Too ’ard! too ’ard! An’ th’ ol’ duck said,
as she waddled dahn th’ yard
“Oh, I can ’atch a turkey or ’atch a chick
But I’m—if I can ’atch ’arf a brick!
It’s a—bit bit,—bit, bit—bit bit too ’ard!”
His audience, tickled beyond measure at the inimitable “coster” accent which, for many years has been so famously exploited by Mr. Albert Chevalier, egged this performer on to further efforts. Nothing loath, he complied, and presently the Canteen was shaking with:
Oh, nah I’m goin’ to be a reg’lar torff,
A-drivin’ in me kerridge an’ me pair,
Wiv a top-’at on me ’ead, an’ fevvers in me bed
An’ call meself th’ “Dook of Barney-fair.”
“As-stir-th’-can” rahnd th’ collar o’ me coat,
An’ a “Piccadilly winder” in me eye;
Goblimey! ’ear th’ costers a-shoutin’ in yer lug:
“Oh! leave us in yer will afore yer die!”
On went the singing, shouting pandemonium. Benton’s face began to clear a little. He had not been in the Post for a long time and the homely racket and the beer combined, gradually had the effect of making him forget his troubles for the time being.
An—d ... the elephant walked round,
And the band began to play,
So all you beggars that cannot sing!
You’d better get out of the way!
A dozen or so of unprintable “limericks” followed this announcement, contributed in rotation by various members of the community, the “elephant” chorus “walking around” solemnly at the conclusion of each one. A particularly ingenious composition just then drew a perfect storm of laughter from the genial crowd, Ellis (sad to relate) guffawing loudly with the rest.
“Sacred Billy!” he ejaculated, grinning at Dudley, “but you’re sure a tough bunch in this old Post.... Did you hear that one?... Well!... this is no place for a parson’s son!”
The Orderly-room Sergeant did not answer for a moment, then an expression, which was a mixture of amusement and disgust, slowly overspread his rather refined face, and a snorting, reluctant chuckle escaped him.
“Is that so?... ‘Many’s the true word spoken in jest’!” he retorted. “Porteous—the young devil who came across with that one, is a ‘parson’s son,’ as it happens, my boy.... His old man’s the Dean of some fat living or another in the South of England.... By George, though!... I’m getting just about fed up with that stuff, night after night.... Tip us a stave, Ben!... start in now and sing us something decent for a change.”
He got up suddenly from the table and, lifting his tankard high as if for a toast, bawled “Order!” A slight lull followed, taking advantage of which, he called out: