Ginger Thomson was marched in, guarded by an escort, who were armed with wet mops. We knew Ginger!
‘Sergeant Ginger Thomson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Posing as a woman-hater; (2) Declining to wash; (3) Joy-riding in a Ford car.’
‘Evidence, please, Mr Brown,’ ordered the president.
‘Sir, this youth, for the past two months, has been posing to all as an enemy of the opposite sex. In a recent discussion he declared that women were soulless, inconstant, mercenary, and loved us only when we had chocolate or plenty of the golden goblins. We believed him to be sincere, and he received homage as the great monk of our platoon. Other remarkable attitudes in controversy convinced many of us that this brilliant but erratic gentleman was simply pulling our legs. By accident we discovered that he is an ardent admirer of the beautiful lady who dispenses ale and bitters at the local hotel. In fact, our agents have procured a grammophone record of a conversation with this fair lady. This is the record,’ I added, turning on the gramophone, the record of which had been faked for the occasion.
‘Edison Bell Record.’
Gur-r-r-gurr-r-r-r.
‘Hello, old girl; how are you?’
‘What cheer, Ginger?’
‘Gin and ginger, quick—awful thirst, old girl! Bring it up to the private room.’
‘Right-o, dearie!’