III.
Jerry, my lad,—We have lost a dear friend, and with him, alas, the piping days of peace. No, he is not dead, or even moribund, but his friendship for us lives no longer. His name is Feodor, and he is a Bulgar comitadjus, or whatever is the singular of "comitadji," and he lived until lately in No. 2 Dugout, Hyde Park, just over the way.
It is a moot point which delighted us the more, Feodor's charming manner or his exquisite trousers. These two characteristics were the more pleasing because of their perfect contrast; for whereas his manner was refined and retiring, his trousers were distinctly aggressive in their flaunting shameless redness.
Feodor's appearances were at first spasmodic. This was only natural, seeing that he had not yet instilled into us his own attractive habit of laisser aller and laisser faire, and that his red trousers offered such a beautiful mark.
He would appear suddenly, smile seraphically towards us, and then disappear before our snipers could get on to him. At first of course we tried to pot him, but gradually our ferocity gave way to amazement and then to tolerance. At last came a day when Feodor climbed on to his parapet and made us a pretty little speech. We cheered him loudly, although we didn't understand much of it. Next day we brought down an interpreter and asked Feodor for an encore. His second performance was even more spirited than the first, and after a graceful vote of thanks to our benefactor we asked the interpreter to oblige.
It appeared that from his boyhood Feodor had been apprenticed to an assistant piano-tuner in Varna. Rosy days of rapid promotion followed, and the boy, completely wrapped up in his profession, soon became a deputy assistant piano-tuner. Then followed the old, old story of vaulting ambition.
The youth, his head turned by material success, sought to consolidate his social position by a marriage above his station, and dared to aspire to the hand of a full piano-tuner's daughter.
The old man tried gentle dissuasion at first, but the obstinate pertinacity of the stripling made him gradually lose patience. He was a hale and hearty veteran, and when the situation came to a climax his method of dealing with it was stern and thorough.
Seizing the hapless Feodor during an evening call he interned him in the vitals of a tuneless Baby Grand, and for three hours played on him CHOPIN'S polonaise in A flat major, with the loud pedal down. On his release Feodor had lost his reason and rushed to the nearest police-station to ask to be sent to the Front immediately. His object, he explained, was to end the War. The Bulgar authorities thought the plan worth trying and sent him off as a comitadjus; and to these circumstances we were indebted for his society.
Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him. As to sniping him now—the idea never entered our beads. Accordingly, while a deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a state of idyllic peace and hatelessness.
Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, and a large and important General asked us—
"But are you being offensive enough to the enemy in front?"
"Offensive to Feodor, Sir? Impossible!"
"You must be offensive," he rejoined. "I don't think there is sufficient hate in this part of the line."
It was this unfortunate moment that Feodor chose to step on to his parapet and call out cheerfully to the Great Man—
"Good morning, Johnee!"
For one tense moment I thought the General would burst. By an effort he pulled himself together, however, and shouted to my troops in a voice of thunder—
"At That Person in front—fifteen rounds rapid. Fire!"
We had to do it, of course, and, although I think most of our sights were a little high, accidents will happen. Feodor emitted one unearthly shriek, and his time back towards home would, if it had been taken, make a world's championship record.
I don't think he was physically hurt; but his poor trousers were badly punctured!...
Our friend, Jerry, may not be lost, but he is certainly gone behind.
Yours always,
PETER.
Lady (who has been photographed for passport). "THIS PHOTOGRAPH OF ME IS BEALLY DREADFUL. WHY, I LOOK LIKE A GORILLA!"
Photographer. "I'M VERY SORRY, LADY; BUT, YOU SEE, THE GOVERNMENT WON'T ALLOW US TO TOUCH UP ANY PASSPORT PHOTOS."
"From the Pentland Firth to Norway, the eyes of the British Fleet are those of Nunquam."—Yorkshire Post.
We suppose old Dormio is asleep as usual.
"The clergy will be pleased to hear of parishioners who are sick.".—Parish Magazine.
No doubt they mean it kindly, but it sounds rather callous.
"Holders of 15s. 6d. War Savings Certificates and scrip vouchers of the War Loan are acceptable over the Post Office counter at their face value."—-Daily News.
"'My face is my fortune, Sir,' she said."
"Will anyone give 15/- and a kind home to a nice little brown miniature poodle dog, 3 years, ideal pet and companion?"—The Bazaar.
Sixpence more and the little pet could buy a War Savings Certificate.