It was thus with our Mr. MacTavish, anyhow. A stern parent and a strong-armed crammer projected him into the Navy, and in the Navy he remained for years bucketing about the salt seas in light and wobbly cruisers, enforcing intricate Bait Laws off Newfoundland in mid-winter, or playing hide-and-seek with elusive dhows on the Equator in midsummer, but always with a vision of that little place in his mind's eye.
His opportunity arrived with the demise of the stern parent and the acquisition of a comfortable legacy. MacTavish sent in his papers and stepped ashore for good. He discovered the haven of his heart's desire in the neighbourhood of Melton, purchased a pig and a cow (which turned out to be a bullock) to give the little place a homely air, engaged a terrier for ratting and intercourse, and with the assistance of some sympathetic dealers was assembling as comprehensive a collection of curbs, spavins, sprung tendons, pin-toes, herring-guts, ewe-necks, cow-hocks and capped elbows as could be found between the Tweed and Tamar, when—Mynheer W. HOHENZOLLERN (as he is to-day) went and done it.
The evening of August 4th, 1914, discovered MacTavish sitting on the wall of his pig-sty, his happy hunting prospects shot to smithereens, arguing the position out with the terrier. He must attend to this war, that was clear, but need he necessarily go back to the salt sea? Couldn't he do his bit in some other service? What about the Cavalry? That would mean galloping about Europe on a jolly old gee, shouting "Hurrah!" and cutlassing the foot-passengers. A merry life, combining all the glories of fox-hunting with only twenty-five per cent. of its safety—according to Jorrocks.
What about the Cavalry, then? The terrier semaphored complete approbation with its tail stump and even the pig made enthusiastic noises.
A month later MacTavish turned up in a Reserve Regiment of Cavalry at the Curragh as a "young officer." The Riding-Master treated his case as no more hopeless than anybody else's and MacTavish was making average progress until one evening in the anteroom he favoured the company with a few well-spiced Naval reminiscences.
Next morning the Riding-Master was convulsed with merriment at the mere sight of him, addressed him variously as Jellicoe, Captain Kidd and Sinbad, and, after first warning MacTavish not to imagine he was ashore at Port Said riding the favourite in a donkey Derby, translated all his instructions into nautical language. For instance: "Right rein—haul the starboard yoke line; gallop—full steam ahead; halt—cast anchor; dismount—abandon ship," and so forth, giving his delicate and fanciful sense of humour full play and evoking roars of laughter from the whole house. It did not take MacTavish long to realise that, no matter what he said, he would never again be taken seriously in that place; he was, in fact, the world's stock joke, a sailor on horseback (Ha, ha, ha!).
He set his jaw and was determined that he would not be caught tripping again; there should be no more reminiscences. Once clear of Ireland he would bury his past.
All this happened years ago.
When I came back from leave the other day I asked for Albert Edward. "He and MacTavish are up at Corpse H.Q.," said the skipper; "they're helping the A.P.M. straighten the traffic out. By the way you 'd better trickle up there and relieve them, as they're both going on leave in a day or so."
I trickled up to Corpse and eventually discovered Albert Edward alone, practising the three-card trick with a view to a career after the War. "You'll enjoy this Mess," said he, turning up "the Lady" where he least expected her; "it's made up of Staff eccentrics—Demobilizing, Delousing, Educational, Laundry and Burial wallahs—all sorts, very interesting; you'll learn how the other half lives and all that. Oh, that reminds me. You know poor old MacTavish's secret, don't you?"