1st Trooper. We're too soft-'earted, that's wot we are. Them Germans wouldn't carry on like that; they'd shoot 'em quick and no more said.
2nd Trooper. Ay, you're right there, and when we gets home the first thing we shall find is a relief fund to provide food for 'em.
Corporal. Well, they'd better not come near this post; they won't get no dates 'ere.
Sentry. Corporal, I can see 'alf-a-dozen of them blighters coming along about a mile away. Shall I give 'em one?
Corporal. No, you idiot. Let's 'ave a look at 'em first.
[Enter a middle-aged Arab, dressed in the most indescribable rags and in the last stage of exhaustion. He is followed at long intervals by his family to two generations, who watch his reception anxiously from afar.]
Arab (falling flat on his face at sight of the Corporal). Bimbashi, bimbashi, mongeries, mongeries.
Corporal. Yes, I'll bash yer all right. Grey-'eaded old reprobate, you ought to know better.
Arab (in an anguished voice). Mongeries, mongeries.
1st Trooper. Lord, he do look thin, por beggar. Mongeries—that means food, don't it? 'E looks as if 'e hadn't eaten nothing for weeks. 'Ere, 'ave a biscuit, old sport.