THE MUD LARKS.
Our Mr. MacTavish is a man with a past. He is now a cavalry subaltern and he was once a sailor. As a soldier at sea is never anything but an object of derision to sailors, correspondingly the mere idea of a sailor on horseback causes the utmost merriment among soldiers.
"Sailors on horseback!"—the very words bring visions of apoplectic mariners careering madly across sands, three to a horse, every limb in convulsion. Why, it's one of the world's stock jokes.
The pathetic part of it is that, obeying the law of opposites, the saddle has an irresistible and fatal attraction for the poor chaps. They take to it on every possible and impossible occasion. You can see them playing alleged polo at Malta, riding each other off at right angles and employing their sticks as grappling irons. You can see them over from the Rock whooping after Spanish foxes, bestriding their steeds anywhere but in the appointed place.
As every proper farmer's boy has long, long thoughts of magic oceans, spice isles and clipper ships, so I will warrant every normal Naval officer dreams of a little place in the grass counties, a stableful of long-tails and immortal runs with the Quorn and Pytchley.
It was thus with our Mr. MacTavish, anyhow. A stern parent and a strong-armed crammer projected him into the Navy, and in the Navy he remained for years bucketing about the salt seas in light and wobbly cruisers, enforcing intricate Bait Laws off Newfoundland in mid-winter, or playing hide-and-seek with elusive dhows on the Equator in midsummer, but always with a vision of that little place in his mind's eye.
His opportunity arrived with the demise of the stern parent and the acquisition of a comfortable legacy. MacTavish sent in his papers and stepped ashore for good. He discovered the haven of his heart's desire in the neighbourhood of Melton, purchased a pig and a cow (which turned out to be a bullock) to give the little place a homely air, engaged a terrier for ratting and intercourse, and with the assistance of some sympathetic dealers was assembling as comprehensive a collection of curbs, spavins, sprung tendons, pin-toes, herring-guts, ewe-necks, cow-hocks and capped elbows as could be found between the Tweed and Tamar, when—Mynheer W. HOHENZOLLERN (as he is to-day) went and done it.
The evening of August 4th, 1914, discovered MacTavish sitting on the wall of his pig-sty, his happy hunting prospects shot to smithereens, arguing the position out with the terrier. He must attend to this war, that was clear, but need he necessarily go back to the salt sea? Couldn't he do his bit in some other service? What about the Cavalry? That would mean galloping about Europe on a jolly old gee, shouting "Hurrah!" and cutlassing the foot-passengers. A merry life, combining all the glories of fox-hunting with only twenty-five per cent. of its safety—according to Jorrocks.
What about the Cavalry, then? The terrier semaphored complete approbation with its tail stump and even the pig made enthusiastic noises.
A month later MacTavish turned up in a Reserve Regiment of Cavalry at the Curragh as a "young officer." The Riding-Master treated his case as no more hopeless than anybody else's and MacTavish was making average progress until one evening in the anteroom he favoured the company with a few well-spiced Naval reminiscences.
Next morning the Riding-Master was convulsed with merriment at the mere sight of him, addressed him variously as Jellicoe, Captain Kidd and Sinbad, and, after first warning MacTavish not to imagine he was ashore at Port Said riding the favourite in a donkey Derby, translated all his instructions into nautical language. For instance: "Right rein—haul the starboard yoke line; gallop—full steam ahead; halt—cast anchor; dismount—abandon ship," and so forth, giving his delicate and fanciful sense of humour full play and evoking roars of laughter from the whole house. It did not take MacTavish long to realise that, no matter what he said, he would never again be taken seriously in that place; he was, in fact, the world's stock joke, a sailor on horseback (Ha, ha, ha!).
He set his jaw and was determined that he would not be caught tripping again; there should be no more reminiscences. Once clear of Ireland he would bury his past.
All this happened years ago.
When I came back from leave the other day I asked for Albert Edward. "He and MacTavish are up at Corpse H.Q.," said the skipper; "they're helping the A.P.M. straighten the traffic out. By the way you 'd better trickle up there and relieve them, as they're both going on leave in a day or so."
I trickled up to Corpse and eventually discovered Albert Edward alone, practising the three-card trick with a view to a career after the War. "You'll enjoy this Mess," said he, turning up "the Lady" where he least expected her; "it's made up of Staff eccentrics—Demobilizing, Delousing, Educational, Laundry and Burial wallahs—all sorts, very interesting; you'll learn how the other half lives and all that. Oh, that reminds me. You know poor old MacTavish's secret, don't you?"
"Of course," said I; "everybody does. Why?"
Albert Edward grinned. "Because there's another bloke here with a dark past, only this is t'other way about; he's a bumpkin turned sailor, Blenkinsop by name, you know, the Shropshire hackney breeders. He's Naval Division. Ever rub against those merchants?"
I had not.
"Well, I have," Albert Edward went on. "They're wonders; pretend they're in mid-ocean all the time, stuck in the mud on the Beaucourt Ridge, gummed in the clay at Souchez—anywhere. They 'come aboard' a trench and call their records-office—a staid and solid bourgeois dwelling in Havre—H.M.S. Victory. If you were bleeding to death and asked for the First Aid Post they wouldn't understand you; you've got to say 'Sick bay' or bleed on. If you want a meal you've got to call the cook-house 'The galley,' or starve.
"This matelot Blenkinsop has got it very badly. He obtained all his sea experience at the Crystal Palace and has been mud-pounding up and down France for three years, and yet here we have him now pretending there's no such thing as dry land."
"Not an unnatural delusion," I remarked.
"Well," resumed Albert Edward, "across the table from him sits our old MacTavish, lisping, 'What is the Atlantic? Is it a herb?' I'll bet my soul they're in their billets at this moment, MacTavish mugging up some stable-patter out of NAT GOULD, and Blenkinsop imbibing a dose of ship-chatter from 'BARTIMEUS.' They'll come in for food presently, MacTavish doing what he imagines to be a 'cavalry-roll,' tally-hoing at the top of his voice, and Blenkinsop weaving his walk like the tough old sea-dog he isn't, ship a-hoying and avasting for dear life."
"They're both going on leave with you to-morrow, aren't they?" I asked.
Albert Edward nodded.
"Then their game is up," said I.
Albert Edward's brow crinkled. "I don't quite get you."
"My dear old fool," said I, "it's blowing great guns now. With the leave-packet doing the unbusted broncho act for two hours on end it shouldn't be very difficult to separate the sheep from the goat, the true-blue sailor from the pea-green lubber, should it? They may be able to bluff each other, but not the silvery Channel in mid-winter."
Albert Edward slapped his knee and laughed aloud.
They all came back from England last night. I lost no time in cornering Albert Edward.
"Well, everything worked just as I prophesied, didn't it?" said I. "With the first buck the old boat gave Blenkinsop tottered to the rail and—"
Albert Edward shook his head.
"No, he didn't. He ate a pound of morphia and lay in the Saloon throughout sleeping like a little child."
"But MacTavish?" I stammered.
"Oh, MacTavish," said Albert Edward—"MacTavish took an emetic."
PATLANDER.
