"Jones," I said, when he came up, "take away this stuff. It's as bad as a gas attack. I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up with Maconochie, I'm fed up with the so-called 'fresh' meat that sometimes makes its appearance. Try to get hold of something new; give me a jugged hare, or a pheasant, or something of that kind."
"Yessir," said Jones, and he hurried off round the traverse to finish my stew himself.
It never does to speak without first weighing one's words. This is an old maxim—I can remember something about it in one of my first copy-books; but, like most other maxims, it is never learnt in real life. My thoughtless allusion to "jugged hare" set my servant's brain working, for hares and rabbits have, before now, been caught behind the firing line. The primary difficulty, that of getting to the country haunted by these animals, was easily solved, for, though an officer ought not to allow a man to leave a trench without a very important reason, the thought of new potatoes at a ruined farm some way back, or cherries in the orchard, generally seems a sufficiently important reason to send one's servant back on an errand of pillage. Thus it was that, unknown to me, my servant spent part of the next three days big-game hunting behind the firing line.
My first intimation of trouble came to me the day after we had gone back to billets for a rest, when an orderly brought me a message from Brigade Headquarters. It ran as follows:—
"Lieut. Newcombe is to report at Brigade Headquarters this afternoon at 2 p.m. to furnish facts with reference to his servant, No. 6789, Pte. Jones W., who, on the 7th inst., discharged a rifle behind the firing line, to the great personal danger of the Brigadier, Pte. Jones's Company being at the time in the trenches.
"(Signed) G. Mackinnon,
"Brigade Major."
"Jones," I cried, "come and explain this to me," and I read him the incriminating document.
My servant's English always suffers when he is nervous.
"Well, sir," he began, "it 'appened like this 'ere. After what you said the other day abaht bully beef, I went orf ter try ter git a rebbit or an 'are. I seen sev'ral, sir, but I never 'it one nor wired one. Then, on Friday, jest as I was shootin' at an 'ole 'are what I see, up kime an orficer, one o' thim Staff gints. 'Who are you?' 'e asks. I told 'im as I was a servant, and was jest tryin' ter git an 'are fer my bloke—beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean my orficer. Then, after a lot more talk, 'e says, 'Do yer know that yer gone and nearly 'it the Gen'ril?' That's all as I knows abaht it, sir. I never wanted ter 'it no Gen'ril."
"All this, and not even a rabbit!" I sighed. "It's a serious business, and you ought to have known better than to go letting off ammunition behind the firing line. However, I'll see what can be done," and my servant went away, rather crestfallen, to drown his sorrows in a glass of very mild, very unpleasant Belgian beer.