans
of General French and the whole British expeditionary Force. I twisted round sharp to
the Major, nabbed, Sir, says I, we must think of something
quick. Thunder mutters the Major, these blasted papers. You'll have to eat
em, sir, I whispered, eatam, growls the Major, and I
could see his jaws working at the horrid thought. Eatam, by George,
do you shake me for a Bloomin's Zoological Gardens elephant on bank holiday? Well,
to cut a long story short, they were all over us in next
to no time. A great lumbering ass of a German officer with a skull
and crossbones grinning on his shining helmet, came up and asked me who I
was. I told him I was a British general out for a joy ride.
And the gentleman behind, who is he? My servant, said I,
and I heard the Major's teeth snap. They made us haul the car
onto the roadside, and the skull and crossbones Johnny ordered me to produce my
arms. Of course I hadn't any. The only missile I possessed was an
electric torch, which the officer instantly appropriated. Whilst I was clearing my pockets
of all sorts of things, the Major was quietly ridding himself of his own
arsenal, A couple of Smith and Wesson revolvers, and twenty five rounds,
which he dropped tenderly into the ditch beside him. Then a sentry was placed
on our car and we navigated Killiecrankie, cleaned through our own two lines of
cavalry, and the Germans as bold as brass, though they hadn't the ghost
of an idea what they were running through the wonder was that we weren't spotted
and cut to ribbons by our own crowd. Presently the road opened out,
and we drove into a desolate little village, where there were shoals of Germans
bolting about everywhere and going to earth like scared rabbits. A guard's officer rode
up on a splendid horse and began questioning the century. In his voice and
his face, I thought I recognized an old acquaintance, Carl von s Something,
whom I had met in Vancouver and had played auction with many a time.
Oh, pardon me, said I, but aren't you Carl von s
Thing. No, he replied, but I am his brother Fritz, and
I am very pleased to meet you. We got quite chummy yarning together and
exchanging experiences. If there's anything I can do for you, he said,
I shall be charmed. I replied that I should be greatly obliged if he
would ask the century to be a little more careful with his shooting iron.
With pleasure, replied the captain, and turning to the Century, he said,
this prisoner is a gentleman and a friend of mine. You may put
your pistol away. He will give you his word of honor not to play
any tricks. Much obliged, said I, and things were more comfortable after
that. As we left the village, my new friend shook me warmly by
the hand, wish me good luck, and insisted upon my accepting this gold
cigarette case as a souvenir of our meeting. Goodbye and good luck were his
last words. I am going into action, and that's the last I ever
saw of him. In a minute or two, the shells began to whine
and to plunk around. The fight opened suddenly and unexpectedly. The whole business
was a hellish, horrid mix up, and I remember only vaguely as a
sort of thundering nightmare, with the major and me in the thick of it,
dodging our own shells and bullets, and at last crawling into a ditch
and skulking there with nearly a hundred Prussians, all in a blue funk Prussian
blue. They didn't take the slightest notice of us. I hadn't been in
that snuggery more than five minutes before I saw Fritz's great gray charger come smashing
through the hedge ridle us and smothered with blood. Fritz's accouterments were there,
his sword, his revolver, and his dandy saddle bags. But there was
no Fritz. He had been blown to kingdom. Come how did we come
out of it? Well? Private Pinkerton paused and blinked again in that funny
little way of his. That too, was a sort of a dream,
and I've never yet been able to define the realities from the visions. The
whole of this bloody war seems to be a dream, with our little life
rounded in a sleep. Pinkerton laughed and pointed to mcquirk and old Pants,
nodding like mandarins, each upon his separate wine cask. And there are two
examples, two points the moral and adorn the tail. Hi, wake up,
you blighters. That concludes Chapter eight of Private Pinkerton Millionaire, and is
also the end of section four Section five of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Chapters nine and ten.
Chapter nine Swanker the Invincible. It was during Private Pinkerton's blissful period of convalescence
at Boulogne, that's the dog Swanker first drifted into his innocent, cherubic young
life. Swanker, like Caesar, came saw and conquered. He was a
mongrel of many bewildering mixtures, but with the superintelligence of most mongrels, which
is extensive and peculiar, knew where to go, what to look for,
and how to win victories. Victories of craft as well as victories of two
claw. Swanker resembled nothing on this earth. In the dog Line. He
happened to be taking the air one mild afternoon on the ramparts up in the
old town, disconsolate, woebegone and half starved, when he was pounced upon
by a couple of the French Gendarmerie, and would undoubtedly have been shot as
a German spy and his miserable carcass flung to the ravens, but for the
intervention of two humane remnants of the British Army Private Pinkerton and Piper mc quirk
to wit, They too were sunning themselves. They witnessed the threatening tragedy,
rescued the dog and carried him in triumph to their quarters. Mc quirk,
an authority on dogs, confessed himself entirely beaten by this amiable but perplexing quadruped.
There's near oot. He said that a very large mixed pack fought for
the honor of this animal's parentage fore and aft. He's a boot, the
strangest muddler dog flesh I ever saw, And yet, remarked Pinkerton, there's
something familiar about the beggar's face somehow, now you come to mention it.
There is, declared the Scot, a sort of family likeness at certain angles,
particularly at full face, and not so observable in the profile, went
on mc quirk, twisting the amenable doggie's face this way and that by gum,
cried Pinkerton at length. I've got it. It's old pants, the
very image of him with those wild new whiskers of his, Ah Doggie,
he shouted, laughing, march across to the sergeant major and claim your relationship
shaking violently the scrag of his rapscallion tail. The dog trotted across to Singleton
and raised a disreputable poor wait till I get you back to the trenchers,
growled Singleton, I'll wring your blessed necks. See if I don't, And
meanwhile, said Pinkerton, we'll christen the new member of the family Trousers.
But trousers was a fatal word to the dog. Whenever it was called.
He went for the nearest pair of them, with such a complete disregard for
friend and foe alike that his name had to be changed by deed Pole,
and changed it was to Swanker. Swanker and Pinkie soon became the dearest of
friends, inseparable as David and Jonathan. Swanker's passion for companionship was only equalled
by his irrepressible love for a scrap. He would fight anything with a tail
and four legs, though he was only a middleweight in the canine ring.
He would drive at a great Dane or a wolf hound with a cheerful disregard
for consequences and careless of life, death or the great hereafter every French pood
or in Boulogne fled at the distant sight of him. Once along the Whimarow
road he met at Daxond, and some uncanny instinct telling him that it was
German, tore it to pieces in the bloodiest dog fight ever witnessed on the
French coast. He got one fearful dusting at the hands or rather the jaws
of a liver and tan bulldog, but he killed the bulldog, and the
Royal Army Medical Corps corporal who sat up all night with him at the critical
turning point of his wounds, declared he had never assisted at such a wonderful
rally. The pace was getting too hot to last. Pinkerton and mcquirk sat
in solemn court Marshaw upon their outrageous pet The accumulative evidence against Paul Swanka was
terrific. He was sentenced to death, to be shot at door. Sorrowfully
and with a sinking heart, Pinkerton borrowed a revolver, and one cold,
cheerless morning, under a watery sunrise, led the shaggy eared culprit out upon
the yellow sands at low tide. Mcquirk dug a deep hole with a trenching
tool. Swanker sitting by and watching the operation with the liveliest interest, imagining
that this was a ratting expedition arranged entirely for his benefit and edification. Deeper
and deeper grew the grave, intenser and more eager the anticipatory quivers of Swanker,
But no rat appeared. Only water began to gurgle up as mcquirk jabbed
on halfheartedly at his sexton task. Then Swanker happened to look up. He
saw his master standing by, revolver in hand, and the message of death
shining through his tear dimmed eye. Instantly, the dog understood they were intending
to murder him, these bloodthirsty pirates, once his dear and devoted friends.
He sat down upon his haunches, raised his ragged whiskers heavenward, and began
to howl so mournfully that Pinkerton, with the tears actually streaming down his face,
handed the revolver to mcquirk. Here mahec he said, you do it,
you're a better shot. Mcquirk took the revolver, looked at it,
looked at the dog, and then flung the weapon into the yawning grave.
Be damned if I do, he growled, i'd i'd rather shoot Masal.
Warned by his narrow escape from execution, Swanker became a model dog. The
rake's progress had been checked, but his fame had already been noised abroad,
even as far as that mysterious place known as General Headquarters, where apparently they
know most things. So it happened that one fine day a challenge came down
from Headquarters inviting Swanker to mortal combat with one ugly. Thus ran the challenge.
We have heard of the exploits of Swanker, the property of Private Pinkerton.
It is our firm belief that in our champion we possess the ugliest and
the fiercest fighter in Flanders. We hereby challenge Corporal Swanker a sc to meet
Sergeant Ugly GHQ to fight twenty five rounds, catch as catch can, at
any handy spot, within or without the meaning of the act. Stakes five
pounds aside money down. This is too good to miss, declared Pinkerton.
It's a soft thing, I said mcquirk. And to back my stirling belief
in Swanker's powers as a fighter, I am prepared to rest that fiver you
gave me if anybody's making a book on the probabilities of the situation. Forthwith,
Swanker was put into strict training, much to his disgust. His jam
was cut down, and he was put upon a diet of bully beef and
biscuit to harden his teeth and augment his angry passions. There is no doubt
that after his escape from the death sentence, he had been getting soft and
rather apt to follow the line of least resistance. But soon the old devilry
and the old snarl came back. He was allowed one or two rehearsals.
The manner in which he polished his rivals off showed that Swanker was himself again.
A heavy book was made on the forthcoming combat, and when the tense
evening of the fight arrived, the arena was packed with a brown faced throng
all, a throb with expectation, and every man jack with something on.
Sergeant Ugly arrived from General Headquarters in a box inscribed Smithson's shredded marmalade, strongly
corded and very carefully perforated with their holes to allow for the deep breathing of
GHQ's ferocious champion. Muted thunderstorms and volcanoes could be heard reverberating inside the marmalade
case. Swanker was already in possession of the floor, striding up and down
with a proud sense of ownership, and well aware that something was in the
wind. The boys hailed him with a yell of encouraging welcome, but the
ugly contingent, and they were pretty strong. After a critical survey of Swanker's
points, were prepared to sacrifice their shirts on the contents of the shredded marmalade
box. In a tense silence, Ugly's trainer, a bandy legged little Yorkshireman,
uncorded the box, jerked the lid off, and tipped it at an
angle of forty five. Swanker stiffened his four legs wide apart, like a
wrestler at the crouch, his ears back, his spinal hairs erect, and
porcupine or whatever was inside that box, he was ready for it, rat
cat, dog or hip popotamus rap. He crouched for the spring, Every
inch and every ounce of him measured and steeled for the great combat. The
marmalade box tipped over and fell on its side, and out of it emerged
a yellowish brown spectacle, frothing at one end and flickering at the other,
lashed to fury with a wild yell. Swanker bounded forward, bounded like a
leopard, and then stopped suddenly, as the incarnate Fury before him did exactly
the same. For there, opposite Swanker, on the sanded floor stood Swanker's
exact and absolute double flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, hair
of his hair, Ougly, his twin brother, from the self same litter,
whose origin is rapt and ever will be in the profoundest canine mystery,
the recognition was mutual. Both dogs, rushing for the onslaught like tilting knights
of old, pulled themselves up on their haunches, and came to astonished anchorage
within a nose breadth of one another. The snarling anger on their countenances gave
way to expressions of complete astonishment and amaze. They both gave utterance to the
same ejaculation of sheer wonderment. Well, I'm damned, then, with happy
yelps of fond family acquaintanceship once more renewed with merry, gambol and cavought,
they flung themselves so to speak into one another's arms. I'll trouble ye for
that five A piper mcquirk whispered an insinuating voice, and the scot having bettered
rashly for the first and last time in his life by backing Swanker to win
out right, handed it over with a great sigh, And to an irishman
too, he muttered, there'll be another court martial tomorrow mornin. That concludes
chapter nine of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues with chapter ten, Baby
Bunting, This isn't exactly a healthy road for traveling in broad daylight, said
Pinkerton. There goes another with the wail of a lost spirit suffering a very
bad attack of toothache. A roving shell screamed overhead, and Pinkerton and his
companion wallowed in the mire for a spell flat as flounders. No, replied
the engineer, I should think it ballywell, isn't. But we ain't out
here exactly for our health. What yeah? He spat out a mouthful of
germanus flounders grit, and then raised his head cautiously surveying the landscape. There
were only two of them on this trip Pinkerton, because he was supposed to
know the road. There wasn't any road, but that didn't matter. The
young engineer his companion, Pinkerton, traveling light, had his rifle and a
few rounds of ammunition only with him. The engineer was unarmed. He was
a pallid, slim young man, with a face sick lead or with the
pale cast of thought, a tight hard mouth, and crisp hair curling under
his cap above his ears. His hair showed gray, though he could not
have been much over twenty. But there is nothing unusual in that many of
the sappers and miners of the Royal Engineers in this war are methuselahs to look
at. It is their job that makes them so. This young old man
had a gray jersey tightly drawn over his shirt. He was wearing shorts and
running shoes, and slung from his shoulder was a canvas bag. The general
appearance of him reminded Pinkerton of the old paper chasing days at school, but
the illusion of hare and hounds ended at the contents of the canvas bag inside
it, instead of torn up copybooks, their reposed sticks of dynamite. The
objective of this couple of adventurers was at present out of sight beyond the tuft
of trees over the ridge known as no Man's Cemetery. It was a small
farmhouse perilously close to the German lines, and though invisible now to Pinkerton and
his companion, could be plainly seen from the British position. And it was
in the way. It had to be removed speedily and with as little fuss
as possible. Two or three neatly placed shells could have done it easily enough,
but that would have disclosed the lair of the recently arrived Royal Field Artillery
battery, and until the time came for barking, that battery had to lie
doggo. So the pleasant little task of lifting it was handed out to Corporal
Anstruther, Royal Engineer, with Pinkie as guide, philosopher and friend. Night
is generally chosen for those ticklish jobs, but this being an emergency hustle,
it had to be carried out in the full glare of day, somewhat to
the annoyance of mister Anstruther. At this moment a devil dance of shell and
shrapnel was going on overhead and all around. For some reason, or other.
The German gunners were suffering a very jumpy attack of nerves. Presently there
was a lull, and Pinkerton under the engineer, took advantage of it to
advance in a succession of desperate cruels to the ridge. Here another fuse are
laid opened, and the two took shelter under the lee of a huge recumbent
German. This celephantine hun advertised very unpleasantly the fact that he had been dead
many days few ejaculated Anstruther from his side of the body kindly partial gold stoppered
bottle of smelling salts. Pinkie, I'd rather be punctured than poisoned any day.
Let's get a move on and chance the ducks. So they chanced it
and crawled along snakily toward the farmhouse. There's somebody on the roof, said
Pinkerton, as a bullet pinged past his ear. Sniper replied the engineer,
wait until I get underneath him with this little boxer tricks. He patted his
canvas bag lovingly. Then ill wish he hadn't. The steel curve of his
resolute mouth straightened out almost to a grin thanks to the broken ground in the
vicinity. They reached the farmhouse without further adventure, and Pinkerton's job, according
to his instructions, was over, but he intended staying to see the game
through at a safe distance. He watched a struther cruel toward a small lean
two with a sloping roof of corrugated iron built onto the northern end of the
house, Carrying his precious canvas bag in his teeth like a retriever. The
engineer wriggled through the small window and disappeared from his hiding place behind the dunghill.
Pinkerton watched the house and particularly the roof, with the keen eye of
the trained observer. Nothing moved above or below. The farmhouse appeared to be
empty and desolate, and the sniper vanished. Then very gingerly, he crept
round to the other side of the building, found and unboarded window pretty high
up, hoisted himself by a sheer effort of muscle until his eyes were level
with the sill, and looked into the room for an instant and no more.
At the sight which confronted him, his grip gave wire upon the edge
of the window sill, and he fell back with a thud, he felt
his hair rise. A sudden suffusion of cold sweat drenched him like a shower
bath. Sitting in the middle of the room at a small table was a
mild featured, spectacled German, bald, fat and beaming. Though he was
wearing the familiar gray uniform and the high boots of the Saxon regiment to which
he belonged, he presented more the appearance of an amiable retired pork butcher than
a soldier. On his knee was a small child, extravagantly dressed in black,
with a big black bow in her yellow hair. In spite of her
garb of orphan woe, she was laughing gaily as the fat, fatherly old
German jigged her up and down upon his knee to the gallop. No doubt
of something akin to the old refrain. Baby baby bunting, Daddy's gone a
hunting. The amazing unexpected pitcher photographed itself indelibly upon Pinkerton's brain. It had
been the merest lightning flash of a snapshot, but he remembered every tiny detail
of it ever afterwards. The merry light in the child's blue eye, the
flash of baby teeth, as she at the reflected beam of gaiety in the
old German's countenance, his treble chin, the goggly gleam of his immense glasses,
the shine of his bald head, the telephone at his elbow on the
little table, even the huge signet ring on his finger. In a few
seconds, according to the widest calculation, that farmhouse would be a splintered smash
of utter ruin. Mister Anstruther, Royal Engineer, was not a man to
waste precious time. Already, no doubt, the fuse was laid the young
man in the football jersey, deliberately ticking off the seconds. The problem was
what to do, the best thing, the quickest. Not an instant could
be lost. A thousand schemes flashed through Pinkerton's head, one tumbling over the
other in confusion, worse confoundered. But it was instinct which sped him round
to the other side of the house to meet and Struther. Wriggling backwards out
of the little window. He dropped lightly, turned and saw Pinkerton, pallid
and gasping, standing by him. Scout said the engineer, best foot foremost,
or it will be kingdom come. Why what's up? Man, you
look as though you've seen a ghost. Quick, quick, quick, gasped
Pinkerton, fighting for the words that would not come. For God's sake,
there's a kiddie in the house, christ said the engineer, jerking up his
left arm and looking at the dial of his wristwatch. In sixty five seconds,
I might just do it. He made a wild dive for the little
window like a swimmer, hands up. Pinkerton saw his legs squirming as he
wormed his body through the aperture, and himself rushed round to the other side
of the house. The latch of the door, which was closed, would
not yield to his fumbling fingers. He hurled himself upon it, shoulder foremost
with the old football charge. It gave inwards with a resounding crash. He
staggered into the room. The old German was still fondling the little French child.
At the smash of the bursting door, he gathered her to his breast
with one arm, and, seeing Pinkerton standing there, considered him naturally enough
as an enemy. He grabbed his rifle and fired it one handed and clumsily
at Pinkerton. The noise of the explosion in the confined space of the small
room was deafening. The bullet struck the ceiling high over Pinkerton's head. The
child screamed out out yelled Pinkerton, give me the child, you idiot,
this house's mind. In less than half a minute we shall all be blown
to hell. Ah Axe, jabbered the German, who did not comprehend,
And as he was preparing to fire again, Pinkerton flung himself upon the vast
bulk of the man hit him a smashing blow under the jaw. It was
cruel with so old a man, but necessary, and dragged the screaming child
away, And as he backed out of the door, still urging the old
man to follow him, he saw the bewildered hun groping for the telephone receiver.
Then he ran and ran, with the child, half strangling him as
she clutched at his neck. After all, perhaps and Struther, royal engineer,
had managed to break the fuse in time. There had been no explosion.
Wonderful chap and Struther. He looked back. There was the farmhouse,
quiet, lonely and silent. As z Eva, I want to go back
dag home, wiled the frightened child. Take me back home. She waved
her little hand toward the farmhouse, then stared with amazed, wide open eyes
as the whole building suddenly collapsed. A puff of smoke shot out from the
roof. Then there was a roar, and the shock of it flung Pinkerton
and the child, unharmed, upon the soft earth. Corporal and Struther,
Royal Engineer, had accomplished the first part of the task he had set out
to do. As for the second, well, something must have gone wrong
with the time fuse, or perhaps the amiable old hun the pork butcher in
uniform had blundered again. We shall never know, for the record of Corporal
and Struther's career ends in the official list. Thus and Struther, James,
Corporal oil Engineer missing. That concludes chapter ten of Private Pinkerton Millionaire and is
also the end of section five Section six of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapters eleven and twelve.
Chapter eleven, Home, Sweet Home Home Again. Not a flying matinee,
as was occasioned by the special visit to Jesse in lant Street, Borough and
the delivery of her diamonds, but a real holiday this time one and worked
for most valiantly funny feeling. This mused Pinkerton as he found himself in the
waterly road at two o'clock on a cold and clammy morning, well plastered with
dried Flanders mud, unshaven, gummy eyed, and such a rapscallion to look
upon that he would not have been surprised had a policeman come along and arrested
him there and then as a wanderer without visible means, Instead of which a
bright eyed damsel with vermillion lips and a priceless ostrich feather curling saucily over her
left ear danced up alongside Hallo Daggie said she bag again. I fancy there
must be some mistake, began Pinkerton, icily polite. I don't think I
have the pleasure. Oh rats, retorted the lady. Come off the grass,
marmaduke. But no offense meant Elgin, and I should think to look
at you. You are one of them onward Christian soldiers boys. I guess
I know what you want. Hymns, hot coffee and Allelujah's. Come along.
I'll lead you to it. Don't be frightened. I ain't gonna eat
you. As for the hymns, said Pinkerton, looking this bold young amazon
straight in the eye. I don't feel exactly inclined for bursting into song at
the present moment, but the hot coffee would be most acceptable. So,
without more ado, the lady of the ostrich feather seized our hero by the
arm and let him feel slee into the anti zeppelin gloom of South London,
depositing him presently at a wide doorway bearing the triangular insignia of the ymcap inside,
said she and have a good old blowout. It's only a tanner,
and a hems is optional. I'm very much obliged, stammered Pinkerton, hesitating.
But oh, said the girl suddenly, I see how the land lies.
Why didn't you tell me? Silly? She dived into the flashy little
vanity bag hanging on her arm, produced sixpence from it, and forced it
into Pinkerton's hand. Dear Clarence, she cried, Tod. Now you're a
blooming millionaire, and don't make a nasty little beast of yourself with the tanner.
The blooming millionaire shook his head. I really couldn't think, he began
hastily, But before he could return the sixpence gloriana of the ostrich curl had
vanished. A mocking laugh rang out of the unfolding darkness. In the big,
warm, aromatic room of the YMCA, Pinkerton found a sufficiency of spiritual
and material consolation to keep him going for a long time. Heartcakes and hot
coffee filled him with comfort and warmth. He found no immediate necessity to spend
the sixpence thrust upon him by his unknown friend. He never intended to.
He meant to treasure for luck. Besides, he was a millionaire, and
sixpence was sixpence. With the disappearance of the last heartcake him, books were
handed round to the crowd of replete and sleepy tommies. A jolly, fat
old gentleman with a shiny bald head comically ringed with little curls below the ears,
gave out to him with such gusto and such a beam behind his wide
spectacles, that it sounded as if he were making a joke him seventy nine
in the appendix omitting the sixth, seventh and eighth verses. Now all together,
boys, let up your heads, ye gates of brass ye bars I
yield the tune was the grand old heir of Saint Anne. There were some
tough and terrible sinners in this strange, mud splashed congregation, but every malefactor
of them knew the tune, and they absolutely ripped it out, much to
the delight of the comical world. Gentleman with the girls capital Capitol says he
waving his arms. That's grand. Now for the next verse, give it
tongue that baner brighter than the LEAs a trade of night shines on the march,
and guys from far his servans to the fights. Let's have a deco
at the book of words, mate, whispered the soldier Sinner, who was
standing next to Pinkerton. Give overlooked me and handing out the glory jasmy luck.
But I want to bear a hand in this is real jam. So
Pinkerton shared his hymn book, and together these two battle scarred veterans obeyed the
precept of the curly haired old gentleman and made the rafters ring. Though view
and small, and we cure bands strong in your captain's strength, go to
the conquest of all lands or mars. Be his sad length. Never in
the history of ancient and modern was a hymn trolled forth with more gusto,
more ripe relish. A wonderful chord was struck in the hearts of these homing
warriors. The beauty of the words, the swing of the grand old tune,
appealed to them. They bombarded the listening night with the melody of it.
At the end of the verse, Pinkerton's companion, bursting with a patriotic
enthusiasm nothing could restrain, jumped upon his chair, and almost before the last
word had died away, caroled with great heart, singing, Rule Britannia,
Britannia, Rule the waves bray ends, never, never never. Every man
in the room took it up, and even the harmonia mist, who had
been framing his fingers to strike the final chord of a man, rose to
the occasion. At the right moment found the key of Rule Britannia, and
carried on, shoving the nie well out as far as it would go.
To Fortissimo, it was prime, the obest gentleman with the little curls round
his ears, mopped his shiny brow and stared round him in amazement. Well
well, he cried, beaming once more boys will be boys, and I
suppose soldiers will be soldiers. That was very stirring upon my soul, it
was, and quite original. And now perhaps the young er gentleman who was
responsible for that quite entertaining into metso would oblige the assembled company by getting up
once more and saying a few words. The ruled Britannia enthusiast turned pale with
a fear greater than the fear of Germans at their worst. Oh lord,
he murmured in Pinkerton's ear. Now I have been and gone and done it.
I always am goin and doin it. Worse luck if I did think
that they're him wanted a sort of rounding up with a chorus, or didn't.
I let it go at that and keep my mouth shut. And now
they want me to get up on my own legs and preach me. He
groaned and buried his face in his hands. Just a few words, urged
Pinkerton in the spirit of ruled Britannia. It would please is the old gentleman.
Not for nuts, not for monkey nuts, he declared, still looking
very frightened. Well, the plump gentleman beamed more than ever in the direction
of private Pinkerton and his trembling neighbor, who at this rose unsteadily to his
feet amid a rattle of applause from the assembled soldiery Begging your pardon, sir
and comrades all, he said, in a horse husky voice. It really
can't be done. Doctor's orders, sir and comrades all. But I'm suffering
from the effects of asphyxia and gas poisoning. He ended his apologia in a
horse horrible whisper, and sank down upon his seat again in a well simulated
attitude of absolute exhaustion. Take me out of this, he whispered to Pinkerton
in a hurried aside. Take me out, or I shall go off pop.
In the cold, cheerless glimmer of an autumn dawn, Pinky and his
new acquaintance turned up their khaki collars to their ears, and they're tired,
grimy faces to the sunrise. The alleged sufferer from asphyxiating gas poisoning produced a
purloined heartcake from his pocket and nibbled at it. We're now mate, he
said, crummily, Home, replied Pinkerton with great cheerfulness. Hoe retorted the
humorist with more bitterness than humor in his voice. Husky no longer now that
the rotun gentleman of the curls and the hymn books was beyond ear shot Home?
Is it carriages at two thirty am? Carriages in the Waterloo Road?
I don't think. Well, there's always Shanks's pony remarks the amiable Pinkie and
Euston station. Isn't a Berlin route? March from here? That's my jumping
off place? And you private Pinkerton's companion laughed a hard, mirthless laugh.
Me home, my name's Bill Bailey, and I ain't got no home.
I'm a explete, if outcast I am when I'm at home. When I'm
in the army, I'm just a explete. If number number six heaven,
I ate three, And if I was pipped, nobody would shed a tear
over me, unless it might happen to be the cat's meat man in blood
Lane Oxton, who io were Bob too? And just now I'm a loose
ended, sentimental, immoleran ooligan. We've nothing to do but go on the
jag and get jugged and serve me explete. If well, right, then,
if that's the case, said Pinkerton briskly. You might as well come
along with me. There's room for two of us. That's my little place.
It's rather a long way, but I hope you won't mind the journey.
RYO, I'm game, replied mister Bailey as he cheerily linked his arm
with Pinkerton's lead. On Mac, whatever your bloomin' name is. That concludes
chapter eleven of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues with chapter twelve, The
Killing of the Fattered Calf, Crampets and Christianity, mused mister William Bailey,
yawning cozily in his corner of the railway carriage as he surveyed past events in
a philosophic vein not so bad, may I served up n smogan. Four
wicked young soldiers let out avow for a bit to get their second wind,
so to speak. They're a well meaning lot, these ymci blokes. You
may come again, as I call em. But he shook his head.
Look here, broke in Pinkerton, who was mortal tired and wanted to go
to sleep. You go and get yourself filled up to your back teeth with
their heartcakes and their hot coffee. And then you start criticizing them. Ungrateful
swine me ungrateful. Not a bit of it, declared the soldier. Or
he was only going to remark when you blew in that they very nearly succeeded
in converting me for the seventeenth time. Being originally a Plymouth brother, oh,
groaned Pinkerton, a Plymouth brother by birth and upbringing, went on mister
Bailey with a bland smile. A burglar by conviction, five convictions at least,
and finally a soldier by force of circumstances over which I add no control
worth speaking of a burglar, gasped Pinkerton. Yee gods and little fishes.
He suddenly realized what he had let himself in for, and didn't quite know
whether to laugh or to be angry at the dilemma. But he showed a
cheerful face to the impasse and laughed. Well what of it, asked the
militant cracksman. Haven't I done my little bit? And what are you?
I should like to know? You might be a murderer, or a millionaire,
or a cheesemonger, or don't exactly know which of the threes the worst?
And haven't you done your little bit blood and quids and cheese. We're
all in it, run or not, first past the post, so what's
the odds here? Mister Bailey dived into the depths of his all containing pocket
and produced a further relic of the hospitable You may come again as evernother artcake,
realizing for the first time what it was to feel like an accessory after
the fact, and a receiver of stolen property rolled into one private Pinkerton accepted.
The train stopped with a complaining squeak of wheels at the little wayside station
near us to Thornycroft, Pinkerton's ancestral mansion, and there at the carriage door
stood Pinkerton's faithful retainer, with a pile of fur rugs over his arm.
Inside this honest soul's neat blue livery, a fierce furnace was raging a Vesuvian
roar of welcome, which very nearly burst every coat button. But like the
well trained servant that he was, Rogers showed no outward sign of the tumult
within, except perhaps for a certain watering at the corners of the eye and
a twitching of the ears, such as dogs display in moments of intense suppressed
excitement. If ever a human creature was near Boston, he remarked later to
the Lady of his heart that human creature was me. All he did was
to salute smartly, breathing hard. Very pleased to see you, Rogers,
said Pinkerton. All well, all well, sir, And the estate and
the pheasants top holes, sir, beggin your pardon. The estates on its
hind legs with anticipation, sir. And as for the pheasants, they're all
Diane, Sir. That's bad, said Pinkerton. What's in the World's the
matter with them? Not so bad, sir, answered Rogers, with a
grin. They're all Diane. To be shot by the Master, sir.
As this dialogue proceeded, the eyes of mister William Bailey grew big and round
with wonderments. Ere he began, what's this? What are you letting inform?
Mate? It's all serene, laughed the Master of Thorneycroft, seizing the
militant burglar by the arm and shoving him into the closed carriage standing by.
Whence he followed him. The door banged, Rogers nipped up into the box
seat, and they were off with an eye to the comfort of the homecoming
master. Missus Millwood, the housekeeper at the craft, had abundantly loaded the
interior of the carriage with furs and hot water bottles. Mister Bailey's eyes assumed
the semblance of saucers or in Jerusalem's all this, he said, fumbling at
the furs and the hot water appliances. Is it an nurse or is it
a hamberlance? Well bows, I shall wake up presently and find myself in
the same bloody old trench. What are you laughing at, Father Christmas?
Oh, just thoughts, replied Private Pinkerton, wiping his eyes. This mister
Bailey is home, Oh cheesette, growled the burglar. Don't go a rubbing
of in For a moment he was angry, then he felt ashamed of himself,
and then wrapping himself snugly in one of the good Samaritan furred blankets,
fell to chuckling in the middle of his somewhat forced hilarity. The carriage stopped
at the irresistible challenge of a bevy of village school children, who grouped beneath
a huge oak tree, sang with glad, clear little voices the national anthem
and his a health. Unto his majesty, what's that for, asked the
burglar, cocking a listening. Here, that's for us, replied Private Pinkerton,
blushing and tremendously delighted. Well, if I ain't damned, all ends
up, declared mister Bailey, poking head and shoulders out of the carriage and
bowing elaborately to the enthusiastic kiddies. Then he sank back with a plutocratic sigh
upon the soft cushions, and produced another heartcake. Now I know just what
it feels like to be Queen Victoria, said he. There is no need
to dwell at length upon the further incidents of that wonderful drive to the craft.
The cheers of the tenants gathered here and there at the wayside, flag
wavings, handkerchief flutterings, an address of welcome on Thorny Village Green, read
with tremendous dignity by mister Tubbins, the Vicar's Churchwarden, and subscribed by everybody
the ancient of days who couldn't write, making their mark with as great a
pride as though they were signing and ceiling Magna Charter, and many another pleasant
heartwarming incident. All that and much more, but we cannot refrain from letting
out one little incident, though Pinky might say, perhaps that it wasn't quite
fair. How when about midway through the park, by a neat little cottage,
all ivy covered and deliciously snug and comfy, Private Pinkerton, Lord now
and monarch of all he surveyed, stopped the carriage, slipped out and played
a tattoo with his grubby knuckles upon the oak. The door flies open,
and there in the frame of it stands as pretty a picture as ever you
could wish to set eyes on. A neat slip of a girl with braided
hair, bright sparkling eyes, the flush of health upon her plump cheeks.
Jesse, by all that's wonderful, Jesse of Lance Street, Borough, London,
see the girl that Brownie left behind him. The flush deepens on her
pretty face, the arkle in her eyes leaps to a flame. She hesitates
for a moment, and then jumps at Private Pinkerton, flinging her arms round
his neck. Why she cries, halfway between laughter and tears, if it
ain't Bill William the Conquerer, And she kisses him again with a smack so
resounding. That's the imperturbable Rogers loses his imperturbability for the first and only time
in recorded history. Oh says he, the minx, the forward hussy.
As for mister Bailey, watching the scene from the carriage window, mister Bailey
is by this time too far gone to be disturbed at anything that might happen.
Let him all come, is his comment on the situation, and he
produces another heartcake the very last. Then there is the welcome, the real
welcome home at the hall with Missus Millwood, all smiles and sweet solicitude.
The dogs from the great Dane to the tiny Pekinese, mad with joy over
the return of their master, but somewhat suspicious, as all well brought up
dogs naturally would be of their master's cracksman pal. The servants in a flutter
of excitement, everything to quote mister Bailey's own comment on the situation, all
bottled bass and bath buns. And finally the dinner that night in the famous
Yellow Room, with a very select and special house party gathered there. Mister
Bailey, resplendent in evening dress borrowed from the butler, takes down Lady Angelika
bless you. He is already quite at home in all this elegant revelrie.
He has taken to it like a duck to water. He is already a
hero. Pinky chuckles to himself as he watches the comedy proceeding, catching here
and there a sentence of the polite conversation. Oh don't suppose, Lady Angelica,
says mister Bailey, warming over his wine, that you've ever been in
a manner O Speagan to hell. Not not yet, mister Bailey replies her
ladyship, flashing a pair of violet eyes at her companion. Would you care
to know what it's like? I should be armed, declares Lady Angelica.
Wow, says mister Bailey, filling up Lady Angelica's half emptied glass of eighty
two port with seventy nine sherry. Well, it's like this here. That
concludes chapter twelve of Private Pinkerton Millionaire, and is also the end of section
six Section seven of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. This libri box recording
is in the public domain. Chapters thirteen and fourteen. Chapter thirteen, Uncle
Sam Mister William Bailey ex. Burglar Munchausen indeeds during do Weaver of Wonderful Tales
was the great success of the house party invited to Thornycroft to welcome Pinky home.
He shone like a star. His displays were meteoric, or be it
a trifle startling. His vocabulary was as mixed as the wines he consumed,
but his heroic spirit never wavered. With the Rector on one side of him
and Lady Angelica on the other, he kept them both fully occupied and abundantly
entertained. He was the hero of the hour. There was something Miltonic in
the lurid picture of hell in Flanders. He drew for the edification, and
somewhat to the consternation of Lady Angelica, nished up with a wholly imaginative tribute
to Pinkerton, to whom he properly thought something was due for the enjoyment of
this present bliss. And there he said, balancing a piece of fileted soul
upon his silver fork. And there Lady Angelina and ladies and gentlemen, all
amid all this aura and blood and gore, with jaggy bits of the British
Army fallen all around like a red snowstorm, and the ground earthquagan, and
even as if the owl of France had swallowed the North Sea for an emetic
and was begging your pardon chatting up its immortal soul. There on the edge
of a mine crayer, as cool as Alesia calcumbers in an ice cream shop,
stood our gallant and honorable oast, shooting dan Germans with one end,
with a revolver which was red hot and smoke and woodbines with the other.
So calmi was that you might have fought him on Acney Marshes on a pleasant
Sunday afternoon, except perhaps for the rather extravagant way he had with him in
getting through the Goaspers about one woodbine to every six Germans. The fact that
he had never met Pinkerton in his life before they shared the same hymn book
at the YMCA Heartcake Festival only a few hours back, was more of an
encouragement than a drawback. To the imaginative dynamo of mister Bailey. The homer
expirit had descended upon him the song of battles lead from his lips and through
it all his achilles. His hector was Private Pinkerton. Midway through the third
narrative, of Pinkerton's single handed harrying of the huns, and on the crest
of an improbability that even mister Bailey admitted to himself was a trifle tool.
The next course grouse arrived. The belligerent burglar bent over it for a moment
in an attitude of respectful, though a little mistrustful consideration. This reminds me,
Lady Angelina, he said, taking a deep breath of the trenches,
after our little scrap at Festubert. I rather think this chicken has been dead
a pretty long time. Like no, I don't think I will. I
wonder now if they've got any sausage and mashed I am afraid not, mister
Bailey, I've never heard of that dish. Never Well, the nobility and
gentry are a rum lot. You don't know what's good for your half your
time. Never heard a sausage and mashed. It beats me if my old
pal, mister Harris, the sausage King, heard that. Why he turned
in his grave, notwith standing the weight of the marble monument holden him,
Dan, do try the growls, mister Bailey, I'm sure you'll find it
excellent. Well, m'm ere goes if you'll be kind enough to pass the
chloroider lime. And that reminds me, mum, you ever, He paused,
and looked inquiringly into the bright, merry face of Lady Angelica. Have
I ever? What? Said his companion encouragingly. Mister Bailey shook his head.
Nah, he said, I'd better not. Perhaps it's hardly a question,
hardly a fair question. He turned to the rector, deciding, after
a moment's consideration, to put the problem to him. Have you ever,
Reverend sir? He said, all in the same pair of trousers, dianny
on end for six weeks. The clergyman sat up suddenly and coughed, m
good gracious, he cried an alarm, What an extraordinary question have I have
I? No, most decidedly not, sir, well, replied mister Bailey,
slowly and solemnly, Ie sir, And until you ev you don't know
what life is, I'll give you my early bird. And as for the
Germans, they well, I won't say what I was a going to say
in case of wounding the suspectabilities of present company, but I'll tell you this,
reverend sir, Yes, said the rector, toying somewhat nervously with his
grouse. Yes, sir, for niffiness, and it's gorspel truth, I'm
telling you for haroma, mortification and pepperiments are road to colloge and rosewater compared
with their munds. Some of the prisoners we nabbed, it was at loose
or there abats on, thinking some of them fair ummed, and two of
them in particular, one what called his self Fritz, and t'ther carl.
What are we going to do with a blighter, sir, says the Sergeant
Major to our colonel, who was a particular sort of man with rather a
weak stomach. Do you think, says the colonel, nipping of his nostrils
with his thumb and forefinger, do you think chugging them into the incinerator and
stoken up hard? It'd be any good if you do, then carry on,
Sergeant Major. But the Sergeant Major, being an new main sort of
a bloke, and also being a little bit that way himself, through circumstances
over which he had no control for, he'd try another way first. So
he took Fritz along and handed him over to a couple of orderlies, telling
them to strip him to the buff and buy him in the canteen copper and
give him what four with a scrubbing brush and a bar a monkey brand with
an occasional solo on the curry comb. He'd been scrubbing and curry combing him
for about ten minutes when they come to a gray flannel shirt. Dear me,
murmured the rector, very extraordinary. With a little shudder, Lady Angelika
pushed away her plate and gazed dreamily with unseeing eyes. That's the vaulted ceiling
earned the other gentleman, the one you called Carl, mister Bailey, what's
happened to Carl? Though her appetite languished, her curiosity was still a thirst
whole Mum, replied mister Bailey. There happened to be a little discussion on
in the officer's mess as to which nift that is smelt, Mum, as
to which smelt the worst, a goat or a German. Quite a considerable
lot of quids was wagered on the point, and as soon as all the
bets had been properly booked, they brought the goat in first, and our
colonel, being what I've told you, fainted. Dear me, dear me,
said the rector, and then Lady Angelica leaned forward, her face alive
with interest, and then replied, mister Bailey. They brought in the other
German in what called hisself Carl, and a goat faint ed. After dinner
there was the usual happy, go lucky, go as you please, revelrie,
very sleepy and as contented as a man eating tiger. After a full
meal, mister Bailey was decoyed into the drawing room, where he sat enthroned
amid soft curtains like a plump and langorous pasha. Lady Angelica sang and sang
very sweetly, oh that we two were maying, And she sang it direct
at mister Bailey, who, in spite of himself and dimly conscious of the
compliment, nodded, nodded, and presently slept in spite of the novel surroundings
and the soft harmony which breathed over and around him like a benediction. The
sad, melodious voice went on, Oh, that we two were lying under
the churchyard's sod. Then mister Bailey awoke with a start. No, no,
he said, debts off and rising with some difficulty from his bed of
roses, he made his way to the card room, where auction bridge was
the order of the night. He was inveigel to take a hand made an
inglorious hashavet, and declaring that Uncle Sam was the only card game worth two
rows of pin, undertook to in stroke the whole company in the mysteries and
the ramifications of it, Uncle Sam, as anybody who has ventured it knows,
is about twice as exciting and half as dangerous as bomb throwing and bayonet
chargers. It's as easy as kiss rand gentlemen, he declared, and they
all came in riotously, with the result that within half an hour mister Bailey
on Capitol, borrowed from Pinkerton himself a victim, had won fifty pounds and
held an iou of the rectors for three pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence.
His smile as he pocketed the spoils was a pitcher. It was the friendly
butler who, at the witching hour carried mister Bailey upstairs as to bed,
and there in the haunted room of Thornycroft he slept a dreamless and untroubled sleep
until high noon. The gibbering wraith of Colonel Pinkerton, that valiant old roundhead
who went gallantly to his death for the cause, troubled him, not though
he came out as in duty bound from behind the wainskirt groaned six times in
accordance with the tradition of the ghostly legend, and clashed his bloodstained jives over
the unconscious head of the slumbering cracksman. Even had he awakened to the spectral
summons, mister Bailey Wood no doubt have been equal to the occasion. But
he slept as a babe sleeps, dreamless and undisturbed. This day was sacred
to a great pheasant drive amid the rich coverts of Thorny. But mister Bailey,
being no hand at a shotgun, found an excuse for wandering off on
his own. There were only a few hours left. He explained that he
wanted to be by himself and to meditate a bit, so he was allowed
to go his own sweet way. Which way did you say, mate,
asked the Uncle Sam champion of the friendly Butler. Down the park road for
half a mile, sir, and then the first to the left, that's
the Thorny Arms. You can't possibly miss the sign and you're sure there's honest
liquor there, Nanny, your bubbly farlas all splutter and splash, and no
body teller a man's drink the best four ale, sir in the whole of
Norfolk. Then fixed barnets and lead me to it, said mister Bailey,
squaring his shoulders and licking his lips. An here, thank you for your
kindness and a clobber you swaddled me in. If you'll oblige me by accepting
this, And with the air of a monarch conferring an earldom upon an undertaker,
mister Bailey softly pressed into the reluctant palm of the butler. The rectors,
I owe you for three pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence. That concludes
chapter thirteen of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues with chapter fourteen, The
Merry Manglers Club. It was a wonderful night of stars. On his way
to the thorny Arms, mister Bailey gazed up at them romantically with a professional
glint in his eye. What a crib to crack, he murmured, to
himself, All them twinkland di'monds, And I suppose there's burglars as well as
harp twangers among the cherubims and seraphims and things and everything in the shop.
Winder simply ask and for. But his thoughts did not wander long among the
stars. He was soon within eyeshot of his destination, as snug and heartening
a tavern as the most ardent wassailor could wish for. The windows, with
their red blinds, sent out a ruddy glow over the rustic porch. Hung
a banner with the word welcome in scarlet letters on a white ground. There
was a jolly atmosphere about the place of home brewed ale. The very air
tasted of it, and mister Bailey smacked his lips as he raised the latch
and entered. Let me see, muse the blissful burglar, who had by
this time worked up a thirst that he wouldn't have parted with for much fine
gold. Is it? Is it a pub I observed before my wandering eyes?
Or shall I wake up presently in the same old bedroom of corpsuses and
chloride a lime. It's too good to be true, William mi lad not
a public some much as a quart pot of paradise with the froth on I
landlord. He was in the passage now hung with its quaint old sporting prints
aromatic of fat, bulging casks and whispering cobwebs and crusted port A landlord come,
and sir coming. And here was the Landlord, just as he ought
to have been, a plump, jovial personage, with a ruddy face like
ripe apples, a merry eye, and a voice as rich as the contents
of his own barrels and beakers. Four pennyworth of the foemen, cried mister
Bailey, gaily rattling the silver he had won from the rector. Can't be
done, sir, responded the Landlord Wood. As jolly and as cheerful as
you please, What cried the disappointed visitor, and his face fell not for
four hundred and ninety nine four monces, replied Boniface with a chuckle. Button
up your pocket, sir, and walk in as flow and freed to night,
and you're just in time for the toast of the evening. March straight
into the holy of Holy sir, and we shall be pleased to make you
an honorary member of the Merry Manglers in celebration of this hair bright day,
which sees the boss God bless him safe and sound home again with not so
much as a front tooth. Missien, Why bless my heart and soul?
He noticed for the first time the glitter of mister Bailey's borrowed evening clothes.
Less my heart and soul, and Stockin's. If you baint one of the
gentry from the great House, then, if I may be so bold as
to say it, all the more welcome to this humble inn. Mister Bailey
bowed with splendid ceremony. He entered, No, he didn't exactly enter.
He was solemnly ushered into the club room, where, through a blue and
shimmering haze of tobacco smoke, real pipe shag of the right sort, he
observed before him, in all their glory, the nuts of the Pinkerton estate,
the chairman, with the face of a ripe tomato, and the paunch
of false staff himself was in the midst of a speed each And so I
say, gentlemen and brothers, all that this here society, the ryle and
antidiluvian order of mangold Wuzzlers, known for short as the merry Manglers. I
say gentlemen and brothers, all that, if this here Kaza only knowed what
we was up to this night, his marrored freeze, in his miserable bloomin
carcass and heaven said that, And accustomed as I am to public speaking,
that's all I'm a gone to say, except to propose the toast of the
evening, which is dar nation to the Kazer. The toast, the first
part of it, was drunk in solemn silence. No heel taps, but
full foaming goblets from the rim to the dregs. Then again the Chairman rose,
vast and impressive, gentlemen all and brother manglers, said he fill up
your glasses once more. The injunction was obeyed. All charged, gentlemen and
brothers all charged, mister Chairman, and our extinguished visitor is he all charged?
Roy up to the bloomin' muzzle, said mister Bailey. You bet I'm
in this, being an interested party, so to speak. Then said the
Chairman, raise your glasses. Manglers, all raise your glasses. The merry
manglers one and all raise their glasses. Cyan army, and may old Nick
fly off with him, to which the merry manglers chorused, and may old
Nick fly off with him to the bottomless pit, to the bottomless pit,
and there may he everlasting leaf frizzle, and there may he everlastingly frizzle body,
soul and breeches, to which the merry manglers chorused for tissimo, body,
soul and breeches. It was a solemn, awful moment. In the
whirl of that tremendous curse. The tobacco smoke floating across the room took on
a more spectral hue. The tomato tints on the chairman's face flamed with a
redoubled menace, and it only needed a crash of thunder from the heavens above
them to crown the shattering malediction. But the cloudless sky smiled on in its
midnight dress of spangled diamonds. Besides, it was the wrong end of the
calendar for thunderstorms, so the curse was punctuated by the ever ready mister Bailey.
Amen said he and smashed his glass as a signal for all the other
merry manglers to do likewise, which they did, much to the consternation of
the landlord. Here, I say, gents, he began But when mister
Bailey assured him that it was all for the good of his king and country,
and a necessary eye in the damnation of the Kaiser and all his works,
he saw the point and condone the sacrifice of his crockery. Of course,
it became necessary for mister Bailey to make a speech. It was the
only speech he ever made in his life, apart from that short, sharp
spasm of oratory, when in the dear dead days beyond recall he had to
respond on more than one occasion to the toast of mister Justice somebody or other
not guilty, my lord, I am sorry not to be able to reproduce
verbatim our heroes wingered words. True they or the substance of them appeared later
on in the sedate pages of the Thorny Parish Magazine, so carefully edited by
the rector that they read more like a quotation from Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and
Dying than the real unbridled Bill Bailey staff those speech making was alien to him
at ordinary times, and his tongue to use his own immortal phrase was and
cuffed to the roof of his math. The spirit of the occasion urged to
eloquence by the heart and in qualities of the old ale of the Thorny Arms
get hold upon him. His tongue was unloosed, and he let himself go.
What was it? He asked? He saw around him? Who were
they? Living on the fat and the foam of the land, getting up
on their hind legs once a week, so, he was assured by his
friend and hosts, the landlord would foeman at the mouth like members of Parliament
fighting the battles of Flanders and Waterloo and Hastings, to say nothing of Gallipoli
and the dardy bloom and owls in the comfortable, fur lined saddleback trenchers of
the Thorny Arms. Who here here, said mister Gilled, rather faintly,
feeling that somebody ought to say something. I should like to know who it
is, what says them? Words wrapped out? Mister Bailey, kindly stand
up and let's have a look at him. Mister Gilled kindly stood up,
blushing through the haze, h muttered the burglar, glaring at him, just
as I fought, youngish man fit an eye, good shoulders, beefy in
the bosom, unmarried. Yeah, yes, sir, stammered mister Gilad blushing
unmarried for the present, sir, but living in oaps, Sir, then
wid a blazers. Aren't you out there fighting the explet if Kaser in the
trenches instead of cussing him in the bar parlor of a parishi and pub.
Answer me that, mister whatever your bloomin name is what me said, mister
Gild in a tone of lively alarm me, boy, sir, They couldn't
spare me on the parish sexton, sir. And if I was to go,
who'd there be to dig the graves? To say Nathan of winding up
the church clock once a week, which takes a mortal lot of nan sexton
grave digger? Why bless my soul, cried mister Bailey, you're the very
man we want at there? Why only the other day? General French,
he says to me, Mister Bailey, he says, if I could only
get out one or two of them sextons what live in Norfolk, to come
along here and give the boys a lead in trench diggan, he says,
we should get them Germans bottled up in next to no time. I'll give
you my early bird. You don't happen to know, he says a chap
named here mister Bailey whispered a quick question into the ear of the landlord,
and received an equally quick reply named giled. He says, Thus did the
wily mister Bailey, by sprinkling salt judiciously upon the tale of mister Gilad,
make a man and a soldier of him in next to no time, And
thus did he rope in half a dozen other stalwart members of the Merry Manglers
Club. Before the landlord, in mortal fear of losing most of his profitable
customers, nipped mister Bailey smart plot in the bud time. Gentlemen, he
called time you go every mother's son of you. That concludes chapter fourteen of
Private Pinkerton Millionaire and is also the end of section seven Section eight of Private
Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
Chapters fifteen and sixteen. Chapter fifteen, Romeo and Juliet out Merry Manglers one
and all, cried the Landlord of the Thorny Arms, or I shall lose
my license, and you'll lose one of the few things that are worth living
for. Out and home the country paths they close at ten So home,
ye go Tripenhilln's so home, ye go My Mary merry man with a folder
road little and a folder old to wake up risk in the marn so home.
They all stared singing the old lilt, and they needed some staring,
most of them, as mister Bailey remarked, watching them wending or we wonder,
said mister Bailey to himself, if that there hefty young grave digger will
wake up brisk in the mornin with a roller roll fiddle and a napper on
him, clear enough to remember his solemn sworn oath to me and his king
and his country. Oi wonder, Oh, I guess I'd better call round
at the cemetery early to morrow and just give him the office. Let me
see now, He paused and planted his feet firmer upon Mother Earth, who,
though sleeping, seemed to our mellow hero to be breathing rather harder than
you usual from the heave of her gentle breast. Steady, now, steady,
old lady. That's only me, Now, which way was it?
I started out on this route March with a folder roll diddle and a folder
roll doe. Huh got it this time, William, my lad, So
you're not so ild as you thought you was. Now. When I started,
the wind was blowing in my left ear roll. Therefore, if I
remember any of my skeleton drill, it should be blowing in my right waggler
now. And so wof me home with a folder roll diddle ryo. He
swung round and bent his grizzled head. The night wind whispered softly according to
his reck name, good old Tempest, said the burglar warrior, in a
conciliatory tone. That's right, keep her up and blow me on a mother.
Between us, windy old cock, we'll strike our billets presently. And
so through the calm, sweet night, with the solicitous zephyrs of heaven wafting
this ruddleless bark to the RESTful haven of Thorny Hall, mister Bailey, bearing
a charmed life passed on. The fairies were out in the moonshine dancing around
him. He heard them singing. He swore he did home, Ye go,
my mary, mister Bailey, with a folder old diddle and a folder
roll dome. Whether it was the singing of the fairies or the magic of
the moonshine, or the ripe, rich aisle of the thorny arms, or
a goblin mixture of them all, which was most likely. Mister Bailey confessed
to being smitten with a passionate throb of romance. As he hove to and
came to anchor on the lawn of dear old pinkies ancestral dwelling, he discovered
then, and not a moment before, that, he was carrying in his
right hand a fairy Wand whence had this magic wand come? How had it
materialized? Had he William Bailey, a person with a besmirched and burglarious past,
had he, under the wizard spell of this wonderful English night, been
metamorphosized into a fairy or? Said he to himself wistfully, Am I more
tiddley than I thought I was? There was no answer from the unfolding night.
He looked up into high heaven. He saw the bright stars, a
shine and wonderful. He saw the round, full orb of the placid moon.
And as he looked upon her face, she deliberately winked at him,
winked and shook her head. By the light of her countenance, he held
up and examined more closely the fairy wand, and then he discovered that what
he really held in his hand was the poker from the fireplace of the thorny
Arms. Now in the world did I come by you? Said he?
The poker refused to reply. Not even an echo answered. The lights in
all the lower windows of the hall were out. The great oaken door was
barred and bolted from the inside. Mister Bailey shook it and barked his knuckles
on the oak, but there was no response. He looked dubiously at the
fairy wand, spat in his horny palm to get a firmer grip of it,
and raised it to the assault. But he realized that a small poker
would have no earthly effect upon six inches of solid thorny oak. Besides,
there was a little matter of etiquette to be considered, and mister Bailey,
still in his evening dress, felt that he was bound to obey the dictates
of hospitality. As an ornament of society he was certainly getting on. So
he stayed his hand, lowered his fairy wand, and stepped back once again
to the moonlit's lawn. The spirit of romance was still in possession of his
soul, and faintly remembering the harmonious legend of Blondin and King Richard, he
thought he'd try the effect of a slight serenade upon the slumbering mansion. The
difficulty was what to sing. He tried to recall the Heartcake hymn, which
had moved his soul to sentiment at the first occasion of his meeting with Pinkie,
but it wouldn't come. Somehow, Then he tried to get into the
swing of the folder old doll of the merry Manglers, but no, the
muse was obdurate. At last, he bethought him of his own name and
the fitness of it for a harmonious setting. So, with the fairy wand
held at a banjo angle, he cleared his heroic throat, and, striking
an imaginary cord upon the poker, sang softly the opening bars of that ancient
haunting ditty, Won't Yeah carmeome Bell Bailey, won't yea came? There was
a creeper clad balcony overhead, and a window behind it. Discreetly veiled to
that balcony, to that window instinct, the instinct of the tiger for its
mate. The trumpeting elephant for his Connamorata, bade him a dress his lay.
He sang and sang. As his melodious voice swelled in the moonlight.
He saw the curtain flutter, the window slowly open. Dan Littla flutterer,
Dan, said mister Bailey to his expectant heart. Softly and more soft he
sang, won't you come home, Bell, Bailey, won't you come home?
I've waited the old nigh long, wider, still wider. The window
opened. Then, in the bright beams of the wondering moon, the figure
of a lady appeared on the balcony, Juliet Ah Romeo, steady, my
lad still the form of this fair vision of the night was clad in a
clinging dressing gown of black and gold. Her jet hair tumbled in a cloud
over her shoulders, failing the midnight witchery of her eyes. Mister Bailey paused,
entranced in his rondel as a sweet voice from the balcony thrilled and trembled
in his listening air. What is it, niggers, Oh, how delightful
it was the voice of Lady Angelica. That blissful vision in black and gold
was her form, hers She had seen the white shirt front of her hero
of ten million fights, shining in the moonlight and still half under the mystic
sway of the Us of Sleep. Had mistaken it quite naturally for something in
the Moor and Burgess line niggers, Nah, replied the minstrel of the night.
Naw ma'm that's only me, mister Bailey, at your service, Lady
Angelina, with the key of the strait. There followed a little sound.
It might have been laughter, And Lady Angelica replied as she leaned over the
balcony, Ah, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Oh we
ain't, said mister Bailey, who was feeling a little chilled in the region
of his marrow now that the warming effects of the thorny isil had worn off.
Don't you know me? He waved the poker gracefully over his head.
Call me, Juliet, responded, Lady Angelica, call me. Then something
happened behind her, which caused her suddenly to vanish. The window closed with
a click, The curtain was drawn again, and Romeo was left all alone
again on the glistening lawn. What might have happened had But we will draw
a veil over that just as Lady Angelica drew the curtain discreetly across her bedroom
window, mister Bailey shivered and made a few remarks which can better be imagined
than described in cold print. Then he spat once more. Upon his strong
right hand gripped the poker with redoubled energy, swung it like a battle axe
surround his head, and his old professional instincts thoroughly aroused. Alas crept with
the tread of a malefactor to the drawing room window. Sorry, pinky old
cock, he muttered, but it's got to be done, and done it
was in next to no time. As a soldier, mister Bailey might be
a modern Ajax. As a burglar, with that fairy wand for a lever,
he was still Archimedes. There was a soft crash, and he was
inside, moving like a ghost amid the ghostly furniture, barking his shins painfully
in his erratic journey across a room which seemed to him to contain all the
drawing room chairs in Norfolk. Then, just as he was getting clear,
another ghost suddenly he rose up before him, and with a yell, dashed
at him. The fight which followed in the dark was the greatest battle mister
Bailey had ever been in. Nerves chappelle, vesta, bur and loose were
no more than sparring matches compared to this. His unknown assailant fought like a
fiend. The chairs, and the tables, and the sofa, even the
grand piano, which mister Bailey recognized after banging his head against it twice,
got up on their hind legs and joined in with tremendous gusto. Crash,
bang, crash, up and down again, down and up again. At
length, in a wild, erratic swing, mister Bailey got one in a
beauty on the other ghost Joe war with such a smash that he thought he
saw in the enfolding gloom the sparks fly. Then they closed again, swayed
together, tottered, and finally fell in the clamorous eclipse of a priceless ming
vase. The door was flung open to disclose the whole of the house party,
who had been roused from their slumbers by the noise. Armed with pokers,
tongs, coal, scuttle shovels, umbrellas, battle axes, spears,
bludgeons from the armory, and anything else they could lay their hands to in
the hurried rush of the alarm. Their attire was scanty, but their attitude
was murderously fierce, until in the gleam of the candles and lamps they carried
they distinguished the cause of all this kandish disturbance. Sitting opposite one another on
the drawing room floor, amid wreckage of furniture and glass and grand pianos indescribable
were the two ghosts who had raised this topet, Mister William Bailey and Private
Pinkerton. I thought, said Pinky faintly, as they carried him out,
I thought I heard burglars. That concludes Chapter fifteen of Private Pinkerton Millionaire.
The section continues with chapter sixteen. Back to the filter, one last crowded
hour of glorious life, and then back to the army again. Sergeant,
back to the army again. We have a terror lot to do to day,
Pinky, mi lad, said mister Bailey, as together are heroes.
After last night's homeric battle in the drawing room of Thorneycroft, limped arm in
arm to the carriage which was to drive them down to the village where they
were going to get mendered and patched. As best they could. Private Pinkerton
had four teeth loues. He wasn't quite sure what sort of a job the
village dentist would make of it. Drop me on the way at the butcher's
old cock sparrow, said mister Bailey. Oi regan that Arthur pander Steak will
fix up this ere, right, twinkler, mine is Robin live, a
ballly old steam engine. Gently with the hamble AND's jenkins, Slow march to
the mortuary, Go easy over the cobbles, and what's the program? Did
you say? Presentation of an address? Complimentary and Valordictory, groaned Pinkerton on
the village green. Worse than whiz Bang's bell. But we've got to go
through with it. Under the spread and m commented mister Bailey. Any beer,
wait and see you. Thirsty old hippopotamus replied Pinkie, sha'n't be able
to see much with a bugged up optic like this, Ere muttered the ex
burglar. Hello, here's old block ornaments, border works. Bye bye bye
all juicy ladies and gentlemen, fox terriers and family parties. The butcher came
forward, bowing low o for panda rump squishy end, said mister Bailey.
And don't slap it to make it tender. I don't want to eat it,
not yet any events, though it's a pity to waste it. Thank
you, butcher, thank you. I'm very much obliged. Put it down
on the bill, charge it up to Lord Pinkerton, Thornycroft Castle, and
now, if you'll kindly turn your head away, I'll apply the poultice.
The scene on the village Green was gay beyond description. Once, many many
years ago, a king came to Thornycroft to shoot at the fat pheasants reared
with so much tender solicitude by Pinki's great great grandfather. But they do say,
those who have heard the tale told from lip to lip across the years
in the sanded parlor of the thorny Arms, that his Majesty's welcome, hearty
and loyal though it was, could not hold a candle to this solemn ceremonial,
the heroes of which were Private Pinkerton and Private William Bailey. The country
people were all there on a raised dias moved to enthusiasm by a scene which
at once tickled their imagination and stirred their patriotism. Somehow or other, though
he didn't ask for it. Mister Bailey was the titbit of the show.
His identity had slipped out. His lured past, shed a halo over his
rugged head, and he was hiled with unbounded acclamation, not so much as
a burglar with a list of past convictions as long as the church catechism,
which he was. But as they reformed and reclaimed murderer, possessing all the
subtle charms of the late doctor Crippen, with a dash of jack the ripper
thrown in which he wasn't. The school children were all there, garbed in
white, and oh how sweetly, how raptly they sang, how smiling more,
smileing, mourn, smileing more. Whose bright prayers ands meanin us?
Pinky? What? Murmured mister Bailey, highly delighted, Back up, bright
presents, look cheerful, godless? Flies away, flies away, flies away.
Likewise, hooray, added the melodious burglar, removing for a moment the
stake poultice from his eye so that he could envisage more clearly this delightful Sylvan
scene. And then the Thornycroft fourth Prize brass band burst out with a most
amazing clamor, which somebody said was meant to represent a brazen realization of see
the conquering Hero comes. The fact that it wasn't quite like it may be
explained by the trifling slip made by mister Gilad, the sexton to whom was
entrusted the important part of base on the euphonium. Possessing a somewhat uncertain memory,
he always played from music, but in the excitement of the present occasion,
he had fished out the wrong score and was blowing for all he was
worth. And he was a tremendous euphoniumist at the solemn base of the Dead
march in Saul. So while the rest of his harmonious comrades were giving the
conquering Hero beans, mister gild was, so to speak, entoming him.
But he meant well, and so did everybody else. The valedictory and complimentary
address had been prepared by the schoolmaster, who was an ardent worshiper at the
shrine of the muse. It was all in rhyme, except of course,
the signatures. It was engrossed on vellum by the village blacksmith, who was
as neat at the scrivening as he was at what he called the healen and
the solent of the Hoarsan. And it was headed simply and owed to our
brave heroes from the fighting line by Emmanuel Squibbs, the Schoolhouse, Thornycroft.
It's began in the heroic strain, simple but dignified lists to the cheers that
rise from one and all to great our hero back to Thorny Hall. Raise,
raise your voices, babe and centenarian. Strike, Strike the liar,
ring out in joyous clarion, Blow the loud horn, reverberate the gong,
praise him in paeans of victory, worrea song. Let the glad tuning fork
in twanging prong, proclaim the tidings. Now we shan't be long before the
hum. The rector, who in resonant tones, was reading the ode,
paused and coughed, and mister Squibbs, the wrapped author, dug his reference
in the ribs. It's all right, sir, he whispered anxiously. Pray
proceed poetic license. Ah hum, said the rector, and went on proclaim
the tidings. Now we shan't be long before the bloody battles all are one,
and we have slain and vanquished every hun loudon long continued cheers, in
which mister Bailey joined in no uncertain voice. Now, in this epoch making
ode, there were certain difficulties of rhyme which had given mister Squibbs many hours
of pungent and poignant pain. He knew that it was necessary to bring in
somewhere a suitable rhyme to the individual's addressed in the effort, and the name
of the chief hero of these exploits, Pinkerton, laid him out flat.
Mister Squibbs was a born poet, and so was his father before him.
But he sought and sought in vain for the elusive rhyme to link up his
lord and master with Poesy. But still hoping for the best, and for
some sudden swift stroke of inspiration before it was too late, he turned to
the easier problem of Bailey. There was Daily, but that was too common.
There was Wailey, but that was too sad. There was also Quailey,
But had mister Bailey ever quailed at anything? No. At last,
however, it came, and the ode proceeded. Thus, who was a
face the lewd less sibious hun made him turn tail and got him on the
run. Who was the brave and doughty paralyzer of Midian hosts, belonging to
the Kaiser, Who was the wizard, who the mesmerizer, Who was it
down the Prussian dragon scaly None other than our honoredt Bill Bailey. And now
for the grand finale. It took two wet towels and a quarter of the
best from the thorny arms to abstract the last couplet from the red hot brain
of mister Squibs. And here it is, in all its polished splendor his
health. Now ye assembled drink at one and all, and held the name
of Pinkerton. It was a triumph. Having read it all, there was
about half a mile of it. The rector folded the scroll and handed it
amid deafening cheers to Pinkie, who bowed, bowed to the rector, to
the audience, and finally to the modest though naturally proud author. Then,
of course he had to make a speech, And though the cement trowled into
his aching mouth by the village dentist somewhat interfered with the eloquence of it,
he got through very creditably all things considered. He didn't say much, but
it was to the point serious, and from his heart. He told them
all that he loved his country, he loved his home, dear old Thorneycroft.
To loud cheers, he loved them all, And though he was only
a common tommy to determine cries of no, no, and yet more cheers,
he loved his job and meant to go through with it. In response
to loud and clamorous shouts of Bailey, mister Bailey, mister Bailey, still
holding the half pound of best rump to his injured eye, declared that he
was too full for words and begged to be excused the mortal anguish of making
a speech. Remembering the occasion of the heartcake and coffee love feast, he
made the excuse that had served him. Then serve him now your reverence,
mister Schoolmaster. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all, he said.
If I was not still suffering from the effects of asphyxiating gas poisoning, I'd
attempt to open the valves of my overflowing art and tell you what I think.
But ladies and gentlemen, all, it positively can't be done. Then,
seeing mister Squibs's retriever watching him the hungry eye, mister Bailey removed the
poultice from his war worn face, and, crying ere tuser catch tossed it
to the dog and resumed his seat. Amid loud and deafening applause. The
last goodbyes had been said, the final handshaking over the last speaker quaft,
and to the strains of God save the King. Private Pinkerton and Private Bailey
set off again to carry on their little bit for their king and their country.
Lady Angelica's was the last hand to clasp mister Bailey's. Goodbye, mister
Bailey, said she au revoir and good hunting. Mister Bailey looked her fair
and square in the eye. She laughed a little nervously, and then turned
away. Hey ho, said the hero of a thousand fights. Hey ho,
it's a long long wait a Tipperary, and is a cold and frosty
winterer comin. We'll keep the home fires burning for you, murmured Lady Angelica,
and in her soft eyes the flicker of them seemed to shine already.
Hoots, and so it's you the pair yee back again, said a familiar
voice at the corner of Triangle Trench. Yes, replied mister Bailey, back
to the same expl if old filter. And it's a boot time, Mi
Laddie, said Piper mcquirk. The war has been waitin for ye, and
the Kaiser has been sending a cross anxious inquiries for ye. Then we'll get
on with it, said mister Bailey, Lead me to him. That concludes
chapter sixteen of Private Pinkerton Millionaire and is also the end of section eight Section
nine of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. This libri box recording is in
the public domain. Chapters seventeen and eighteen. Chapter seventeen, The Exploit of
gingerbread Glue. When the little gurkhas were sent up to the desperate sector where
Triangle Trench, with its scanty cover and its shell strown terrain, marks the
graveyard of many of our brave dead. The English soldiers there, who had
never seen them before, mistook them for Japanese, with their slit eyes,
their yellow faces, and their squat sturdy little figures. In the dead of
night they came like ghosts, silently, like ghosts too, would they vanish
now and again? Intent mysterious upon their grim and gruesome business. What next,
I wonder, said mc quirk to Pinkerton, one mild and for this
part of creation fairly on a bentful night, as they crouched together over a
warmed up half ten of mackanokey Japs by Caledonia, I wonder how much of
the world be left out this scrap before we're through with it. We needn't
be surprised if the next crowd of brothers and arms we find support on us
in this merry circus turn out to be the household cavalry of the King of
the Cannibal Islands. Hey, laddie, Japs, they're not Japs, said
Pinkerton, They're Gurkhas. And he told the giant piper all he knew,
and a good deal he didn't of the fame and the fury of these wonderful
warriors from the Indian Hills. That's the end of the recital. Mcquirk pursed
his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and executed an imaginary pebrock upon an
invisible pipe. Pew, said he the canny callants. So we're in for
some lively nights. Say it looks very much like it declared incertain, and
they were. One of the new tenants of Triangle Trench was a little hillman,
all wire and whipcord, whose name composed of a bewildering mixture of gees
and elves, and us was worse than Welsh to twist the tongue too.
But Tommy, who is a past master at fanetics, met the occasion and
overcame the difficulty with his usual ease. He christened this Silent Night of the
Cookery gingerbread Glue, which was near enough and apt, though not exactly in
accordance with the Gurkha's baptismal register if he ever had one. Had it not
been for the kind attentions of gingerbread glue, it would have been my sad
duty long ago to have written the obi chery notice of Piper mcquirk. Mac
was ever worrying and musing over the loss of his pipes. They were a
part of him, like the Siamese's brother twin. Often he would wander into
the danger zone Toho searched for them. They led him on like will of
the wisp, into all manner of trouble, and once when he was out
after them, a German sniper spotted him and bowled him over. It was
Gingerbread who crawled out under the moonlight and carried the giant piper in, though
he was twice his size and three times his weight. It was Gingerbread,
too, who veiled vengeance upon the body and the soul, the grandfather,
the grandmother, the ox, and the ass, and the airs, and
the signs of that German sniper or that self same German marksman had twice reminded
Gingerbread with a bullet that in the midst of life we are in death or
precious near it. It was one of the precarious duties of gingerbread Glue to
sally forth in the evenshine foraging for water. His root lay well within range
of a half ruined wall, part of a holy smashed farmhouse which before a
British shell had demolished it overlooked Triangle Trench. His first journey, rashly importunate,
was with a mule. There was a tiny flicker of reddish flame from
the wall, something like the tongue of a viper, and the mule dyed.
It was fortunate for gingerbread Glue that he was on the other side of
it. His second journey alone, This time was also marked by the viper
hiding in the wall, and he came back with one ear missing and a
nasty mess of blood soaking into his shoulder. Nearly came unstuck that time,
Glue, said Mack, whose interest in the little Gurkha was naturally of a
fatherly sort. In reply, Gingerbread drew swiftly his hand across his throat with
a significant gruesome gesture, and made a remark which nobody attempted to understand.
I think it's about time we investigated that wall, said Pinkerton, recalling to
himself the tragy comedy of Pyramus, and thisby he explained his desire in a
mixture of pigeon English and dumb show to gingerbread Glue, who was squatting on
his haunches and engaged in the absorbing task of imparting a razor edge to the
murderous blade of his cookery with an oilstone. With a grim smile on his
yellow face, gingerbread Glue accepted the invitation. It was a night of streaky
moonshine and creeping cloud when Pinkerton and gingerbread Glue set out upon their interesting adventure
of mural analysis. Pinkerton carried his rifle. Sahib, no shoot, said
Glue, shaking his head. Germans hear noise, and then ah. He
imitated horribly the death rattle and rolled his eyes gruesomely. This will be better,
Sahib. This was the deadly cookery. He flourished for an instant in
his deft grip. It flickered with steel blue radiance in the moonlight, and
Private Pinkerton felt a sudden chill at the back of his neck, as though
an icy finger had pressed there. So he no shoot, no rifle,
repeated the grim little Hillman. But Pinkerton did not fancy venturing on this expedition
empty handed, so he retained his weapon, and the two stole out into
the mysterious night. Now and then a star shell sawed up, whizzing from
the German lines. When it burst, Pinkerton and Gingerbread Glue lay flat on
their bellies until the blaze of it had died away. Then they crawled on.
It was laborious regression, for the star shells seemed to be heaving a
night out with a roving commission, and the zip of the bullets were like
mosquitoes on a hot night. In their persistence, Gingerbread got one through the
shock of his thick hair searing his scalp. Before their goal came within sight,
there was the wall showing up, white and vivid. As the passing
clouds cleared the moon. The two explorers could even distinguish the gaping apertureinete high
up and apparently the work of a plunging shell from the British battery far beyond.
Stealthily, now they crawled to within thirty yards of the heavy mass of
brick, mortar and rubble, somewhere within which the keen eyed enemy sniper lay
concealed. Sh whispered the Gurkha in Pinkerton's eah, The Sahab will now lie
still and watch for a moment. The friendly light of the moon was obscured.
When it cleared again, gingerbread glue had vanished, no sight, no
sound. The earth had swallowed him up and closed again. With straining eyes,
Pinkerton peered forward among the shadows of the uneven ground. It might have
been Golgotha, for the lack of any shred of life or of movement there.
Then he directed his gaze to the wall, the hole Annette, and
the clear space underneath. He watched the emptiness of that clear space unwinkingly.
He could have sworn he had never turned his eyes away for an instant.
Yet in a flash, in less time than the ticking of a second,
something had happened there where there had been emptiness an instant before. A human
form materialized, now, as if by magic, under the hole, as
large as life, but still as death, crouched the figure of gingerbread glue.
He was squatting on his haunches, hands on knees, and gazing up
sideways toward the hole in the wall. His attitude was that of intense,
strained attention. Then he raised his brown hands and brought them down sharply upon
his bare knees in a quick pattering tattoo. He paused for a few seconds
in this strange pantomime. Paused, listened, and still peered upside ways at
the aperture. Nothing happened again the sharp. This time, something indefinite in
shape and substance could be observed moving in the shadow of the hole. Pinkerton
watched it, fascinated as a bird is fascinated by the mesmeric actions of the
snake seeking its destruction. He could see vaguely but unmistakably this movement. He
was pretty certain that gingerbread glue could not from his position almost immediately under the
hole, so he raised his rifle and took a long, steady aim,
waiting for what he knew would presently occur again, the snake charming Pata pata
from the crouching Gurkha for the third time. The human kettledrum rattled, and
now whatever it was, or whoever it was inside that hole, was seriously
disturbed. The moonshine gleamed quite clear at this exciting moment. The complete pitcher
stood out, vivid and sharp in the deeper shadow, and then out of
it that something now moved. The patter ceased below the hole. The little
Gurkha crouched, immovable and stark as any sphinx, but his right hand had
now shifted from his right knee to his left side. From the hole in
the wall, a head emerged, a bare head, close cropped and bullet
shaped. Then out of the shadow a pair of broad shoulders. The German
sniper, for it was, He looked around to the left, and to
the right, and above, but never below Pinkerton, though certain of his
mark, was too fascinated to press the trigger of his rifle. He just
lay there and watched breathless. Then the German moved again and stared straight at
Pinkerton a long, hard stare. He has certainly spotted me, said Pinkerton
to himself. It's now or never. His aim, point blank at the
white, bony forehead was deliberate. He pressed the trigger, but he was
just a moment too late. There was a lightning streak of blue steel as
the curved blade of the terror ruble cookery flashed. Half an hour later,
the two adventurers crawled wearily into the welcome fastness of triangle trench. Salaam Gingerbread,
said mcquirk cheerily. I see you're still alive, any luck, old
son, Salam Sahib replied the Gurkha very gravely. The luck is here.
He unslung the bulging bag from his shoulder and laid it almost reverently at the
feet of the big piper, And when he opened it, the hair of
Piper mcquirk rose straight and stiff upon his head. That concludes Chapter seventeen of
Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues with chapter eighteen, The mince pie mule
train. Well, Harrah, Merry Christmas or bust, declared Piper mcquirk.
Solemnly, we'll have a merry Christmas and bust more likely, commented Sergeant Major
Singleton, if there's any reliant on the juicy facts printed in the London papers,
which his Majesty's post Office kindly serves up with afternoon tea in the trenches
every midnight. Have you seen the lists of subscribers and donations to poor Starve
and Tommy the plum Puddin's, the turkeys, the sausages, the drag snappins,
the Oho, every bloomin' thing you can imagine fair gives you the stomach.
Acre does to read em. It's steam moralizing, That's what it is.
Pinkerton d moral amen broke in the cheerful mcquirk, but it's a bonnie
grouser year pants millad led him come and the Mayor the merrier. I've read
the lists until me mouth watered and the tears came to me eyes. Inspector
Marsell for why you'll be sparing because Scotland in this circus doesn't a seem to
stand where she did, and if it hadn't a been for the Heelanders inner
this fighting the Lord helped the British Army. No, Politics, mcquirk snapped
the sergeant major. You ought to know by this time that you'll breaking the
rules of triangle bloomin trench. You'll mind a tanner then, Bano Saxpence,
said the Scots. But I'll have my money's wife. As I was saying,
Scotland doesna seemed to had come up to the scratching, contributing to these
manificent lists a piece and plenty and plump titude in a matter of donations of
the National Dish, The National dish? What's that? Mac thistles, asked
Pinkerton to the ass who asked that question. No, promptly replied Piper mcquirk.
Maybe you'd na heard of the haggas? The what the haggas? Morn
on the scouting and stiffening qualities of which the British Army won Bannockburn and Trafalgar
and Waterloo. Politics again interrupted old pants. I'll trouble you for another tanner.
I an then got the value of the first saxpans, yet, said
the Scots, And I'm tellin ye if we'd had haggers instead a bully and
biscuit to our iron rations, I for one would have been pipe a Highland
laddie along the grunted d Lnden or whatever ye call it in Berlin by this
time. But there's opportunity yet to make good the deficiency. An I may
tell ye now that we're within a handshake, so to speak, of Christmas
Day, that I've order'd two dozen of the heftiest haggers that mortal man ever
licked his lips o'er to be sent along to me here, and just a
boot now from my uncle Donald mc quirk, the mast renowned flesher in Peebles,
as Bobby Burns sang in that inspiring poem when wild war's deadly blast,
glory is the sodjer's prize, the soger's wealth is haggas. It'll give the
boys a treat anyway, said the hospitable Scot. If my uncle Donald only
comes up to time, what's it tastes like, asked the Sergeant Major,
who, being of Lowland Middlesex breed and upbringing, had never heard of the
haggersts before. I'll no be attempting to paint the lily, replied the piper,
as mister Asquith said, on a certain famous occasion, he himself,
being a full blooded scott and hand in hand with the haggers, has missed
asked with said pants, wait and see the haggas says, just heaven in
a wee bit bag. Your fine is remitted, mac, said the Sergeant
Major, deeply impressed. Agis or no agis? There's your tanner back?
And what is your contribution to our Christmas mess Santa Claus asked mcquirk of Pinkerton,
Have ye anything up your generous sleeve to assuage our pangs on the morn
of mirth and melody. You're a man a means, I've heard it whispered.
I mind a little matter or a five pound note away back, laddie,
as Robbie says, so true. But why should a man better fair
and a men? Brothers? What you supplying to the festiff board A trifling
effort in mince pies, replied Pinkerton, blushing, But said the old Sergeant
Major, taking an Eiffel of the hot stuff across the way through his periscope.
How we're going to get the plum puddins, and the mince pies and
the agassas into this gloriole just now beats me, I reckon from the look
of things, that all we poor blawyers are going to get for our Christmas
dinners will be belly fools, a Jack Johnson's and Pip Squeaks. Look out,
Dan, you Blawyers, Dan, every mother's son of ye Christians,
awake, Salute the happy morn. Here they come away. And far behind
the tempestuous turmoil of Triangle Trench, where our fasting heroes were so gallantly holding
the fort, there was trouble and stress over the supplies, and the Christmas
post coming up, and the wounded and the empties going down. A mule
column had turned ratty and had run a mark amid a convoy of Christmas puddings,
with disastrous results. An urgent order spoken in haste over a word worn
telephone wire had been misheard with the unhappy sequel that the Something Cavalry Brigade Swaggerresque
of our Swagger Knights of the Silver Spur and the Pen and Lance had received
as Christmas boxes a ton and a half of chloride of lime and about a
hundredweight of bleatings, far famed vermin destroyer in hand, these six ounce packets
with full instructions for use printed on each packet, in place of the double
extra khaki shirts and the three ply woolen comforters. Their aristocratic souls were ravening
for altogether for a time, at any rate, peace and goodwill struck anything
but a clarion note to the eternal honor of the Army Service Corps. It
must be recorded that everything was sorted out and classified to general satisfaction sooner or
later. But it was pretty perplexing while it lasted. Another little misunderstanding confounded
the confusion. Pinkerton's happy thought of mince pies for his company had miscarried to
an amazing extent of multiplication. His order generous to a fault had been repeated
again and yet again. Who is this blazing ostrich of a maniac Private Pinkerton?
Anyway, said the irate Major, who was superintending the hastening forward of
supplies from X blank to the firing line. Cases and cases and cases of
some infernal muck, all addressed Private Pinkerton b Company something rifles and wears his
blasted company triangle trench. Yes, sir, said the tired little lieutenant,
who had just come in smothered with mud. And by the way, sir,
those mules are rounded up at last, good, said the major.
See that pile of tack there in those corded boxes. Yes, ammunition,
God knows what it is, but it's all addressed to one blithering idiot.
And his name's Pinkerton. And his address, if he isn't dead yet,
which I profoundly hope and trust he is, is Triangle Trench. Sling the
whole galoot on those mules and pack it off at once, Very good,
sir. Into the gloaming, the long mule train passed, passed, and
vanished, bearing to Private William Pinkerton a Christmas dinner abundant enough and to spare
for all the gluttonous gods feasting in high olympus. Busy, bloody, mud
spattered and cursing. They were all infernally occupied in Triangle Trench. Peace on
Earth had not spread her soft pinions there. Ammunition was running short, nasty
Unchristian things were happening alone. Of all the little crowd there, Piper mc
quirk was joyful, complacent, and overflowing with the proper spirit of Noel.
Uncle Donald, the most renowned flesher in Peebles, had come up to the
scratch nobly the haggas to a dozen o the heftiest had arrived, and the
water for their embroilment was already simmering in a huge pot. A biscuit toss
behind the red hot glory hole of triangle trench. Piper mc quirk's rifle was
so hot that when he put his cheek to it, he swore it raised
a blister every time. But he was happy and tuneful, and chanted snatches
of his beloved poet between the wiles of the cooling of his rifle barrel and
stealthy crawling journeys to where the devil's cauldron was simmering and smoking. Keeper up
me, bonny fighters, keep it up. The kettle's near the boil,
and it's hellsome fair, and ye'll be heaven with my bonnie wee haggasses were
labor soon. We labor late to feed the titled nave man. And the
comfort where to get is that a yond the grave man, another man down
another What a pile of sandbags collapses in a smothering whirl of dust and splinters.
Stick to it, lads, no wild shooting, mark your man every
time. Ammunitions too precious to waste. Now it is the cheery voice of
Captain Crabtree, his face all bloodstained, half his front teeth smashed out,
but confident, cool and courageous as ever a blood smothered mudlark, This dandy
boy now, but all there and never missing a chance to get one in
mcquirk where the devil is the man yes up. The hefty piper of the
ninety ninth Kilties staggers back into the trench just as the last cartridge, the
very last, is fired. He is carrying the lid of an ammunition box,
and upon it is piled a steaming aromatic mass of strange stuff in bulging,
bubbling little bags. What in the name of thunder? Captain Crabtree makes
a grab for his eyeglass and jabs it under a bloody eyebrow. It's the
haggar, sir. But before he could utter another word, an earthquake burst
under the redoubt of Triangle Trench. There was a hoarse, triumphant cry of
gots mittens, and half a dozen huge saxons appeared in the gap with all
the lust of conquest shining in their eager eyes. It was Pinkerton who rallied
the trusty Triangulars to a last splendid effort. Another idea had suddenly come to
him, bombing party. He yelled up, band at um, follow me.
He stooped swiftly grabbed one of the hot bubbly bags from under the astonished
nose of Piper mcquirk, took swift aim and heaved it full in the face
of the nearest hun It struck him fair and square in the mouth, bursting
with a loud and meaty block. With a dreadful howl of fear and anger
and pain, the giant German flung up his arms and fell backwards. Another
and another followed, Each found its mark, and the fun whilst Uncle Donald's
haggers lasted, was fast and furious. The route was complete again, had
British honor been my tained and the situation saved? And then, amid the
laughter and the tears of the conquerors, the voice of Captain Crabtree was once
more heard. It's all right now, my lads. Here comes the mule
train with the ammunition box. After box was bundled into the trench. The
lids of the first was prized open by Captain Crabtree. Jeff Rusalem, he
cried, plunging his hand into the case, and then withdrawing it suddenly,
as if something had bitten him. These ain't cartridges, their bally mince pies.
By jove, you must have made a little mistake, sir, said
Pinkerton, coming forward nervously. If you'll be good enough to look at the
address on the cases my little Christmas box, sir to b company, I
shall be most happy if you will join. Captain Crabtree burst into a roar
of laughter. Hell I am, he said, I should think I jolly
well will of all this merry company. Only Piper mcquirk was sad. I
think I'll be gang aout the new he said, to see if I can
find one or two of them, haggass. Maybe they did not all explode.
That concludes Chapter eighteen of Private Pinkerton Millionaire and is also the end of
section nine Section ten of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. This LibriVox recording
is in the public domain. Chapters nineteen and twenty. Chapter nineteen lamb Cutlets
Scent of Spring was in the morning air. For many days, the skies
had been gray and heavy, the night's chell, and the gradually lengthening days
damp and uncomfortable. But for all that, there was something, if twas
no more than the tiniest whisper, that betokened a relaxation of winter's iron gripe,
a promise from cloud and stream, high Heaven and Mother Earth, and
a new and a wonderful life breathing again amid the desolation and death of what
was once fair Flanders. The English Battery. Major strolled out casually from the
clump of trees on the little knoll, which stood out as a landmark in
this flat country for many miles around. The morning mist had cleared far away
to the left, the ruins of Epra and the pierced and plundered framework of
the ancient cloth Hall could be visualized distinctly. But it was not the dismal
wreckage of Epra that interested Major Montmorency on this still clear morning. He was
no archeologist. He was an artillery man. He had seen this pathetic picture
so many times before, and besides, there was other business to occupy his
mind. He yawned, stretched himself and then sat down upon a felled tree
trunk, swinging his legs. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere
near him, nor a sound to be heard. He had mourning and meditation
all to himself. Idly, he sat there, swinging his legs, the
complete embodiment of a man with nothing to do and the whole day to do
it in he lit a cigarette. The air was so still that the smoke
floated about his head like incense. Reluctant to depart through it, the meditative
major gazed dreamily with half veiled eyes across the valley and far away to the
right. In the immediate foreground, the ungarnered harvest of last year lay white
and rotting. A few fields away, in the very middle of what was
once an abundant acreage of wheat, lay a smashed and abandoned reaping machine with
a dead horse beside it, a repellent but vivid tribute to the ravages of
war. At the end of the wheat field, the rich pasture land began,
and it was over that refreshing streak of green that's the artillery Major's dreamy
eye. Roved, dwarfed, and stunted trees marked the extreme edge of the
landscape. Here something else was there too. It might be a scattering of
small huts or haystacks. I could have sworn they weren't there yesterday, muttered
the Major to himself. And as he stared at the he fancied he saw
something flash in the beams of the morning sun. But it was only for
an instant. He unslung his field glasses and had a long, steady look
at the puzzle. Nothing more could he make of it. But as he
gazed, holding his breath to steady his vision, he made out a speck
moving out of the shadow of the trees, and moving in his direction.
Nearer and nearer it came. Its materialized presently into the figure of an old
man with a long white beard, carrying something in his arms. Major Montmorency
lit his fourth cigarette and waited for the old man to come up. Monsieur,
said the aged gentleman, bowing low before the quiet figure on the tree
trunk. I come to crave a boon, Well, father Christmas, and
what is it this time? The brave English Monsieur, I ever considerate top
tender things, be generous as you are brave, if you will kindly cut
the blather and come to the boon. Methusilah, I shall be grateful and
much more likely to confer the benediction else with it. Time is short,
and if we go in for polite conversations, we are liable to be interrupted.
It is a small thing, I ask, monsieur, I come from
that distant belt of trees, wherein is contained all that I possess my small
flock of sheep. It is their nursery among those trees, under the rough
thatch they lie. Many of them are about to become mothers. Some are
already suckling their tiny offspring. See. I bring you one as a tribute.
He sat down upon the ground the bundle he had been carrying, laid
it tenderly at the feet of the artillery major, and opened it. A
small white lamb lay within the folds. Monsieur, the old shepherd went on.
The English guns lie in that small woods behind us. Major Montmorency said
nothing, but the lines of his mouth suddenly hardened, and a different look
came into his smoldering eye. And there is just a chance, Monsieur,
I am an old old man, and I may never see the sunshine of
another spring. Again, I say it. It is a small kindness,
a little thing. Spare my lambs. I will see to it, said
the Major curtly, for he was no more sentimental less than he was archaeologist.
Take your tribute away with you. I don't want it. Take it
back to its mammy, and begone. Ten thousand thanks, monsieur. And
the old gentleman with the long white whiskers picked up his bundle and departed.
Methinks, said the Major softly to himself. Methinks my shepherd doth protest too
much. And he turned and entered the little Word, where lay the big
guns of ex battery, so cunningly concealed that they were as invisible to the
casual visitor as a skulking woodcock amid the thorn. And I wonder. The
Major tore open another packet of woodbines. I wonder, said he, how
that dwight whiskered old reprobate knew our guns were here? Well, said Major
Montmorency, who had been taking a stroll down towards the lines, worried a
good deal on the subject of his beloved guns. Well, nothing doing,
my diamond studded, plutocratic embossed Private Soldier, No nothing, monty old son,
replied Private Pinkerton, who felt rusty and very much bored. I'm thinking
about starting a hun's Mutual Improvement and Encouragement Society. Anything to lure him on
the beggars Satan finds some mischief, still quoted the major, But you'd better
postpone your kindergarten class. I've got a little job for you, should you
happen to be moved by the spirit of adventure. Over there, he jerked
a casual thumb in the direction of the distant belt of trees, there is
an innocent little sheepfold a lambing crash, to be precise, full of plump
young bleaters, which I want exploring with care and circumspection. Take a very
careful pee, put the sweet little nursery, and report to me everything you
see. And here that's all, and to night's the night writer responded Pinkerton.
I'm game any old thing, from sheep to sausages. And by the
way, should your suspicions be aroused by what you see, remember if you
meet an old gentleman with white whiskers waving in the wind, give him either
a wide berth or a free pass. To Jordan's hospitable shore. Wear whiskers
and keep your eye skinned. The night, as the day had been,
was peaceful and warm when Private Pinkerton and Private Pickles set out on their long
lone track adown the valley. Pinkerton had chosen Pickles as a companion for company
two. Pickles, who had been in his free and splendid youth, a
boy scout with Hamstead Heath for the exercise of his craft. The job was
a game to his own heart. He armed himself with a couple of roomy
sacks. What in the world are they for disguise, asked Pinkie, who
knew the lad's weakness or anything? Theatrical no, replied the lad, for
loot, possibility of lamb cutlets for breakfast and mint sauce. I've told the
boys, and their mouths don't afterward, Neiva. They've promised to keep the
ome fires burning while wear away on the giddy jaunt. The journey for once
was completely uneventful. Not a whisker could be seen waving in the breeze,
and when the pair at last reached the shadow of the trees, there was
never a sound to be heard. The two were lying flat side by side.
The ex boy scout cautiously raised his head, the wind being favorable for
his experiment, and sniffed a long, long drawn sniff. I can smell
something, muttered Pickles. But it ain't sheep. It's more more like the
receiver and ward. At Oxton Workhouse on a hot Saturday night, a uman
sawt of Haroma. But if there are any sheep there which I missed out,
I guess this will fetch him. And the highly imaginative mister Pickles raised
his rough head once again and admitted a horse and quavering bah. There was
no response from the stilly, mysterious fold. But there as the moon cast
her fitful gleam upon the peaceful landscape, there were the little huts sure enough
roughly thatched. To make sure, murmured mister Pickles. I'll just worm along
and make a close investigation. And, with nature's aid abundantly at hand to
assist him, he disguised himself with incredible swiftness as a shock of corn,
and vanished into the night. Presently, the shock of corn returned trembling in
every year, though there was no wind to account for this. Remarkable palsy
well said Pinkerton, any luck, any loots, any lambkins, No whispered
the shaking shock of corn, never so much as the waggle of a tail.
But guns, guns, German guns, My sacred aunt, scores of
them. Oh hoh, said Pinkerton. That's their little game, is it?
Back back to the filter, my subtle microbe back for your life.
In the light of the early morning, the battery major was still astride the
fallen tree beyond the wood. He was still smoking a spluttering woodbine as he
talked quietly into the receiver of a little portable telephone, the bright copper wire
of which trialed out over his shoulder like a golden thread and vanished into the
cops Range six thousand. Got it right, then let her rip, and
suddenly the little wood burst into a mighty roar. Just in time, chuckled
Monty to himself as he watched through his glasses the shattering havoc commit the distant
sheepfold. Another ten minutes and they'd have had us. But I guess we've
upset their apple cart this trip. But the boys behind were sad and hungry,
cursing private pickles and sarcastic towards Pinkerton and then cutlets. What about um,
asked the ravenous mcquirk. Enough and to spare across there, replied Pinkie,
if you have a mind to go and fetch'em, and if you're bloom
and cannibals. That concludes chapter nineteen of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues
with chapter twenty Gold Gothar. Like a ferret emerging from a rabbit hole,
the sapper crawled out of his burrow, blinking stupidly in the unwonted glare of
the sun. His face was gray, haggard and bearded. His clothes,
what there were of them, were indescribably foul. He looked like a later
arrival, a corpse which had overslept itself of the resurrection. With the last
trump long since sounded, and the remainder of his companions translated each to his
appointed sphere, he saw men as trees walking. He had arisen from an
underworld of haggard nightmare, only to find himself in a land of dreams.
With difficulty, he found his voice. His speech was hoarse and thick,
a sort of goblin whisper, but the words which came were unmistakably British,
and to the point, we've got the blighters this time, growled the goblin.
Hold tight and lookout, boys, what oh for the expletive resurrection?
Where have you come from? Asked Pinkerton, thanking his stars as he gazed
upon this patched and smothered ragbag of a man. That he hadn't been born
an engineer from underneath the ever last and dead, replied the sapper, bearing
a yellow tooth in a gruesome twist of the lip. Were no doubt,
he intended for a pleasant smile, and then along a pitch black mole run
for about an hundred thousand miles from where the rude forefathers of the Amlets sleep
to air. It's been an ele of a job mining that churchyard, with
the other swines counter mining, and both of us bumping heads in the dark.
But it's done at last, thank Gold. And now it's your turn,
me tough and wiries, to trot along and sweep up the almighty mess
of the fireworks have gone off. When Gabriel blows his penny trumpet and the
pop gun goes bang, it's up Guards and Adam, and I wish you
joy of the circus got any grub. Pinkerton fished out a slab of chocolate
and offered it to the famished girl, who shook his head and growled chocolate,
He said, bitterly, hasn't the British Army got anything else? And
chocolate on its bloom and mean eue? I've been livin on nothing else than
chocolate creams and seedy cake for the past week. Hadn't you got anything?
I can fasten me teeth into one by one, and each more disreputable,
if that were possible, than the other. The remainder of the goblins climbed
out of the hole. The last one was unwinding a coil of copper wire,
and as he emerged into the daylight, he fixed a little instrument to
it, with a button switch attached, very much like the switch of an
ordinary electric light. He sat down outside the hole, dangling the toy on
his knee as a mother would nurse her tiny child, or Claire said.
He and the rest of his comrades, having finished their job, crawled away
to sleep or to smoke. As the spirits moved them. They were utterly
unconcerned in what was to follow. They had carried out their orders. It
was enough. A message was dispatched to headquarters to the effect that the train
was laid just a word over the wire, that was all. Another word
trembled along the line. The men in the forward trench, and this included
all who were left a private Pinkerton's company, were to hold themselves in readiness
for the spring of the mine, then to rush the churchyard and take it
at all costs. This place of tombs had been a thorn in our side
long enough. Somehow the thorn had to be removed. There were German guns
repeatedly snarling from behind the tombstones, and there were guns and still more guns
hidden among the ruins of the church itself. A new and a nasty game,
this body snatching, growled Sergeant Major Singleton. I don't like it doing
the burke and hair business at my time of life. But however, glory
allelujah, there she goes, boys. And as he spoke, the churchyard
of x and apparently the greater part of its population, living and dead,
rose like a wave in the sea, and broke like the crest of it.
A tongue of livid flame flickered for an instant over the wreck, and
in an outpouring of mephitic smoke, whilst distant thunder rumbled. All for the
time was obscured into the blinding, bewildering paul and under the very crash of
the last few shells from our own obedient batteries far away. Our men ran,
scarce knowing what they did or where they were going, half blinded by
the clinging black smoke, stifled by the unholy fumes. It was nightmare business,
grim and horrible, an adventure such as one undertakes at demon bidding in
a wild dream, under the glare of a moon blood red. Aghast at
his occupation, Pinkerton stumbled along with the rest to find himself fighting with them
in an obscene fog which he not only felt, but which he could smell.
Old Man Singleton was still by his side, said he and us up
to us to clear up this unoly mess. A battalion of archangels with commissions
as crossing sweepers who had had their work cut out to do the job,
and only snakes. Look. They were in the middle of the burial ground.
Now, the awful wreckage of it was past all description. The dead
of the past and the present dead were here. In silent and dreadful fellowship.
Great gray rats were leaping and scurrying among them mounds. One of them
sat defiant and beastly upon a leaning tombstone, more hideous than any gargoyle fashioned
by human hands. Worse still, it was alive and fierce. And at
bay that for you, foul fiend, yelled the old man, as he
heaved a lump of rubble at the beast. The old gray rat crouched,
but moved no more than that, and the missile passed over it. But
there was still work to be done in this ghastly Golgotha. Though there was
a great yawning crater, fringed and piled with nameless things, in the middle
of the churchyard, one corner of it had escaped the eruption, and this
the few Germans who remained alive still held. Machine gun was concealed here,
and the first onset of the leaping Khaki figures was held up by its stuttering,
malignant fire. A dozen men were swept down and lay some still,
some writhing. Then mercifully the belt of the gun jammed, and the skulking
Germans had to come out and make a fair fight of it hand to hand.
They fought well and desperately, for they were all big men and lusty.
Their backs were to the churchyard wall, or what remained of it.
And when the smoke and the dust cleared, they found that in the matter
of numbers, they and their opponents were well matched. A huge hun singled
out mcquirk. Come on, Scottie, he shouted, there'd be graves wide
and for both of us in this kirkyard. Lay on, lay on McDuff.
Yeah, fresh Scotland, maybe, cried the piper, not a little
surprised at the talk of the man, A laddie frum dundee. And it's
pleased I'll be getting back there after the war that ye'll never do, or
I'll know the reason why. Board the hefty scott and in one great leaping
stride he was up to him with a mighty bayonet thrust. The German,
who was similarly armed, parried the thrust deftly and easily. His guard right
and left was clean and effective thrust. For thrust too, he gave until
mcquirk, pride of the fighting ninety ninth in artistic bayonet exercise, found himself,
much to his disgust, matched and equalled. At last the German was
up to every move, and was evidently bent on tiring his opponent, who
was already breathing hard, but more out of anger than weariness. At last,
the German, tiring himself, tried another game. Look out man,
he sheltered, Suddenly, look behind you. For an instant mcquirk was flung
off his guard. He glanced over his shoulder, but at that very moment
he knew he felt, rather than saw, the big German gathering himself for
the supreme effort, And as he lunged, the Scot flung himself backwards.
His opponent, missing his stroke, wasted his death jab upon the unresisting air,
and by the impetus of his own furious thrust, fell sprawling upon the
body of mcquirk, who, gripping him in a mighty bear hug, swung
him over in the old wrestling role, and so got the hold of upper
dog. Thus they fought literally tooth and nail, gasping, plunging, and
thudding amid the churchyard shambles. Good at Baan at work, the Scot was
perhaps better at the wrestling. He groped, panting for the half Nelson twice
thrice. He was within an ace of accomplishing that paralyzing lock, but the
German an adept too At this Saxon Sport held his own with grim determination,
using his immense strength sparingly ach He cried once, and mcquirk, in the
midst of his heaving labor, heard the muscle's crack. Now was the supreme
moment. With his right hand gripped on the left wrist, he shifted his
bulk warily and inch by inch for the final wrench. But at the instant
of its accomplishment, his foot slipped on the greasy ground, and his alert
opponent saw his chance. By a sudden leverage of shoulders and thighs inaccurate and
harmonious combination, the giant German brought off the coup he had been so patiently
waiting and watching for. Mcquirk. To his utter amaze, found himself flung
high in the air, heels overhead. He fell on a flat tombstone,
and at the smash of his fall, every atom of breath was hammered out
of his bruised and battered body. The German rose, staggered, drunkenly,
tottered a few steps forward, and collapsed across the prostrate bulk of the winded
piper. When at last they came to themselves again, the fight had swept
clear of the churchyard to another quarter, and they were alone, the only
two living men in this blasted devil's acre. They sat up, facing one
another and blinking. You're my prisoner, said the German, wiping the filth
out of his eyes and mouth. And your mine, declared mcquirk, breathing
hard and fierce. Neither had strength to seize the other. Neither had an
ounce of fight left or spirits to contest the point, which, in the
matter of sheer argument, the German might have won, being a logician by
temperament and only a fighter by necessity. So they decided to tossperate. They
had only one coin between them, and that was a crooked sixpence, the
treasured property of mcquirk. The coin, spun high in the air, fell
in a crevice, and was never seen again. That concludes Chapter twenty of
Private Pinkerton Millionaire, and is also the end of section ten Section eleven of
Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.
Chapters twenty one, twenty two and twenty three, Chapter twenty one,
Death and Glory. On the night of the Great Push, pitiless cataracts of
rain, drenched and drenched again the British Army Pinkerton's trench was kneedy, pin
thick and evil smelling ooze. The carefully cherished furniture and household utensils in Captain
Crabtree's dugout were half of them afloat and half sunk fathoms deep, so that
Captain crabtree servant diving for his master's famous frying pan, was all but drowned
in his unfruitful search for that invaluable of jet de Dejannay. Captain Crabtree hauled
him out of the quag by his heels. Unfortunately for me, he said,
they do not award the Bronze Medal of the Royal Humane Society for acts
of conspicuous valor in this campaign. Otherwise, but what about my breakfast,
Smithers, I object to fighting upon an empty stomach, and this, being
Thursday, is eggs and bacon day. Oh Smithers, Yes, Sir,
spluttered Private Smithers, shaking himself like a half drowned terrier. And some of
our friends across the way are actually heaven rides sausages for breakfast. I can
smell em again to the breach Valiant Smithers for the salving of our submerged pan.
Smithers, who was a bit of a wag let fly a tremendous sneeze
which burst like shrapnel round about him. BEG pardon, sir, says he.
But don't you think we might try fishin' for it, Sir rasha on
a bent pin, Sir might get a rise that way. Captain Crabtree laughed,
as he always did. That's the pleasantries of his men, being a
good humored young gentleman, and therefore immensely popular with the crowd. I'm afraid
it wouldn't be much good, Smithers, he said, gravely. Fryin pans
aren't risin' to that lure just now, And besides, there's other fish to
fry. Or I'm very much mistaken. Captain Crabtree was right, that's that
very moment came the warning cry on smoke helmets. Thought I was correct,
muttered the young captain. They're turning on the gas now, my merry goblins,
all on with the mask every mother's son of you, and let joy
be unconfined. There was a rush, and they scrambling amid the slush,
in pale streaks of amber and pearl. Dawn was heralding her awakening in the
cold and sullen Eastern sky. But there was no glamor in the picture.
The sodden earth seemed to sob under the mournful dirge of the wind, which
carried to our mud bound worthies in the British trenches. None of the sweet
things that the early morning ought to bring, but the pale of death,
the sickening scent of decay. It carried also in a slow moving haze,
yellow and thick like a London fog, the German gas cloud, the cloud
of death. Beating, beating, were the wings of the morning, but
there was a knell in the sound of them. They were the carrying pinions
of the ass Bogel. The wind was shifty and uncertain, new favoring us
and new friendly to the poison laden gas bags of the Germans. Lamplighters orward
that was our cry, And amid the wine of the bullets and the snile
of shell, our lamplighters switched our own gason. There was much confusion in
the early glimmer, and not a little doubt as to what would happen in
our forward trenchers. For here were assembled, all excited and a throb many
hundreds of our London terriers, the Saturday night soldiers, who have been more
often than not laughed at as such? Would these clerks, shop boys,
warehousemen, drapers, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, aye, and even
tailors stand it? That was the question. Captain Crabtree, from his observation
posts at the sap Head, thought he detected some sign of wavering in the
ranks. What do you make of them? Pinky? Said he to our
mud plastered hero full of bean, Sir promptly replied Private Pinkerton. I'm not
so sure, muttered the Captain, shaking his head, now hideously masked against
asphyxiation. And look at the blasted fog rollin up to m London particular,
Sir said Pinkie. It's their element, just like home. Better leave'm to
it, sir. Then the British big guns began their Vulgnerian overture. The
distant batteries of the Germans replied, and their shells came loping overhead, phew,
phew, phew. Round and about they burst, sometimes with a shattering
roar, and sometimes with a hideous squelching noise when they plugged into the mud
and the slime. Thus the battle opened in the dim half light, crepuscular
and uncanny. For well nigh an hour the duel raged and roared. Suddenly
came the longer waited for lull. The whistle squealed like the distant screech of
a bo'sun's pipe, squealed for the charge. But the Prentice boys of London
still wavered, or seemed to waver in the increasing rack of vapor. Then
it was that Piper mcquirk tore off his goblin visor, utterly, heedless of
all the gasometers of Germany, clapped his chanter to his lips, took a
mighty breath of poison fumes enough to choke a dozen men, and let out
with the campbells are coming, Hurrah, Hurrah. And so he played,
this great and brave piper, marching up and down the crest of the trench,
heedless of the bullets that sang round him like wasps, heedless and unharmed.
It was a sight for the gods. A rattling cheer went up down,
you damned fool of a highlander, roared a voice, and down in
the mud rolled the giant piper, and the music of his pipes trailed off
into a whining sort of dirge for all the world, like the last expiring
squeak of that once famous penny toy, the dying pig bully former Quirk.
Twas no chance bullet of the hun that smote him down, but the leaping
charge of our own boys, the Saturday night soldiers from London Town. And
at the head of them ran, or rather floundered through the mud, a
bande legged little tailor from Poplar, with his needle fixed, and that needle
a well vassolined bayonet. For the first time, Shirley in our Island story,
a tailor led the charge, a decimal part of a man, as
we are all led to picture him. But this decimal, every bit,
as true stale as ever came out of British forge. All the boys knew
him and laughed at him and chaffed him as old scissors. My God,
said mc quirk, as he sat up in the mud, gasping at the
sight. If it is ne'er that wee bit snip leading the assault? Did
Gie ever and look at the bullets whipping through his bandies? Should I ever
wear the bricks? Tis mascle that would be measured by old scissors? Should
he come through this circus for the finest pair of pepper and salts as ever
paraded where tire legs inside them along Prince's Street, a bonnie Edinburgh Town.
The London Boys plowed on across this arid finland, where the fight in the
Big Push was staged mile upon mile of dismal binding quagmire, with no more
cover than would serve for a tom cat on the stalk. Two mud encumbered
to run, the Saturday Nighters simply made a parade of it, marching many
of them to certain death, with their rifles on their shoulders, songs on
their lips. If the sergeants drunk, ya rum never mind? If the
sergeants drunk, yr rum never mind. Is entitled to a drop, but
he's drunk the blasted lot. If the sergeants drunk, ya rum never mind?
The Poplar and Stepney Royal standbacks sang this, inspiring him as they charged
the barbed wire guarding the first line of German trenchers. They were ripping and
snipping and hacking at it. When the deadly machine guns enfiladed them sounded like
some bloy. A terran Calico muttered a wounded tommy with half a dozen holes
in him to another wounded boy who had escaped with only four belle came the
retort from the bloodstained lips, always talking shop, Oi, don't ye give
the under linen department a rest? Couldn't help it, Old Powell reminded me
of home, And with half a chuckle and half a sigh, the heroic
haberdasher turned his face to the cold gray mud and died. Striding along amid
the dead and the dying, Piper mcquirk reached the barbed wire upon and under
which many of our gallants had fought their last fight in this world. He
found the bandy legged tailor a poplar hooked up on a section of it,
arms spread out and head down like a scarecrow in a wheat field. He
was still alive, but all he mangled. The Piper plucked him tenderly from
the cruel barbs, and folding him in his arms as gently as a mother
with her child carried him a fall two miles across the Bloody Plain to the
village of Elle Something. Here, the tail end of the great fight was
still ebbing. The last of the Germans were being driven out with hot nickel
and cold steel, and all who were left of the French population were out
in the streets, welcoming with shelts of joy and streaming tears the entry of
the brave, the glorious English. Here too, mcquirk found his old friend
and ally, with the charmed life, almost unrecognizable in his clinging suit of
filth and grime. Private William Pinkerton pinky still, but pinky, sad and
sorrowful, for he was bending over the dying figure of Sergeant Major Singleton.
Done in this time, said old pants, breathing hard. It was them
damned machine guns that cussared rheumatism. I heard it comin, but couldn't get
damn quick enough. But I don't complain. We've had a pretty good time,
and I've tried me damned us to be a father to you bliers.
A good time, A pretty good he spoke no more, a ragged dog
with a rapscallion tail and a woebegone countenance, crept up, apparently from nowhere,
and licked the cold limp hand of the old Sergeant May. It was
Swanker, Swanker, the invincible. That concludes chapter twenty one of Private Pinkerton
Millionaire. The section continues with chapter twenty two, the Homecoming of Bill Bailey.
This was Piper mcquirk's great day. His spirit, sword, his heart
was in the highlands. He declares that it was his greedy swallowing of mighty
drafts of the German gas which accomplished his prowess, and which inspired him with
the ardor to pipe with such wonderful success the London Prentice boys out of their
trenches to the sublime charge, which meant so much for the great push another
one for the gas of occasion, said he. And it's Marcel that would
have soared like the eagle of the andes. It's food and drink Haggerson Delmore's
sauce is that German gas to me, Laddie. With Pinkerton and the remnants
of the boys, he was now in the long straggling highway of the village
of el Something. The streets were wrecked, half the houses were down,
nearly all the roofs were stripped by shellfire, and the dead and the dying
were so thickly strewn round about that at every step one stumbled among them.
But for all that, there was an atmosphere almost of hilarity about the place.
The inhabitants streamed out of what remained of their homes, dancing and singing
around the English soldiers, kissing them, garlanding their heads with flowers, and
making special pets of the Highlanders. Piper mcquirk's sandy thatch was crowned with a
wreath of chrysanthemums. The maids danced a gay found ago around him. He
had one of them on each arm. They were the prettiest be shermquirk would
see to that. Along they cried, along. Lead us through the town
to the Cafe of the Flowers of the Forest, where Madame leban is even
now preparing a notion of soup beyond shore for the warming of the souls of
the mighty English. Lead us great and glorious Tamas to the magic music of
La Cornemuse. This was business to the heart of the giant scot. He
formed the encircling crowd as best he could in fours and tuning up the faithful
corner muse once again to concert pitch blew valiantly. The opening bars of Haylan
Laddie given the word to march Pinkye, he cried, and fall in yourself
with the second bonniest, and there shall be such a procession as never was.
Send me rival at the pipes, the pie gentlemanner Hamlin, he was
ne'er sir Dusty at the Strasspey March at all the kiddies of the tune to
glory Land in the deep bowels of the mountain of Never was on a van
cried Pinkerton. And thus to the whirling music of Sandy mc work, and
to the cheers and the laughter of the tired but still merry London boys grouped
around the march began far up in a glimmer of blue sky, a questing
towel, so high as to be almost invisible, saw the sportive throng and
tossed its flowers from Cloudland as a tribute. The blooms he scattered were bombs,
but his aim was bad, and they burst far away amid a heap
of the German dead, adding only the mockery of mutilation to their stark and
twisted forms. He was seen from afar by a British hawk, chased,
fought out, maneuvered, and finally brought down with a smash close by.
But the gay procession went on unheed to the heartening skirl of Highland Laddie.
This swift fate of a roving murderer sky high one moment, and a pitiable
smother of blood and twisted wire and torn pinions the next, was just an
incident, an unconsidered item in the day's work, in a village in whose
streets it had become the custom to walk with death daily, and unafraid.
On a vong along the stricken streets, this gay throng moved, and still
the piper played. But as they turn in the road, the music suddenly
stops. The procession wavered, the shouts and the happy laughter died away,
and with blanched faces, the girls cried in terror Leis Alaman, to astonishment
of mcquirk, to the utter bewilderment of Private Pinkerton, to the consternation of
the women and girls. There appeared, not a hundred paces away another procession,
a slow marching throng of forty or fifty enormous huns moving at the goose
step, grave, absurd and solemn. Pinkerton noticed to his relief that they
were unarmed anyway. They had with them neither rifle nor bayonet. No particular
air of aggression marked their movement, which seemed to be not so much deliberate
as forced, Nor did the light of conquest shine from their eyes, which
were leaden and sullen. They appeared to be convoying something sort of palanquin in
their midst, over which four stalwart forms bent subserviently, as a hidden voice
from under the palanquin or whatever it might be, bade them either advance or
linger. Now and again, one of the foremost four would straighten himself suddenly,
as though some sciatic twinge had smote him. It was altogether an incomprehensible
scene. Neither Pinkerton nor mcquirk could make anything of it. Slowly, slowly
in massed formation, the mysterious hung procession advanced nearer and nearer they came to
mcquirk's rival pilgrimage of Joyousness. Now mute and wondering what could it be,
what did it mean? Then Pinky heard from the midst of the surly,
gray coated throng. A voice he seemed somehow to remember, a voice reminding
him of home far away. Whoa mare, steady on there go easy?
You would he ark at a covenant? Gently, gently, easy over the
stones? Ah? Ye would? Would ye? Then take that? There
was a swift movement from under the half hidden palanquin whereat one of the foremost
bearers leaped forward with a howl of agony. The ark of the covenant collapsed,
the ranks of the unwilling huns opened, and there was disclosed a picture
at which Pinkerton staggered to behold, staggered, rubbed his eyes to make sure
that he wasn't dreaming, and then almost collapsed in a weak cackle of laughter.
For there on the tip down palanquin squatted a figure he remembered with a
swift pang of merriment only too well, like the Persian emperor of the Eastern
tail with his legs interwoven under him, like a nodding Mandarin on the road
to peek in non market day, like a grim carven Buddha in his dim
temple, with priests and acolytes around him, sat and grinned and nodded,
prodding now and again as the spirit moved him with a nasty looking sword bayonnet,
the plump and quivering hind quarters of the hun who happened to be nearest
him. Like all this, and yet like nothing else in this world or
the next, sat mister William Bailey, soldier, cracksman and hero of Thornycroft.
He was bloodstained and holt, with a ready made tornicuet twisted above a
ban at jab in the calf of his leg. He was shockingly dirty and
bedraggled, but there was no mistaking that insolent eye and the impertinence of demeanor
which accompanied it. Besides, no one but mister Bailey, save perhaps Lord
Kitchener or the late Julius Caesar at a pinch, would have the impudence to
lead by the nose at his imperious bidding a very considerable chunk of the Crown
Prince's army, single handed and solitary, with only a rusty sword bannet between
him and kingdom. Come. The fact that he went one better than that,
and not only led them but made them carry him was a sterling tribute
to the spirit that lies smoldering in the breasts of the British professional classes,
from Bishop's upwards to burglars. Ought you expl ifs, says mister Bailey,
in a voice which none dared disobey. Oh or old skin, you're alive,
every mother's son of you. Oh you double m stitch blitherer, nuns,
the expletives halted to a man alt and my wife for a rival,
Sercus Canterbury, pilgrims they look like, or maybe it's a wedding, or
why Jerusalem bloomin artichokes if it ain't old pinky artcakes or coffee, and Allelujah's.
The maddest millionaire is ever wasted is riotless youth squatting in a trench when
he might be blowing off himself out every day and all day on the fat
of the land, giblet, soup and caramels, off gold plate and jeweled
in every hole. What in the name of thunder is all this? Cried
Pinkerton, A little all of yours, truly, replied the militant burglar with
a grin. Allow me to introjuse you, mister Pinkerton. My prisoners,
my prisoners, Mister Pinkerton, He swung round angrily to the fire, even
forty huns who were standing by, sullen and mute with faces as blank as
a workhouse wall. Tension you mud, livid skunks. Tension and salute,
or your next moments will be your last salute. They obeyed halfheartedly as you
were roared mister Bailey, and now again smarter than last time. Or he
brandished his terrible sword bannet. You'll know the reason why, try and stuff
it into your fat heads that I am von Edenburgh. Your prisoners that lot,
How in the world did you manage to rope him in, asked Pinkerton,
when they might have eaten you boots and all, Oh dead easy,
replied mister Bailey offhandedly. Came across them all in a bunch in the second
bloomin trench beyond the barbed wire, made a noise like the alshold cavalry on
the giddy Huru, and they upped with their maulers in a jiffy, said
they've got wives an hundred of kids at home, when on their marrow bones
they did and implored me not to plug em, and me, bleeding all
the time like a stuck pig with six inches of bannet, threw mey calf
and as near a goner as well. Anyway, the sight of their scared
faces and the fact that here before me was the biggest flighted crib I'd ever
cracked, and I've cracked a fu in my time, put new life into
me, so to speak. Then I told em as how the White Chapel
wanderers would be along in two minutes, Jackner rippers, fifteen hundred strong,
that they never took no prisoners, under no consideration whatever, wives and families,
grandmothers and babies in arms notwithstanding, nevertheless, and that somehow settled their
ash. So they come along like lambs, And here we are, all
alive and kickin'. Pink emy, lad ev have you heard from home lately,
old cock and Lady Angelina a rare slasher that little bit of good?
Say? Do you realize what you've been and gone and done? You heroic
blooming hooligan, said Pinkerton. It's the Victoria Cross ten to one. Well,
if I add it in my hands this very moment, do you know
what I'd do with it? Said mister William Bailey. I'm that blasted dry
that I'd swap it here and now for a stiff pot of four half that
concludes chapter twenty two of Private Pinkerton Millionaire. The section continues with chapter twenty
three. Cupid All armed, Cupid, all armed a certain aim. He
took at a brave burglar thrown head in the west, and loosed his love
shaft smartly from his bow, adapted from a midsummer night's stream, with the
attitude of a king. Disposing of his captives for sacrifice, mister Bailey handed
over his five and forty hun prisoners to a small guard chosen from the poplar
parishers, and retaining four gloomy brunswickers for his own personal bearers, climbed once
more into his palanquin and joined up with mcquirk's glynd pilgrimage en route for Madame
Lebon's aromatic soup kitchen. One of the laughing girls wreathed for him a crown
of chrysanthemums. The piper changed his tune from a lament to a peblock,
and to those inspiring strains. The merry crowd moved on. The remainder of
the day was sheer, rest and gladness. The heroes enthroned were mister Bailey,
Sandy mcquirk and private Pinkerton, And what exactly happened after the soup feast
and the sausages and the red wine laced freely with adulation. Not one of
the three can put his Bible oath to except that mister Bailey declared that it
beat cock fighting and cream cheese. That mcquirk recalled out of the glorious haze
certain romantic Saturday night adventures along the Lothian Road in his callow and gingery youth,
And that Pinky thought a lot, but wisely and to the manner of
him, held his peace, so retaining that reputation for wisdom. That's many
a wiser man who wags his head more than his tongue has kept to his
dying day. Where said mister Bailey, lazily and softly slumbrous, after the
soup and trimmings had been disposed of, Well, and what do you think
of things? Funny, old world? What? And ain't we just even
the time of our lives? If it wasn't for the Censor and the Criminal
Investigation Department, and for fear of puffing the gaff on old Pals, I'd
sit down and write straight away to the Honorable Secretary of the United Burglars and
Bankbusters Association unlimited. Such a recruiting letter to be read in public meat and
assembled to the boys, as would not Earl Darby's mechanical love letter composing typewriter
into a cocked hat. And why not, Pinkerton, a few words straight
from the horse's mouth would be more than balming gileiad in Blighty. Just now
try it. The battle scarred burglar shook his rough head. Circumstances of orthography,
he said, sadly, over which I have no bloom and controlled pinky.
I'm at no loss for eloquence. It's always a bubbling up, like
the crystal spring in the Band of Hope. But when it comes to setting
of it, Dan in black and white, I'm about as useful at it
as a crocodile is at skirt dancing. No matter, said Pinkerton consolingly,
there's no need for literature in these swift days. We've reached a pitch old
pal where the sword isia than the pen. Mister Bailey removed his chrysanthemum wreath
from his troubled brow like a weary oppressed king, and placed it experimentally upon
his cocked up foot. Where he gazed upon it with his head on one
side and addressing the chrysanthemums rather than his companion, said, with a certain
air of unexpected shyness, don't you believe it? If I could only write,
if I could just give expression in indelible pencil or ink or burnt match
heads, any old thing as it'd make a mark. If I could only
record in black and white the thoughts as well up in my bosom, struggling
for the light. Man, you're drunk oakin pinkerton. Brutally, mister Bailey
kicked the wreath from his toe, caught it deftly as it fell, and
replaced it on his head. Not drunk, he said, sorrowfully, Only
desperate art sick. Jigg it up. I s'pose it's something like old Charlie
Chaplain, bursting with sorrow because he all the time wants to play Lady Isabel
dead and never called me mother Alas instead of spender. And all is natural
in fallen down, open cellar flaps, I'd live in a trench up to
my neck in CORPSEI water, I'd I'd do any bloomin thing if I could
only write like he smote his breast, sighing stormily well, murmured Pinky encouragingly.
If you could only write like what out with it? My heartsick hero
like like her, whispered mister Bailey. And for the first time in his
life, something surged over his face, which, had it been washed,
might have been taken or mistaken for a blush. War makes strange bedfellows in
moments such as these of respite, when the eagle of death is not screaming
overhead, and earthquake and eclipse are stilled, the most solemn confidences are exchanged
between soul and soul. The corkscrew of circumstance extracts the cork of secrecy with
an explosive of suddenness from the most jealously wired magnum of humanity. Like her,
said the burglar, in a tone of reverence, nay, of absolute
awe, and plunging his hand within his brave and gallant breast, he withdrew
therefrom a packet of mud stained letters, tied together with a piece of tarred
string. Without a word, he tossed them over to Pinkerton, leaned forward
and buried his face in his grimy hands, rocking gently to and fro.
The cork was out PLoP. One glance at the stained and splashed documents,
secretly watered perhaps by furtive burglarious tears, was sufficient to acquaint Pinkie with the
tragedy of the situation. There was no mistaking that bold, highly ornamented hand,
that heavy passionate underlining of certain intimate words. Even the color of the
paper faded to almost invisible pink, even the nearly obliterated scent of violets still
clinging to the packet, in spite of its long and intimate nestling within the
faithful bosom of mister Bailey, advertised the identity of the fair scribe who had
spent so many anxious but delicious hours in unburdening her soul to her lonely soldier
hero somewhere on the far flung battle front. They were the letters of Lady
Angelica. You can read and pinky, said mister Bailey, Horseley, the
old bloomin' loot, don't mind me. One glance through the packet was enough,
without even untying the knotted cable of tarred string which bound this languorous catalog
of sweet nothings together. No replied Pinkerton, and a great spirit of resolution
shone in his amiable face. No, some things are too sacred for the
curious eyes of casual acquaintanceship, even friendship, And this is one of m
Far be it from me to break into the shrine where young love lies enthroned.
Take back your bill Adu, And he tossed the packet over to the
crouching love lorn burglar. It wasn't my fault, declared mister Bailey, letting
out another sigh from the bottom of his heart. I only told her when
we was together, Dwan at your place at Forneycroft, that I'd got no
friends in the wide, wide world, same as I told you, mate,
in a bust of confidence. Are that their heartcake razzle with the onward
Christian soldier's lot, and Lady Angelica ups and says, what are you one
of them lonely soldiers? She says, Well, you won't be quite so
lonely, mister Bailey, she says, when you get back to the front,
for I'm goin to cheer you up, she says, in that nice
friendly wire hers which no doubt you've observed. Oh it will be killin says
she and her eyes lit up like fireworks. And when I says, I'd
as soon had my leg blowed off by a Jack Johnson as pulled by a
high born lady, she ups again and apologizes, like the true sport she
is. I didn't mean to pull your leg, mister Bailey, she says,
And I didn't mean it exactly when I said it'd be killing. Let's
say that it will be romantic, mister Bailey, she says, and very
handsome she looks in Magan the amend Honorary. And that's how it began.
For weeks and months, Lady Angelina has been sending them them epistles along and
I've been replying. It began sort of clandestine, like in a manner of
speaking, and her ladyship's open and bombardment was a trifle frosty and formal.
But since then, Pinky and this is between me and you and the gate
Post. Since then the temperatures rise and there's a sort of mutual understanding.
But I thought you said you couldn't write, said Pinkerton. Well, and
what are that, replied the burglar. I just took a leaf out of
a book A general French who keeps dogs to do his bargain and private secretaries
to conduct his correspondence. I could do my own bargain but polite letter writing
being out of my element. I got private Pickles, who's a salesman in
a sausage and mash shop when his home, but I particular killing me and
at turning a phrase to act as my am or new whatever you call at,
and me and in together worked the business at I'll give you my early
bird. I've kept copies of some of the best and brightest in case you
never know your luck. And then last Monday week the bottom tumbled out at
a whole blooming show. The inspiration evan temporarily run dry, young pick strolled
out in the moonlight to look for ideas. It's so happened that the Germans
were also at looking for something else. And poor Pickles never come back.
And there you are no letters from me, and never a word from Lady
Angelie. Ten to one she thinks on pipped, what's a poor devil to
do anyway? And once more mister Bailey, looking like a dejected and demoralized
Bacchus, after a wild night out, buried his face in his hands,
his crown of chrysanthemum slipped sideways. Pinkerton gazed upon him sadly. Was it
a tear he saw trickling through those tense fingers, He was not quite sure,
But as he gazed, he heard the soldier lonely once more and forlorn
sigh, And there was a world of sadness in that sigh. That night,
the home post came in, and as the Royal engineers orderly handed out
the long expected packets to the men, as they filed past, he called
out the name AND's number of Private William Bailey, another thieven taylor's bill,
said mister Bailey, as he, unconcernedly and with an absolutely expressionless face,
crammed the letter, unopened into his pocket. Pinky saw him and thought it
rather strange that a tailor should send in his little bill, enclosed in a
pink envelope redolent of the smell of violets. But never a word said he.
That concludes Chapter twenty three of Private Pinkerton Millionaire, and is also the
end of section eleven, and is also the end of Private Pinkerton Millionaire by Harold Ashton