Prag improved the occasion as he unlaced his boots. "Bloomin' biby! Afraid o' the dark! See wot boozin' brings yer to. Look at yer! An' look at me. Non-c'misshn'd orficer in free an' a 'arf years from j'inin'. Never tasted alc'ol in me life, an' if any man offud me a glarse, d'ye know what I'd dew?"
"No, Corporal, I'd like to hear," replied Dam. (Must keep the animal talking as long as possible for the sake of human company. He'd go mad at once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed.)
"I'd frow it strite in 'is faice, I would," announced the virtuous youth. A big boot flopped heavily on the floor.
"I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock," observed Dam, to make conversation. Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon the other boot and reply—so lengthening out the precious minutes of diversion. Every minute was a minute nearer dawn….
"Do yer? Well, you're bloomin' well wrong, Maffewson, me lad. My farver 'ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep' it up all day a Sund'y, 'e did—an' in the werry las' bout 'e ever 'ad 'e bashed 'is ole woman's 'ead in wiv' a bottle."
"And was hanged?" inquired Dam politely and innocently, but most tactlessly.
"Mind yer own b—— business," roared Corporal Prag. "Other people's farvers wasn't gallows-birds if yourn was. 'Ow'd you look if I come and punched you on the nose, eh? Wot 'ud you do if I come an' set abaht yer, eh?"
"Break your neck," replied Dam tersely.
"Ho, yus. And wot 'ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frows you into clink? Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!"
Dam shuddered.
Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam's heartfelt blessing.
"Don't you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson. I'm yore sooperier orficer. You may be better'n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Dam could have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), but if I 'olds up my little finger you comes to 'eel—or other'ow you goes ter clink. 'Ung indeed! You look after yer own farver an' don' pass remarks on yer betters. Why! You boozin' waster, I shall be Regimental Sargen' Majer when you're a bloomin' discharged private wiv an 'undred 'drunks' in red on yer Defaulter's Sheet. Regimental Sarjen' Majer! I shall be an Orficer more like, and walk acrost the crossin' wot you're asweepin', to me Club in bloomin' well Pickerdilly! Yus. This is the days o' ? Demockerycy, me lad. 'Good Lloyd George's golden days' as they sing—and steady fellers like me is goin' to ave C'missh'ns—an' don' you fergit it! Farver 'ung indeed!"
"I'm awf'ly sorry, Corporal, really," apologized Dam. "I didn't think…."
"No, me lad," returned the unmollified superior, as he stooped to the other boot, "if you was to think more an' booze less you'd do better…. 'Ow an' where you gets 'old of it, beats me. I've seed you in delirium trimmings but I ain't never seed you drinkin' nor yet smelt it on yer. You're a cunnin' 'ound in yer way. One o' them beastly secret-drinkin' swine wots never suspected till they falls down 'owlin' blue 'orrors an' seem' pink toadses. Leastways it's snakes you sees. See 'em oncte too orfen, you will…. See 'em on p'rade one day in front o' the Colonel. Fall orf yer long-face an get trampled—an' serve yer glad…. An' now shut yer silly 'ed an' don't chew the mop so much. Let me get some sleep. I 'as respontsibillaties I do…."
A crossing outside a Club! More likely a padded cell in a troopship and hospital until an asylum claimed him.
In the finals, "Sword versus Sword Dismounted," Dam had a foeman worthy of his steel.
A glorious chilly morning, sunrise on a wide high open maidan, rows of tents for the spectators at the great evening final, and crowds of officers and men in uniform or gymnasium kit. On a group of chairs sat the Divisional General, his Colonel on the Staff, and Aide-de-Camp; the Brigadier-General, his Brigade-Major, and a few ladies, wives of regimental colonels, officers, and leading Civilians.
Semi-finals of Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting, Tug-of-War, Fencing, and other officers' and men's events had been, or were being, contested.
The finals of the British Troops' Sword v. Sword Dismounted, was being reserved for the last, as of supreme interest to the experts present, but not sufficiently spectacular to be kept for the evening final "show," when the whole of Society would assemble to be thrilled by the final Jumping, Driving, Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting, Sword v. Lance, Tug-of-War, and other events for British and Indian officers and men of all arms.
It was rumoured that there was a Sergeant of Hussars who would give Trooper Matthewson a warm time with the sabre. As the crowd of competitors and spectators gathered round the sabres-ring, and chairs were carried up for the Generals, ladies, and staff, to witness the last and most exciting contest of the morning's meeting, a Corporal-official of the Assault-at-Arms Executive Committee called aloud, "Sergeant O'Malley, 14th Hussars, get ready," and another fastened a red band to the Sergeant's arm as he stepped forward, clad in leather jacket and leg-guards and carrying the heavy iron-and-leather head-guard necessary in sabre combats, and the blunt-edged, blunt-pointed sabre.
Dam approached him.
"Don't let my point rest on your hilt, Sergeant," he said.
"What's the game?" inquired the surprised and suspicious Sergeant.
"My little trick. I thrust rather than cut, you know," said Dam.
"I'll watch it, me lad," returned Sergeant O'Malley, wondering whether Dam were fool or knave.
"Trooper Matthewson, get ready," called the Corporal, and Dam stepped into the ring, saluted, and faced the Sergeant.
A brief direction and caution, the usual preliminary, and the word—
"On guard—Play" and Dam was parrying a series of the quickest cuts he had ever met. The Sergeant's sword flickered like the tongue of a—Snake. Yes—of a Snake! and even as Dam's hand dropped limp and nerveless, the Sergeant's sword fell with a dull heavy thud on his head-guard. The stroke would have split Dam's head right neatly, in actual fighting.
"Stop," shouted the referee. "Point to Red."
"On guard—Play"
But if the Sergeant's sword flickered like the tongue of a snake—why then Dam must be fighting the Snake. Fighting the Snake and in another second the referee again cried "Stop!" And added, "Don't fight savage, White, or I'll disqualify you".
"I'm awf'ly sorry," said Dam, "I thought I was fighting the Sn——"
"Hold your tongue, and don't argue," replied the referee sternly.
"On Guard—Play."
Ere the Sergeant could move his sword from its upward-inclined position Dam's blade dropped to its hilt, shot in over it, and as the Sergeant raised his forearm in guard, flashed beneath it and bent on his breast.
"Stop," cried the referee. "Point to White. Double"—two marks being then awarded for the thrust hit, and one for the cut.
"On guard—Play."
Absolutely the same thing happened again within the next half-second, and Dam had won the British Troops' Sword v. Sword
