‘You bet they are. And I hope we knock lumps off them. They are a lousy lot; always swinging the lead about being top-dogs. It’s up to us to squash them.’
‘You ought to be pole-axed,’ muttered Ginger.
‘Why?’
‘Haven’t we got enough to do without plugging for ten miles through mud, brambles, cows’ dung, and water? If you’d develop your old fat head, you’d do better. Cross-country run—confound you!’ and he hit Beefy with a barrack pillow.
‘Silly ass! You’re a book-sucking hog. You want a run to shake your liver up. Every blessed thing that comes up, you veto it. Why can’t you follow the crowd?’
‘That’s for you, with your Clapham instincts and shallow brain. You think Rugger and such like the be-all and end-all of our existence. Sport was invented only to keep down your adipose tissue and turn you into a decent citizen. I’ve got beyond that. Joseph Conrad will do me to-morrow. I’m not on for your “follow the crowd” business.’
All this talk, although it sounds hostile, was not really so. It was that frank byplay so characteristic of the army. Ginger regarded Beefy as an over-healthy animal, only fit for Rugger and philandering; while Beefy held the view that Ginger’s physical laziness was a menace to the company and the Empire. In short, Beefy was all sport and Ginger was all books. Each was a champion in that controversy which threatens to remodel our present public school system.
‘Come on, boys,’ I said; ‘gather round the fire and let’s have this out. Is Beefy right or wrong?’
‘He is, and he isn’t,’ said Billy Greens, looking up from his beautifully kept notebook. ‘When he talks about beating B Company I’m with him. But behind it all is that insane idea that games make the superman, and those who won’t play are damned. Sport is all right in its own place.’
‘Hear, hear, old Pieface!’ commented Ginger.