Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 153 November 21 1917 by Various

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 221 lines and 16385 words, and 5 pages

Second-Lieut. St. John's first appearance in Armageddon took place during "peace-time warfare." An unpleasant and quite unnecessary little bulge in the trench-line, known as the Toadstool, was manned by the platoon of which he found himself second-in-command. It is rumoured that a Hun patrol, crawling to the edge of our parapet, saw in the ghastly glare of a Verey light the benign and spectacled countenance of Second-Lieut. St. John staring amiably across No Man's Land, and came to the hasty conclusion that they had made a mistake as to direction, since here was obviously one of their own officers of the Herr Professor type. Rumour adds that they retired to their own lines and were promptly shot for cowardice.

Certain it is that on that particular night Second-Lieut. St. John did a thing the full details of which are now revealed to the Intelligence Corps for the first time. He fired a Verey light. It pleased him enormously. The sense that he, and he alone, was the cause of all those sliding shadows and that flood of greenish light in No Man's Land went to his head like strong drink. He fired another and another and another.... The Hun was puzzled at this departure from routine, and opened a morose machine-gun fire which skimmed the top of the parapet and covered Second-Lieut. St. John with earth from shattered sandbags. He went on firing Verey lights in a sort of bland ecstasy till his supply ran out, when he went to his Company Commander's dug-out for more. He filled his pockets with fresh ammunition, went back to his post, and began firing again. The first light was mauve. He almost clapped his hands at it, and fired the second. It was pink. The third was yellow, the fourth scarlet, and the fifth emerald green.

"The Crystal Palace," said Second-Lieut. St. John, "isn't in it." And then, because his watch had ended, he handed over to another yawning subaltern and went to bed.

Over miles and miles of country wild-eyed gunners were glaring into the night and asking each other blasphemous questions. What did it mean?

"It must be Huns," said the British gunners; "they're coming over."

"That is without doubt an English signal," said the enemy. "We will prepare for an attack."

Then the Hun gunners suddenly made up their minds to be on the safe side, and they put down a tremendous barrage on to No Man's Land.

"Told you so; they're on to our front line," said we, and put down a tremendous barrage on to No Man's Land.

A Hun sentry, waking with a start, sounded the gas alarm. It was taken up all along the German line and overheard by a vigilant British sentry, who promptly set himself to make all possible noise with every possible means.

Old French ladies in villages twenty miles back from the line lay all that night hideous in respirators. Anxious Staffs rang up other anxious Staffs. Gunners questioned the infantry. The infantry desired information from the gunners. All along the line the private soldier was jolted from that kind of trance which he calls "getting down to it," and was bidden to stand to till morning.

OUR PAMPERED "CONCHIES."

This beats Donington Hall to a frazzle.

Their pupils are believed to hold a diametrically opposite opinion.

After the Guildhall Banquet:--

The menu said "Clear Soup," but this must have been a bit thick.

LEGAL INTELLIGENCE.

DAVID LLOYD GEORGE, described as Prime Minister, was charged, on the information of HERBERT HENRY ASQUITH, with exceeding the speech limit while on tour. Mr. BONAR LAW, who appeared for the defendant, asked for an adjournment and invited the Court to "wait and see." Upon hearing those words prosecutor broke down and had to be assisted out of the court.

HORATIO BOTTOMLEY pleaded "Not guilty" to a charge of fortune-telling. It appears that the defendant had stated that the War would be over by Christmas. For the defence it was stated that the defendant had not specified which Christmas, and even so if he had said so it was so. Defendant asked for a remand to enable him to dispense with legal assistance.

RESULT OF THE FOOD SHORTAGE?

"When the car has two occupants one might concentrate on whistling and calling out 'Take Cover.'"

As his own won't be enough he should borrow the other occupant's mouth.

THE NEW MRS. MARKHAM.

"Place me somewhere east of Suez On a lone and rocky shore, Where the Britons cease from Britling And the flappers flap no more."

This, however, does not throw much light on the subject. Perhaps the term Flapper may best be defined as meaning a twentieth-century hoyden, and was applied to a type of girl from the age of thirteen to seventeen, whose extravagances in speech, manner and dress caused deep dismay among the more serious members of the community. In particular the learned Dr. SHADWELL denounced them with great severity in a leading review, but with little result. They bedizened themselves with frippery, shrieked like parrots on all occasions and interpreted the motto of the time, "Carry On," in a sense deplorably remote from its higher significance.

THE TRANSGRESSOR.

I was walking painfully along a lonely road towing my three-thousand-guinea ten-cylinder twelve-seater. According to Regulation 777 X, both brakes were on. My overcoat collar was turned up to protect my sensitive skin from a blasting easterly gale, and through the twilight I was able to see but a few yards ahead. I had a blister on my heel. Somewhere, many miles to the eastward, lay my destination. Suddenly two gigantic forms emerged from the hedgerow and laid each a gigantic paw upon my shoulders. A gruff voice barked accusingly in my ear.

"You are the owner of a motorcar?"

Was it any use denying the fact? I thought not.

"Yes," I replied humbly, "I am."

"Have you the permit which allows you to possess this?" He waved towards the stagnant 'bus.

"I have."

"Have you the licence which allows you to take it upon the high road?"

With frozen fingers I held it out to him. He moved to the back of the car, unscrewed the entrance to the petrol tank and applied his nose to the aperture. After three official sniffs he turned upon me aggressively.

"There is an undeniable odour of petroleum. How do you account for that?"

"Sir," I replied, "last week my little son had his knockabout suit dry-cleaned in Perthshire by the petrol-substitute process. This morning he climbed upon the back of the car to see whether his Silver Campine had laid an egg in the hood."

He glared at me.

"Ah! Have you the necessary extension which allows you to use a motorcar as a habitation for hens?"

I gave it to him.

Then, frustrated with fury, he thundered at me successively: "Have you a towing permit? Have you a dog licence? Can you produce a boot and shoe grant? Do you hold any rubber shares? Have you been inoculated for premature decay? What did you do in the Great War?"

I gave him the necessary documents in perfect order. For a moment he was nonplussed. Then he asked with sly intention, "Have you the champagne and chicken sandwich ration which is apportioned to super-inspectors?"

I handed it to him with a table-napkin and a pair of wire-cutters thrown in. For some minutes he remained silent, except in the gustatory sense, then he turned upon me and, handing back an empty bottle, said triumphantly, "You must now produce, under Clause 5005 Gerrard, framed this morning at 11-30 o'clock, one pint of old ale and six ounces of bread and cheese for the sustentation of the sub-inspector."

I regarded him stonily and leant against the cold, cold bonnet of the car. Alas! I had it not.

"Sir," I pleaded, "I did not know ... give me time. The next inn is but a few miles. If you and your companion will take a seat I will bring you to the inn door and all will be well."

He laughed in my face.

"Algernon Brocklebank Smith," he said sternly, "you have betrayed yourself into our hands." He turned to his myrmidon: "Get a move on you, Herbert; it's a bit parky standing about here."

After all he was but a coarse fellow.

Herbert, galvanised into action, produced a small oblong object from his pocket, lighted the end of it with the glowing butt of one of my Corona Coronas, and placed it underneath the car. In a few moments all that remained of my three-thousand-guinea ten--cylinder twelve-seater was one small nut, which was immediately impounded.

I raised the collar of my overcoat , shifted my face to the eastward, and, notwithstanding the blister on my heel, turned my steps towards my destination.

I uttered no plaint. I had transgressed against the immutable law.

IS THE RACE LOSING ITS NERVE?

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet