Yes; ’Enessy was a dag if ever there was one! I remember the day ’e came into camp at Liverpool ’e was wearin’ ’is best Sunday grin, and when some bloke wot was in the mob yelled out “Marmalade,” ’e turns round and says to ’im: “Wot’s your complaint, mate?” The bloke ’e repeats “Marmalade.” And ’Enessy says: “Ah! That’s wot I thought it was. You’d better see a doctor, and ’ave it operated on right away, me man!”
’E could eat like a ’orse. Blime! The way ’e used ter stoke up on ther bread and jam was a treat for sore eyes. ’E always used ter ask to be put on the job of picket round the quartermaster’s store, and they never tumbled to ’is game for a long while. ’E used ter watch ’is chance, and every night would slip in and pinch a loaf of bread and a tin of jam, and as ’is job consisted of keeping the cook’s fire a-going all night, ’e always ’ad a cup of coffee ready when ’e wanted it. One night ’e nips into the store to git ’is usual bit of supper, and ’e bangs right into the bloke wot was just put in new at the Q.M. that day.
“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” asks the bloke.
“Blime! I thought I ’ad a fair cop,” says ’Enessy, quick as lightning. “I ’eard someone moving about in ’ere, and thought it was a chap pinchin’ stuff.”
“And who are you?” says the bloke.
“Me! I’m the bloomin’ picket,” says ’Enessy.
“Oh! Alright, picket,” replies the bloke. “I sleep in here, so you needn’t worry about the store while I’m here.”
“Alright, mate!” says ’Enessy. “Can yer give us a bit of grub? Fair dinkum, I’m ’ungry!”
So ’e gets ’is grub after all, but ’e couldn’t come the double no more after that.
When ’e came over the water and first sees the Turkish trenches, ’e says: “Strike me pink! But where’s them Turks they talk about?”