How to use the poem to the best purpose was a question that Milly solved. She typed it by night on her own typewriter, and then directed Rice, at the first opportunity, to put it on Fortescue's desk when his study was empty. And he did so, and this is what Fortescue found awaiting him when he returned:
"You ask us lots of questions
And we answer if we can,
And now we'll jolly well ask you one.
You call yourself a man,
Then why on earth don't you enlist
And try to do your share
Where the 'Black Marias' bellow
And the shrapnel's in the air?
And if you will not tell us why,
Then we'll tell you instead.
It's just because you funk it
And would hate to be shot dead.
In other words, in fact in one,
Most Honourable Howard,
Though of the race of Fortescue,
You are a bally coward!"
We didn't much envy Fortescue his feelings when he read these stirring lines, and in fact, I, in my hopefulness, believed they would actually win our object and start Fortescue on the path of duty and rouse him from his lethargical attitude to the war; but, strange to say, they went off him like water off a duck's back. Not a muscle moved, so to speak, or if it did nobody saw it do so. He went on his way for all the world as if civilisation was not in its death throes. And then Rice--to show you what Rice still felt about it--offered Mitchell a week's pocket-money if he would write yet another poem of even a more fiery and stinging character. And Mitchell gladly agreed, and took enormous trouble and burnt the midnight oil, as the saying is, and produced certainly a poem full of rhymes and great abuse of Fortescue, yet not nearly such a fine poem as the first. And Rice said it wasn't up to the mark and wouldn't pay for it, and Mitchell said it was a contract and written on commission and must be paid for by law. But Rice knew no law and he showed the poem to Travers major, who instantly tore it up and kicked Mitchell next time he met him and told him he was a dirty little cad.
So Mitchell cooled off to Rice, and, in fact, his next poem was actually about Rice--not written to order, but for pure hate of Rice--and it was undoubtedly a bitter and powerful poem; but Rice, being far stronger than Mitchell, made him eat it and swallow it in front of his class, though it was written in red ink. And Mitchell said if he died, Rice would be hung. But he felt no ill effects, though he rather hoped he would.
At this season, however, a far greater and more splendid poem than any Mitchell could do had appeared in England. In fact, it was set to music and England rang with it--also Ireland. At least, so Rice said, because his mother had told him so in a letter. There was a special mention of Ireland in it, and Rice's mother told him that it had made more recruits in Ireland than Mr. Redmond and Sir Edward Carson put together.
Rice never does anything by halves, and he actually learnt the poem by heart, and also found out the tune somehow and sang it when possible. Once, in fact, he woke up in the night singing it from force of habit, as the saying is, and his prefect, who happened to be Mactaggert, said there was a time for everything, and threatened to report Rice if he did it again.
I asked Rice why he had made such a great effort and learnt anything he wasn't obliged to learn, and he said, firstly, because it was the grandest poem he had ever heard, and, secondly, because he had a great idea some day to sing it to Fortescue, as it applied specially to him by dwelling on the fearfulness of hanging back when the Empire cried out for you.
The poem said the Empire was calling to every one of her sons of low and high degree, and so, of course, it was also calling to Fortescue; and Rice thought that as it was pretty certain Fortescue wouldn't read it, and, no doubt, fought shy of patriotic poetry in general just now, he meant to wait for some happy opportunity when Fortescue was not in a position to get out of earshot and sing it to him.
But the opportunity did not come, so Rice adopted the former plan of leaving the poem in Fortescue's room. He had plenty of printed copies of the words, because the poem, after first appearing in a London newspaper of great renown, had been copied, at the special wish of the author, into hundreds and thousands of other papers; and to show you the tremendous liking people had for it, even the Merivale Weekly Trumpet printed it and Milly Dunston found it there.
She, by the way, had another pretty bitter cut at Fortescue, which cost more money, and she told Rice she had paid five shillings and sixpence for her great insult. In fact, she sent Fortescue a shawl and a cap, such as is worn by aged women, with red, white, and blue ribbons in it. Which, of course, meant that Fortescue was an old woman himself. It was frightfully deadly if you understood it, and Rice said that only a girl could have thought of such a cruel thing.