So I found myself decked out in uniform on my way to the Eagle in Mr. B——'s car. With tact he urged me to be careful. "Y'know, Mac, the people in this burgh have not quite realised the situation. Many are of German origin and there are some Irish, and one or two are not fond of England. They are a fine crowd of men and are working like Trojans to get money for the Red Cross."
"May I damn the Kaiser, Mr. B——?" I meekly asked. "Sure! Sure! Mac; give him hell. Every mother's son will be with you in that."
After lunch, Mr. B——, as General of the Army of Collection, stood up. (He is a ripping chap, a little embonpoint perhaps, as befits his age. He is about forty-five and looks thirty. He has a round, cheery face, hasn't lost a hair from his head, and when he talks, suggests a small boy of twelve successfully wheedling a dime from his mother for the circus.)
He said: "We have had with us in Bethlehem men of the Entente Allies, men who have heard the whi——stling of the shrapnel, and who have seen the burs——ting of the high explosives, and to-day one of these heroes will address you."
The "whistling of the shrapnel" thrilled me. It brought back to my mind a night in an Infantry dugout in France, when dear old Banbury of the Rifle Brigade was wearying me and three other subs with a story of one of his stunts in "No Man's Land." We heard a bounding, whipping sound and then a massed chorus of whistling, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as Banbury jumped up, and grabbing his gun muttered, "Whizz bang," and disappeared up the dugout steps. That was all. He switched on to cricket when he returned. And yet they call the Boche frightful.
Then the "bursting of the high explosives." I hate high explosives. They are so definite, and extremely destructive; and so awkward when you're up a chimney and it hits somewhere near the base, and you slide down the rope and burn your poor hands.
I stood up, feeling like ten cents, and commenced to tell my audience about the Red Cross à la guerre. Whenever I tried to thrill them they all laughed, and then I guessed that my accent was the cause of all the trouble. I tried to talk like an American, I thought, with some success. I called the Kaiser a "poor fish," but when I discussed America and the war and said "By Jove, we need you awful badly over there," they all collapsed and I sat down.
Afterwards they came up, fine chaps that they are, and all shook hands.
It seems to be an art developed by certain persons to be able to introduce speakers. If you are the fellow who has got to talk, the chairman gets up and commences to praise you for all he is worth. A fellow told me at a dinner the other night that while visiting his home town he had been compelled to address the townsmen. The deacon mounted a small platform and commenced to eulogize. He had only got the first versicle of the "Te Deum" off his chest, when his set of teeth fell out and landed on the bald head of my friend, giving him a nasty bite. This was a great help.
About this eulogizing—my Highland blood helps me to understand; my English education tells me that it is—well, displaying all your goods in the front window, and I'm not sure that it "is done." Eddy Grey says "Hector, it is just 'slinging the bull.'" It is. Some of these eulogising gentlemen talk for ten minutes each time, but they are generally good looking people turned out in quite nice evening things.