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"What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?" demanded Nigg triumphantly. "He doesna ken it!" "Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, "can ye no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'? When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it was written there."
The Major groans, but can do nothing. Presently there is a fresh block. "What is it this time?" inquires the afflicted Kemp. "More wounded, or are we being photographed?" The answer races joyously down the line "Gairman prisoners, sirr seeventy of them!" This time the Major acts with promptness and decision. "Prisoners? No, they don't!
"Sir-r," he said, "the habits of the Hoon, or Gairman, ha'e been ma life study. Often in the nicht when ye gentlemen at the mess are smokin' bad seegairs an' playin' the gamblin' game o' bridge-whist, Tam o' the Scoots is workin' oot problems in Gairman psych I forget the bonnie waird.
"At yon three Gairman spies, gaun' up a close for tae despatch some wireless telegraphy fufty roonds fire!" To which Private M'Leary, not to be outdone, responds "Public hoose in the baur back o' seeven o'clock twa drams fower fingers rapid!" From this it is a mere step to "Butt Pairty, 'shun! Forrm fourrs! Right! By your left, quick marrch!" on a bleak and cheerless morning in late October.
"Beyond an epidemic of mad Gairman airplanes an' a violent eruption of Archies, the hatefu' enemy shows no sign o' life or movement," said Tam. "Man, A've never wanted so badly to look into Lille till now." Undoubtedly there was something to hide. Young Turpin, venturing where Tam had nearly trod, was shot down by gun-fire and taken prisoner.
"I wonder," remarks the dreamy voice of Private M'Leary, the humorist of the platoon, "did ever a Gairman buzzer pit the ba' through his ain goal in a fitba' match?" This irrelevant reference to a regrettable incident of the previous Saturday afternoon is greeted with so much laughter that Bobby Little, who has at length fixed his picture in position, whips round.
It's a wee book I picked up at a roup along with fifty others. I paid five shillings for the lot. It looks like Gairman, but in my young days they didna teach us foreign languages. I took the thing and turned over the pages, trying to keep any sign of intelligence out of my face. It was German right enough, a little manual of hydrography with no publisher's name on it.
The next we kenned he was runnin' verra fast towards the enemy, holdin' his hands ower his heid and crying out loud in a foreign langwidge. 'It was German, said the scholarly Amos through his broken teeth. 'It was Gairman, continued Hamilton. 'It seemed as if he was appealin' to the enemy to help him. But they paid no attention, and he cam under the fire of their machine-guns.
He sucked his teeth reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance. "Sooner or later!" "What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was not very quick at grasping allusions. "He wouldna pit on the name himself," explained the philosopher. "What I mean is, there's a bullet for each one of us somewhere over there" he jerked his head eastward "in a Gairman pooch."
"You boys," he says reproachfully, "are an aggravate altogether. Here you are, jumping at your conclusions again! After all I have been telling you! See! That worrd in the address should no' be Haslemere at all. It's just a catch! It's Hazebroucke a Gairman city that we'll be capturing this time next year.
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