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Updated: May 28, 2025
His services were cordially accepted by thrifty Madame; and the Corporal, surrounded by a silent and admiring crowd, set to work. The officers, leaving the Junior Subaltern in charge, went with one accord for a long country walk. Half an hour later Mucklewame arrived at the seat of the deceased animal's trouble the seat of most of the troubles of mankind its stomach.
"Go you," commanded Angus, his voice rising to a more than usually Highland inflection, "and semaphore to Mucklewame that when he hears the explosion of this" he pulled out the safety-pin of the grenade and gripped the grenade itself in his enormous paw "followed, probably, by the temporary cessation of the machine-gun, he is to bring his men over here in a bunch, as hard as they can pelt.
The firing-trench is our place of business our office in the city, so to speak. The firing-trench, like most business premises, is severe in design and destitute of ornament. But the suburban trench lends itself to more imaginative treatment. Gas laid on But only once, in a field near Aldershot, where Private Mucklewame first laid bare, and then perforated, the town main with his pick.
This was most irregular. According to the text of the spirited little dialogue in which Mucklewame had been recently rehearsed by his piquet commander, the man on the bicycle ought to have said "Friend!" This cue received, Mucklewame was prepared to continue. Without it he was gravelled. He tried once more. "Halt! Wha goes "
Again silence, while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of mental exertion. "Private Wemyss?" No answer. "Private M'Micking!" The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing. "Well," desperately "Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in the foreground." "The sky, sirr." "Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently.
Even your feet are not your own. Every Sunday morning a young officer, whose leave has been specially stopped for the purpose, comes round the barrack-rooms after church and inspects your extremities, revelling in blackened nails and gloating over hammer-toes. For all practical purposes, decides Private Mucklewame, you might as well be in Siberia. Still, one can get used to anything.
He would stand no nonsense this time. "Halt!" he commanded. "Wha goes there?" "Hey, Jock," inquired a husky voice, "is that you?" This was another most irregular answer. Declining to be drawn into impromptu irrelevancies, Mucklewame stuck to his text. "Advance yin," he continued, "and give the coontersign, if any!" Private Dunshie drew nearer. "Jock," he inquired wistfully, "hae ye gotten a fag?"
Private Mucklewame is of opinion that it would be equally effective, and infinitely less fatiguing, simply to lie down prone and close the eyes. After Captain Wagstaffe has criticised the preliminary parapets most of them are condemned as not being bullet-proof the work is continued.
A body can aye streitch himself doon under a tree for a bit sleep withoot getting wasps and wee beasties crawling up inside his kilt, and puddocks craw-crawing in his ear! A body can keep himself frae sweitin' " "He can that!" assents M'Snape, whose spare frame is more vulnerable to the icy breeze than that of the stout corporal. However, the balance of public opinion is against Mucklewame.
Suddenly raucous and stunning, but oh, how sweet! rang out the voice of Dunshie's lifelong friend, Private Mucklewame. "Halt! Wha goes there!" The cyclist made no reply, but kept his devious course. Private Mucklewame, who liked to do things decently and in order, stepped heavily out of the hedge into the middle of the road, and repeated his question in a reproving voice. There was no answer.
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