Again: "Don't judge too soon."
"What's the matter—do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"
And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.
"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."
"Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."
Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.
Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.
At length John Weymouth raised his hand.
"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"
"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."