Sentry: "'Alt! who goes there?"
Private: "Whoy, Jarge! Don't 'ee know I?"
Sentry: "'Corse I do; but where be goin'?"
Flag-wagging.
Newly-enlisted Yeoman: "Somebody—tell—those—silly—idiots—to stop—frightenin'—my—horse!"
THE SYSTEM.
"I don't know whether you've observed it or not, Sir," said "Tiny" to the Junior Subaltern, "but in this great an' glorious country no one ever starts on a job without providing 'imself with something to throw the blame on in case 'e loses the trick. Sometimes they blame procedure an' sometimes the Constitution; in our case 'tis the System. What that system is no one even pretends to know. In one respect it's like the Reg'lashuns; everybody starts off in the same way when discussing of 'em. You never yet met anyone that didn't preface 'is remarks on the subject with 'As far as I can understand,' an' that's about as far as 'e can.
"The ord'nary man that runs a bank, or a railway, or a hire-purchase pianner works, would think to 'isself, ''Ere's the old country, bless 'er, an 'ere's the boys to defend 'er. Now, if the brutil an' licentious foe is dumped down on these 'ere shores, 'e won't go c'lectin' seaweed, neither will 'e pause for to admire the landscape, but, d'rectly the pistol's fired, 'e'll get off the mark, an' make a bee line for the winning post. Now the question is, can these boys stop 'im or can they not? If they can, they must be got ready for the job, an' if they can't, we ain't running a Charity Bazaar, and I ain't going to pay anything for what's worth nothing, so we'll 'ave to think up something else.' But that haint the way they looks at it, bless yer 'eart. 'Why, you've forgotten the votes,' ses the Gov'mint. 'What in the name o' goodness 'as that got to do with it?' ses the plain man. 'Poor hinnocent creature!' ses the Gov'mint, an' turns an' addresses the deputation:—
"'Friends! Fellow citizens! Gallant an' patriotic defenders of our island 'ome! You are unique in the history of this terrestral sphere. There is not another country,' ses he, 'as would treat you as you're treated here. Yer self-sacrificin' spirit is the joy o' me heart, an' if there's not enough troops to go round I will allow you to line the back streets when processions is on, but yer "present arms" is a disgrace an' yer marchin' past makes me cold down the spine. Yer shooting—well, we will pass that. But for your sense o' duty the curse of conscription would be weighin' on us, so let me point out the necessity of keeping your numbers up.'