"Na—I blaw the balloons, mak' the candy, and soond the trumpet for the auld chap."
"Where did you get that broken nose?"
"In a fish shop."
"A fight?"
"Ay—an Italian hit me wi' a bottle for pinchin' a plate."
[pg 28] "Well—you're a lot of beauties," said Cursem, addressing the crowd. "You could steal the hair off a billiard ball and burgle the Bank of England in broad daylight. But never mind, lads," he continued, in a more intimate and kindly way, "you're doing your little bit for your country. That's more than some of the vulgar rich can do. And you can all stop a bullet, or plank a bayonet in a German's stomach. Hooligans can be heroes just as well as aristocrats. This old Militia was first raised in a prison and died like heroes in the Peninsula. And I've seen men like you slicing the heads off big fat niggers out in India. And, mind you, I would sooner lead a company of the Glesca Mileeshy than a company of Oxford grads."
"Why, sergint?" ventured one of the squad.
"These gents think too much—you don't. A good soldier never thinks. If he does, he's a nuisance. A soldier's a man who doesn't ask why he's got to die. He does it, and that's the end of it. And I want to talk to you now about Esprit-de-Corps."
"What's that, sergint?"
[pg 29] "Esprit-de-Corps means that you've got to feel and believe that you're equal to a hundred niggers, ten Frenchmen, five Germans, and a couple of Yanks."