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Updated: June 7, 2025
Of the missing, Dunshie, as we know, was sunning his lonely soul in the society of his foes; two had lost themselves, and the remaining two had been captured by a reconnoitring patrol. Of the seven which strayed not, four had discovered the trip-cord; so it was evident that that ingenious contrivance extended along the whole line. Only M'Snape, however, had penetrated farther.
"That's right, sirr," assented Dunshie politely. "Are you a professional?" "No exactly that, sirr," was the modest reply. "You just make a hobby of it?" "Just that, sirr." "Have you had much experience?" "No that much." "But you feel capable of taking on the job?" "I do, sirr." "You seem quite eager about it." "Yes, sirr," said Dunshie, with gusto. A sudden thought occurred to Ayling.
Wee Pe'er blushed, his teeth momentarily ceased chattering, his heart swelled. Appearances to the contrary, he felt warm all through. The sergeant laid a fatherly hand upon his shoulder. "Go you your ways intil the guard-room, boy," he commanded, "and send oot Dunshie. He'll no hurt. Get close in ahint the stove, or you'll be for Cambridge!"
He had spent the greater part of his life selling evening papers in the streets of Glasgow: and the profession of journalism, though it breeds many virtues in its votaries, is entirely useless as a preparation for conditions either of silence or solitude. Private Dunshie had no experience of either of these things, and consequently feared them both. He was acutely afraid.
Ought to be a soldier's pride, and all that. See?" "Yes sirr," replies Private Dunshie, with less truculence. The Captain glances down at the paper before him. "First time you have come before me. Admonished!" "Right turn! Quick march!" thunders the Sergeant-Major. The procession clumps out of the room. The Captain turns to his disciple. "That's my homely and paternal tap," he observes.
And yet there are people who tell us that the formula, O.H.M.S., is a mere relic of antiquity. "Bring in Private Dunshie, Sergeant-Major," says the Company Commander. The Sergeant-Major throws open the door, and barks "Private Dunshie's escort!" The order is repeated fortissimo by some one outside.
Private Peter Dunshie, scout, groping painfully and profanely through a close-growing wood, paused to unwind a clinging tendril from his bare knees. As he bent down, his face came into sudden contact with a cold, wet, prickly bramble-bush, which promptly drew a loving but excoriating finger across his right cheek. He started back, with a muffled exclamation.
The hospitable Mucklewame agreed, and Scout Dunshie, overjoyed at the prospect of human companionship, promptly climbed over the low wall and attached himself, in the rôle of languishing captive, to Number Two Sentry-Group of Number Three Piquet. Meanwhile M'Snape had reached the forward edge of the wood, and was cautiously reconnoitring the open ground in front of him.
Finally, a hare, which had sat cowering in the bracken, hare-like, when it might have loped away, selected this, the one moment when it ought to have sat still, to bolt frantically between Peter's bandy legs and speed away down a long moon-dappled avenue. Private Dunshie, a prey to nervous shock, said what naturally rose to his lips. To be frank, he said it several times.
At aboot four-thirrty P.M., Lance-Corporal Ness reported this man tae me for refusing for tae obey an order. I confined him." The Captain turns to the prisoner. "What have you to say, Private Dunshie?" Private Dunshie, it appears, has a good deal to say. "I jined the Airmy for tae fight they Germans, and no for tae be learned tae scrub floors " "Sirr!" suggests the Sergeant-Major in his ear.
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