OXYGEN EXERCISE.
Scene.—A mud puddle in ——shire, in which are discovered forty yeomen in khaki lying on their backs and flapping their legs like seals. They are not really seals, but men whom their King and country needs, doing breathing exercises. The reason they do not get up out of the puddle and walk away is that they would probably be killed by the enormous troop sergeant who is instructing them.
Troop Sergeant (fiercely). Now then. Work at it. I'm 'ere to do you a bit of good, I am. Finest thing in the world, this is. Some of you fellows don't know a good thing when you see it. What is it that causes tuberckylosis? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it is. Look at Sam Stevens—middle-weight champion of the world he was. And what did he die of? Why, drink. And what made him take to drink? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it was. If a man can't breathe hoxygen he'll drink it. How many cells do you suppose you 'ave in your lungs, Number Three?
Number Three (inhaling through the mouth). Don't know, Sergeant.
Troop Sergeant. Why, fifty million. Fifty million cells in your lungs you've got.
[Number Three, appalled at this revelation, inhales briskly through the nose in the hope of filling some of them.
Troop Sergeant. And how many do you suppose you generally use? Why, not half of them. Twenty-five million cells you've got doing nothing.
[Number Three exhales despondently through the mouth, realising the vanity of all human endeavour. The Troop Sergeant, satisfied that he has disposed of Number Three, glares contentedly at the troop in silence.
Troop (exhaling through the mouth). F-s-s-s-s-h.