"Old Lest" takes a Hand
Holding on—"Old Lest's" Sorry—The Marine Lands Again—"Old Lest's" going on—In the Fog—The Fog Lifts—After them!—The Maxim Gun—Keeping 'em on the Run—Shelling the Town—Resting—"It's Boss Evans!"
Written by Captain James A. Marshall,
Royal Marine Light Infantry
Fancy me writing a book, or rather, helping to write one. I know a good lot of people will think the world's coming to an end, or that I've turned over a new leaf, and am becoming really a credit to the family. It's about time I did become a credit to them, poor things! I should imagine.
When I was asked to drive the giddy nib, I laughed. Laughed! why, I've never laughed so much since father died, as a dear little girl from Massachusetts told me once, when I tried to cheer her up, after that sad event had happened to her family.
We tried to get old "B.-T."[#] to wield the flowing pen, and tell of all his heroic deeds, but—well—he wasn't taking any—thank you kindly—and they got me to take on the job.
[#] Lieutenant Gore-Travers, known as Bored-Travers, or "B.-T."
You see, whilst old Truscott, the Commander, was lying on his downy couch with a bullet in him somewhere, he couldn't be expected to know much of what happened outside him, could he? Old Mayhew, our boss doctor man, wouldn't say where the bullet really was. Why, bless your soul, he wasn't going to give himself away, not he, and hung round Truscott's cabin with a face as long as a jews' harp whilst he was outside it, and as round and smiling as a Dutch cheese with a slice out of it when he went in.
It was all because that silly young ass Ford saw "red" that night we landed with my chaps to have a bit of a plugging match, whilst Whitmore went off with a No. 9 detonator and something in the gun-cotton "line" to blow a gun of sorts.
He thought that he was half-back in a "footer" scrum, or something like that, charged the whole blooming pack of Chinese, got "offside", and was collared and carried off the ground before we could get the referee to sound his whistle.