Mr. Punch on the Warpath Part 9

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Bluejacket_ (_who has been hauled twice round the sick bay, yelling inarticulately, by the surgeon with the forceps_). "Why, you 'ad me by the tongue!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A VERBAL DIFFICULTY.

_Irritable Captain._ "Your barrel's disgracefully dirty, sir, and it's not the first time; I've a good mind to----"

_Private Flannigan._ "Shure, sor, I niver----"

_Captain_ (_Irish too_). "Silence, sir, when you spake to an officer!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE ROYAL SALUTE.--_Officer in charge of battery_ (_in a fever lest the time of firing should be a second late_). "Why, what are you about, No. 6? Why don't you serve the sponge?"

_Bombardier McGuttle._ "Hoots toots! Can na' a body blaw their nose?"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: TACTICS.

_Instructor._ "Well, gentlemen, I have endeavoured to explain to you the theoretical principles governing the movements of the various portions of a combined force; but I must warn you, that, in practice on an ordinary field-day, you will probably find it result in hopeless confusion; while on active service it will be ten times worse!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: CONCLUSIVE!

_Volunteer Colonel_ (_swell brewer_). "I'm afraid, Mr. Jenkins, you had been indulging in potations that were too strong for you!"

[_Private J. was being "called over the coals" for insubordination at the inspection._]

_Private Jenkins_ (_who is still wearing his bayonet on the wrong side_). "Oh, I couldn't have been drunk, sir, for I never had no more than one pint o' your ale all the blessed day!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Register-keeper._ "Major Jones first to count. A miss--nothing."

_Major Jones._ "I say, sergeant, that's almost an Irish bull, I fancy!"

_Register-keeper._ "No, sorr, just a simple English miss!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR YEOMANRY.

_Sergeant Major._ "Number three, where's your sword?"

_Recruit_ (_who finds practice very different from theory_). "On the ground. Carn't see 'un?"]

MILITARY DIALOGUES

I

ARMY REFORM SCENE.--_The drawing-room of the Colonel's quarters, decorated with trophies from many lands and water-colour sketches. Mrs. Bulkwise, the Colonel's wife, a tall, broad and a.s.sertive lady, is giving tea to Mrs.

Lyttleton-Cartwright, with the stamp of fashion upon her, and Mrs.

Karmadine, who has a soul for art--both ladies of the regiment. Colonel Bulkwise, a small and despondent man whose hair is "part-worn" gazes morosely into the fire_.

_Mrs. Bulkwise_ (_waving a tea cup_). As surely as woman is a.s.serting her right to a place in medicine, in law, and in the council, so surely will she take her proper place in the control of the army.

_Mrs. Lyttleton-Cartwright._ What a lovely costume one could compose out of the uniform. I've often tried Jack's tunic on.

_Mrs. B._ (_severely_). The mere brutal work of fighting, the butchery of the trade, would still have to be left to the men; but such matters as require higher intelligence, keener wit, tact, perseverance, should be, and some day _shall_ be, in our hands.

_Mrs. Karmadine._ And the beauty and grace of life, Mrs. Bulkwise.

Surely we women, if allowed, could in peace bring culture to the barrack-room, and garland the sword with bay wreaths?

_Mrs. B._ Take the War Office. I am told that the ranks of the regiments are depleted of combatant officers in order that they may sit in offices in Pall Mall, and do clerical work indifferently. Now, I hold that our s.e.x could do this work better, more cheaply, and with greater dispatch.

_Mrs. L.-C._ "Pall-Mall" would be such an excellent address.

_Mrs. B._ The young men, both officers and civilians, who are employed waste, so I understand, the time of the public by going out to lunch at clubs and frequently pause in their work to smoke cigars and discuss the odds. Now a gla.s.s of milk, or some claret and lemonade, a slice of seed-cake, or some tartlets, brought by a maid from the nearest A. B. C.

shop would satisfy all our mid-day wants.

_Mrs. L.-C._ And I never knew a woman who couldn't work and talk bonnets at the same time.

_Mrs. C._ Just a few palms--don't you think, Mrs. Bulkwise?--in those dreary, _dreary_ rooms, and some oriental rugs on the floors, and a little bunch of flowers on each desk would make life so much easier to live.

[_Colonel Bulkwise murmurs something unintelligible_.

_Mrs. B._ What do you say, George?

_Colonel B. (with sudden fierceness)._ I said, that there are too many old women, as it is, in the War Office.

_Mrs. B._ George!

[_The colonel relapses again into morose silence._

_Mrs. B._ The Intelligence Department should, of course, be in our hands.

_Mrs. L.-C._ I should just love to run about all the time, finding out other people's secrets.