“We are going to give you a wreath of laurels, Mrs. Arteroyd,” he graciously observed—“He—he—he—ha—ha! We are going to present you with the symbol of fame!—ha—ha! Pretty idea, isn’t it—he—he!—Mrs. Long-Adder suggested it—ha—ha!—woman of ideas, Mrs. Long-Adder—a woman of ideas! Hum—ha! We shall have a collection for ‘Tommy’s Gal’ in Mrs. Long-Adder’s hat, after your poem has been recited—in her hat—ha—ha!—the regular South African hat, you know, that goes with the khaki uniform—he—he! I shall put a Tenner into the hat—yes!—ha—ha! Mrs. Long-Adder’s hat!—he—he—he—he! And instead of a bouquet we shall give you a laurel wreath! You can keep it, you see—he—ha! hang it up in the drawing-room at home, till your husband comes back—ha—ha! He’ll have some laurels too, then, I dare say! Got a V.C., has he? Good—good! Yes, very good! ha—ha!”
And with these intelligent and distinguished remarks, he took his seat in front of the audience, and Mrs. Arteroyd had the satisfaction of being invited to sit beside him. Then there was a flourish of trumpets—a bit of “Soldiers of the King,” played by the band—and then—and then—amid a burst of frantic applause, Mrs. Long-Adder stepped upon a platform, gorgeous with palms and exotics, and showed herself unblushingly, arrayed in “khaki” uniform as “Tommy” bound for the front! The plaudits were deafening. Mrs. “Tommy” Long-Adder “saluted.” Prince Dummer-Esel grew apoplectically crimson with enthusiasm, and she turned one of her “Mongolian” eyes sideways upon him with a killing brilliancy. Then she began the doggerel lines, “Hullo, Tommy, wheer’ye off to!” reciting them with all the vulgar emphasis of that cheap, forced, sham sentiment which is the only emotional quality that succeeds nowadays in winning the attention of that still more vulgar, cheap, forced sham institution known as “smart society.”
Away in South Africa, far removed from all social hypocrisies, out on the bare brown veldt, and under the sickening scorch of a pitilessly hot sun, two men, friends and comrades-in-arms, were exploring the ground together and anxiously surveying the Boer position. They had made their way cautiously along as extemporized scouts from the British camp to one particular spot which seemed a sheltered coign of vantage, to see if they could form any idea as to the extent of the enemy’s defences. One of them, dark and broad-shouldered, lay flat, chest downwards on the grass, rifle in hand, looking up at his companion, who, tall and fair, and of an imposing figure, stood erect, gazing out far ahead with something of a dreamy expression softening the light of his keen grey eyes.
“I say, Arteroyd, hadn’t you better lie low?” said the recumbent man. “You need not make yourself a target for any marksman who may be inclined to try his aim.”
“They have ceased firing for the present,” and Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C., calmly took out his field glasses and prepared to adjust them. “That ridge opposite is deserted.” As he spoke he glanced down at his friend and smiled. “Dandy Ferrers knows how to make himself comfortable, I think, even under possible fire! I shall have to report you at home as a funk! Lie low, indeed! However, you’re no safer than I am, if a shell comes our way.”
Captain James Ferrers, called “Dandy” by all his friends at home, on account of his somewhat curious and capricious taste in neckties, laid down his rifle and took out his cigar-case.
“I suppose,” he said slowly as he lit a precious “Havana,” one of the last he had or would have, till he returned to England (if ever he returned)—“I suppose you really wouldn’t care much? You’ve got the V.C.”
“Yes, I’ve got the V.C.” And Colonel Arteroyd unscrewed and polished his field glasses with scrupulous attention. “It’s the best thing a soldier can have. But it isn’t everything.”
Dandy Ferrers reddened with a quick sense of compunction.