Athlete.—Ha! I feel my biceps and find it not so soft. It's a wearing life, though. Is there such a thing as an Athlete (indoor)? You know my speed and agility at Ludo.
I flatter myself I have musical taste, but Back and Belly Maker (piano) I consider vulgar—almost indecent, in fact. Such anatomical intimacy with the piano would destroy for me the bewitchment of the Moonlight Sonata.
There is something very alluring about Bank Note Printer. I see the chance of continuing the Army trick of making a living without working for it. Surely a Bank Note Printer is allowed his little perquisites. Why should he print millions of bank notes for other people and none for himself? I can imagine an ill-used Bank Note Printer very easily becoming a Bolshevist.
Barb Maker (wire) I do not like. I have too many unpleasant memories of the Somme. It is a hideous trade and ought to be abolished altogether.
If I am wrong correct me, but isn't the prime function of a Bargee to swear incessantly? Not my forte, James. What you thought you heard that day in 1911, when I missed a six-inch putt, was only "Yam," which is a Thibetan expression meaning "How dreadfully unfortunate!" I knew a Major once—but that's for another article.
Beneath the heading "Bat" I find Bat Maker (brick) and Bat Maker (tennis). Under which king, James? Anyway, I hate a man who talks about a "tennis bat." He would probably call football shorts "knickers."
I am favourably inclined towards Bathing Machine Attendant (why not Bathing Mechanic, for short?) What a grand affair to ride old Dobbin into the seething waves and pretend he was a sea-serpent! Confidentially, there are lots of people to whose bathing-machines I would give an extra push when I had unlimbered their vehicles and turned Dobbin's nose again towards the cliffs of Albion.
My pleasure in stirring things with a ladle nearly decided me to train as a Bean Boiler; but I fear the monotony. Nothing but an endless succession of beans, with never a carrot to make a splash of colour nor an onion to scent the steamy air. And, James, I have a friend who is known to all and sundry as "The Old Bean." Every bean I was called upon to boil would remind me of him, whom I would not boil for worlds.
Here is something extraordinarily attractive—Black Pudding Maker. You know black puddings. I am told that when you stew them (do not eat them cold, I implore you!) they give off ambrosial perfumes, and that after tasting one you would never again touch pèche Melba. But as a Black Pudding Maker should I become nauseated?
Almost next door comes Blood Collector. Wait while I question the Mess Cook ... James, I cannot become a Black Pudding maker. The Mess Cook tells me that Blood Collector and Black Pudding Maker are probably allied trades. How dreadful!