“Oh, Miss Saurin, would you come and speak to Jimmy?” or Cliffie or Sally—or some one or other. And I would be obliged to confront the criminal wearing the air of a Caesar reproaching his Brutus with a last “Et tu?”
Nearly always that would suffice, but sometimes I had to ring a change and in dramatic tones threaten the offender with the prospect of running the gauntlet or the extreme penalty of having his honours stripped from his breast before the eyes of the world. Jimmy Grant wore my Bisley medal: for highest cricket score. Cliffie Shannon had a miniature of President Grover Cleveland set in amethysts strung round his wiry neck: for measuring biggest round the calf. Claude Macdonald (an Aberdeen Presbyterian) proudly displayed a Pius IX bronze medal, and I believe secretly considered the “super nos spiritus de excelso” as being specially applicable to his prowess in running. Various members of the brigade wore twisted silver bangles of which I fortunately had a number. It would have been a serious matter to have been deprived of these decorations, and a threat of such a tragedy was usually quite enough to ensure good conduct.
But on the whole the nice things behaved with a reasonableness that would have become many of the older people in laager. Among the Dutch folk many disagreeable incidents occurred. Neither were some of our guardians and defenders above reproach. The men who were off duty often made merry in their own quarters, and in dull times it is supposed that they essayed to keep their spirits up by pouring spirits down. Colonel Blow and his staff kept good order, but there were some incorrigibles and one of the worst was Mr Skeffington-Smythe. Often on hot nights we were obliged to close our tiny porthole window which overlooked the main yard and do without air rather than be disturbed by the thrilling conversations which occurred between Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, safely and exclusively tied inside her tent, and Monty, returned late from a convivial gathering, clamouring piteously without:
“Porkie! Porkie! Let me in... Darling! Let me in! How am I to sleep out in this infernal yard?”
“Go away!”
“Porkie!” in a yearning, heart-searing tone.
“Go away! Wretch! Pig!”
“Nina, was it for this I came down through deadly danger to mind you, instead of going off with all the fellows to have a good time at the front?”
Exclamations of disgust, quite indescribable, from inside the tent.
“I bet they’re having a better time than I am now, Porkie!”