III.
‘Next prisoner,’ ordered the president, after shaking himself and wiping the traces of the mop off his face.
Tosher Johnson was marched in, guarded by two hefty lads. We were taking no risks with the wild Canadian.
‘Corporal Tosher Johnson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Worshipping the almighty dollar; (2) Always muttering “gaw-damn;” (3) Pulling a railway alarm-cord; (4) “Swanking it” in Glasgow.’
‘Evidence,’ commanded the president.
‘Sir,’ said Ginger, ‘the accused is a Canadian, and therefore a mystery. He blew in about 1915 from out West, and reckoned he was the man to win the war. His career is like that of all backblockers—most varied and adventurous. He commenced life eating pork-pies in Nova Scotia. At the age of twelve he was assistant to a negro medicine-man, who sold corn-cure at a penny a time. The corn-cure, I may say, was made out of wagon-grease stolen from the C.P.R. Having done in the son of Ham for about a hundred dollars, he went West, where he started a shoe-shining parlour and a horse-betting booth. Next he was seen in a fat-reducing advertisement; after which, he floated a company to supply the ladies of Winnipeg with imitation busts.
‘In these ventures he was, like all Canucks, highly successful, and therefore plunged into real estate. This is a get-rich-quick scheme. Tosher was a star turn. He took double-page advertisements in the home papers, and sold corner lots to dukes, commoners, and simpletons. When these “duds” went out to stake their plots in Paradise Alley, they discovered their land was in the Arctic regions, and tenanted only by Eskimos. What did Tosher do? Why, he simply apologised, and said his clerk had made a mistake by turning the map upside-down!
‘Since then he has had a dollar for his crest, a dollar for his god. He has got money in everything from corn-plaster to chewing-gum, and he reckons to fizzle off this ‘ere planet (as he calls it) with about a hundred thousand dollars, earned while chewing cigars and drinking cocktails in Montreal, Toronto, and the mixed-bathing cave up in Banff, Alberta. The fellow’s a marvel!’
‘Look here, Mr Thomson; this is a court-martial. Evidence! Evidence! We’re not here to get the story of how we all lost our money before the war.’
‘Very good, sir! The second charge is, “Always muttering ‘gaw-damn.’” That is the motto on his shirts and socks. When he spits it out with a Chicago tang, he means you to know he’s no soft-headed fellow from Balliol, but a real son of a gun from Chewing-Gum Land. This historic adjective is joined to “guessing” and “calculating.” And he reckons he’s real prime, six-shooting, hot stuff in this gaw-damn land of weasels and crows. And he isn’t slow! He can talk the head off a Dutchman, pulverise a cockatoo, give you a one-pound note for a tenner, and send you away with a feeling that he’s real good, and the best kid that ever dropped out of “Taurauntoe.”
‘The third charge, sir, is, “Pulling a railway alarm-cord” while on leave. Apparently he got into the company of a simple old Scottish gentleman, who was accompanied by his wife and rather charming daughter. Tosher took the corner seat like a conqueror, and muttered, “It was real fine to get away from the gaw-damn Boche.”
‘“Are you just from the Front?” the old gent inquired.
‘“Yip!” he said, lighting a twopenny havana.
‘“You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?”
‘“You fellows are winning the war.”
‘“I guess so.”
‘And in this vein he went on. He spun them yarns as tall as a wireless mast, relating how he had missed the V.C. by going round the wrong corner, lost the D.S.O. because the gaw-damn officer wasn’t there, and was recommended by Joffre for the Legion of Honour for holding up a German army corps with a Woodbine and a six-shooter. These poor, innocent mortals were bewildered. The accused is greater than Louis de Rougemont. He then showed them nicotine-stained fingers, and said it was blood; his vaccination-mark was a cut by a shell; and a birth-mark on his chin was a bit sliced off by a Prussian prince of the gaw-damn Prussian Guard.
‘The old gent and his party were thrilled.
‘“But, say, old friend, have a cigar to chew,” remarked Tosher.
‘“Thanks, I will.”
‘Tosher opened his case, but found it was empty.
‘“Sorry. I guess I’m run out. Where can I get some?”
‘“Not till Carlisle. We have two hours to go yet.”
‘“I reckon we pass other bum towns en route.”
‘“Oh yes.”
‘“Well, I guess I’ll call the guard,” said Tosher, jumping up to the alarm-cord.
‘“You can’t pull that—you’ll be fined.”
‘“What? I’m a Canadian!” And he pulled the cord. The brakes went on with a bang, and the old guard hurried up along the line.
‘“Say, old Father Time,” shouted Tosher.
‘“What’s up?”
‘“Stop yer old bus at the next bum town. I want some cigars to chew.”
‘“I’ll shove ye in jail!” roared the guard.
‘“Easy, old child.”
‘“What’s your name?”
‘“My mother christened me Johnson.”
‘“You’re a Canadian, I suppose?”
‘“Yip!”
‘“All right. I’ll show you I’m a Scotsman.”
‘Tosher didn’t get the cigars. He got “Five quid, or twenty-one days,” at the Police Court.’
‘What did he say to that?’ inquired the president.
‘Oh, he reckoned it was gaw-damn stiff that a bloke who was winnin’ the war couldn’t get out of an express for cigars.’
‘I see! I see!’
‘The final charge, sir, is, “‘Swanking it’ in Glasgow.” He had a maple-leaf in his cap about the size of a young fir-tree, smoked evil-smelling cheroots the size of a submarine, stopped the traffic when he wanted to cross the road, and tried to elope with all the best-looking women in the town.
‘“Who are you?” asked an interested lady.
‘“Tosher Johnson, real prime, and the best kid out of Taurauntoe.”
‘“All right! There’s my card. Call and see me to-morrow.”
‘When Tosher got there her father was waiting for him. The old man was a brain specialist. That’s all the evidence, sir,’ concluded Ginger.
‘Johnson,’ said the president, ‘your career and exploits resemble those of the Arabian Knights and the adventures of Louis de Rougemont. What have you got to say?’
‘Well, boss, I guess Ginger is the brother of Ananias, and the uncle of the Kaiser. He’s just real good at the story-faking business, and after the war we’ll get him to run the Real Estate News, and the selling of corner lots in Greenland and Hudson Bay. As for the “Canuck” being top-dog in the lead-swinging business, I reckon that’s fizzled out. If Oxford can pan out liars like this ‘ere child in the future, we from out West will have to take a back-seat in the boosting business. Why, the fellow ‘u’d make his pile hanging around a Calgary beer-bar, telling them how to make a nigger into a white man, and how to turn a thousand dollar notes into ten million of the hard stuff.
‘As for “gaw-damn,” “guessing,” and “calculating,” seems to me you need some new language to tickle this old country up. You are a long-faced lot o’ wowsers, tied up by regulations and B.C. institooshuns. When you want to meet a prime girl, you need an intro.; and if you’re keen on eating with a duke, you’ve got to show your birth-certificate, and prove your father didn’t bring you into this world o’ woe without a nine-carat wedding-ring. It makes me real tired to walk around and see your orders: “Keep off the Grass;” “Keep to the Right;” “No Smoking Allowed;” “Private—Trespassers will be Prosecuted.”
‘That’s your whole gaw-damn system. You ain’t a free-thinking crowd; you’re a bunch of kids kept in order by bamboo canes and laws made by Moses. Even your little rabbits, that we gives to our dawgs, are protected by ancient statoots with about a ton of sealing-wax hanging on the tail.
‘As for your women, you don’t know how to make them smile. They’re the best-lookin’ kids on the planet, and they’re just real glad that we wild men are over to tickle them up and make them dance. Say, boys, but you are just dead-slow. Why, I can get anything in petticoats, from an heiress to a barmaid, by giving them a Taurauntoe glad eye, and saying, “Come on.” You fellows are the fag-end of an old system, and if it weren’t for us prime hustlers from out West, you’d be losing this fightin’ business.’
‘Look here, old cow-punching Bill, this isn’t a bally entertainment. It’s a court-martial. You’re on your trial for your life. What have you got to say?’
‘We never says anything out West.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Shoots!’ And Tosher banged three rounds of blank ammunition in the air.
‘Seize him! Seize him! He’s an outlaw and a desperado!’ roared Nobby.
We rushed Tosher, but he let fly at his escort, and seized Nobby in his powerful arms and dumped him out of the window.
Ginger then caught the Canadian’s legs and threw him.
‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’ shouted Tosher.
‘All right, we’ll let you off, if you stand a drink.’
‘Sure! Come on, boys;’ and off we went to have another jolly hour at the canteen.
Tosher was a sport, and he kept us laughing all the night.
There’s nothing like the army—for jolly good fun!