Once, after a charge, a conversation ensued between the sergeant of a certain officer’s platoon and that officer’s batman, in this fashion:
“What were you doin’ out there, Tommy?”
“Follerin’.”
“And why was you close up on his heels, so clost I could ’ardly see ’im?”
“Follerin’ ’im up.”
“And why wasn’t you back somewhere safe?” (This with a touch of sarcasm.)
“Lord, Sargint, you couldn’t expect me to let ’im go out by ’isself! ’E might ha’ got hurt!”
RATIONS
“Bully-beef an’ ’ard-tack,” said Private Boddy disgustedly. “Bully-beef that’s canned dog or ’orse, or may be cats, an’ biscuits that’s fit for dawgs.... This is a ’ell of a war. W’y did I ever leave little old Walkerville, w’ere the whiskey comes from? Me an’ ’Iram we was almost pals, as you may say. I worked a ’ole fortnight in ’is place, at $1.75 per, an’ then I——” Mr. Boddy broke off abruptly, but not soon enough.
“Huh!” broke in a disgusted voice from a remote corner of the dug-out, “then I guess you went bummin’ your way till the bulls got you in Windsor. To hear you talk a chap would think you didn’t know what pan-handlin’ was, or going out on the stem.”