Tosher Johnson was marched in, guarded by two hefty lads. We were taking no risks with the wild Canadian.
‘Corporal Tosher Johnson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Worshipping the almighty dollar; (2) Always muttering “gaw-damn;” (3) Pulling a railway alarm-cord; (4) “Swanking it” in Glasgow.’
‘Evidence,’ commanded the president.
‘Sir,’ said Ginger, ‘the accused is a Canadian, and therefore a mystery. He blew in about 1915 from out West, and reckoned he was the man to win the war. His career is like that of all backblockers—most varied and adventurous. He commenced life eating pork-pies in Nova Scotia. At the age of twelve he was assistant to a negro medicine-man, who sold corn-cure at a penny a time. The corn-cure, I may say, was made out of wagon-grease stolen from the C.P.R. Having done in the son of Ham for about a hundred dollars, he went West, where he started a shoe-shining parlour and a horse-betting booth. Next he was seen in a fat-reducing advertisement; after which, he floated a company to supply the ladies of Winnipeg with imitation busts.
‘In these ventures he was, like all Canucks, highly successful, and therefore plunged into real estate. This is a get-rich-quick scheme. Tosher was a star turn. He took double-page advertisements in the home papers, and sold corner lots to dukes, commoners, and simpletons. When these “duds” went out to stake their plots in Paradise Alley, they discovered their land was in the Arctic regions, and tenanted only by Eskimos. What did Tosher do? Why, he simply apologised, and said his clerk had made a mistake by turning the map upside-down!
‘Since then he has had a dollar for his crest, a dollar for his god. He has got money in everything from corn-plaster to chewing-gum, and he reckons to fizzle off this ‘ere planet (as he calls it) with about a hundred thousand dollars, earned while chewing cigars and drinking cocktails in Montreal, Toronto, and the mixed-bathing cave up in Banff, Alberta. The fellow’s a marvel!’
‘Look here, Mr Thomson; this is a court-martial. Evidence! Evidence! We’re not here to get the story of how we all lost our money before the war.’
‘Very good, sir! The second charge is, “Always muttering ‘gaw-damn.’” That is the motto on his shirts and socks. When he spits it out with a Chicago tang, he means you to know he’s no soft-headed fellow from Balliol, but a real son of a gun from Chewing-Gum Land. This historic adjective is joined to “guessing” and “calculating.” And he reckons he’s real prime, six-shooting, hot stuff in this gaw-damn land of weasels and crows. And he isn’t slow! He can talk the head off a Dutchman, pulverise a cockatoo, give you a one-pound note for a tenner, and send you away with a feeling that he’s real good, and the best kid that ever dropped out of “Taurauntoe.”
‘The third charge, sir, is, “Pulling a railway alarm-cord” while on leave. Apparently he got into the company of a simple old Scottish gentleman, who was accompanied by his wife and rather charming daughter. Tosher took the corner seat like a conqueror, and muttered, “It was real fine to get away from the gaw-damn Boche.”
‘“Are you just from the Front?” the old gent inquired.