He never gives anything, even his own performances, unqualified praise; in fact it is extremely hard to win from him any encomium higher than "It's not too bad." Perhaps there is Scotch blood in his veins.
I very much want to recommend him for some decoration, but the organization likely to appreciate the most gallant of his deeds has not yet been formed—the S.P.G.P., or Society for the Preservation of Government Property.
Steggles was once riding behind me down a valley liberally dimpled with shell-holes, further dimples being in process of formation as we rode. I was returning from an O Pip, or Observation Post, and Steggles was carrying a pair of my boots with a rolled puttee stuffed into each. Suddenly I was aware that he had wheeled his horse about, and was trotting back towards the most dimply area of the valley. Out of regard for his family, I cantered after him. He broke into a gallop. When, after a thrilling ride, I caught him and had a little talk amongst the dimples, it appeared that he had dropped one of the puttees, and wished to return and look for it. This incident will, I think, demonstrate the exceptional character of the man, who did not appear to regard himself as a hero, or to pose as a desperate farceur, or to aspire to the post of Q.M.S., though, incredible as it may seem, the puttee in question was of the variety G.S.
Orderly Officer. "WHY DON'T YOU CHALLENGE ME?"
Latest called-up Recruit. "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE COMING."
Orderly Officer. "WHAT DID THE CORPORAL SAY WHEN HE POSTED YOU?"
Recruit. "I WOULDN'T LIKE TO REPEAT IT TO AN OFFICER, SIR."