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Updated: June 13, 2025
And this first night at Masnières was frequented with that sensation of ill-omen pervading the minds of many who felt as Tich had said somehow that their days were drawing to a close. They would lie unmoving for an hour obsessed by their thoughts; the brain flying with its lightning rapidity from picture to picture resurrected from a happy past. In words would some communicate their apprehensions.
If you make it higher with sandbags you offer the enemy a comfortable target: if you deepen the trench you turn it into a running stream. Therefore long-legged subalterns crawl painfully past these danger-spots on all-fours, envying Little Tich. Then there is Zacchaeus. We call him by this name because he lives up a tree.
Shells claimed a large toll of victims even among the more or less screened rows of figures lying along the eastern edge of the canal. Stumpy, secure behind a small mound, had gazed with black pessimism on life from the moment Tich had given ALL. "Gawd," he observed generally, "ain't it orful. What with shells, an' dead, an' gas! An' I ain't 'ad any rum since last night.
Tich, as I have said, is but four feet from sole to crown, but there is little of the dwarf's distortion about him. He is simply a man in miniature: in aspect, much like any other man. His specialty is impersonation. First he appears as a drill sergeant, then as a headwaiter, then as a gas collector, then as some other familiar fellow.
Then the practical British private moved on, calling simply, "Come on, Tich!" The phrase, "He followed like a lamb," became appropriate. And I remember one further episode, not so agreeable. Major Veasey and myself had been to call on the Divisional Artillery, under whose orders we were now working. When we returned the dead British officer still lay outside the Red Cross hut.
"I feel rotten to-night. Something's got on my nerves...." But the rum ration soon soared the depressed spirits. Man is prey to his inherited instincts. Even Tich recovered his nerve. "I only felt like that once before," he said, "that's when I was spliced." "Wot, frightened of something?" "Yes, and," gloomily in abrupt relapse, "it came right, too."
"It's just great," declared Flamby, "and I can never hope to thank you for being so good to me. But I am wondering how I am going to afford it." "My dear Flamby, the rent of this retreat is astoundingly modest. You will use very little coal, electric and gas meters are of the penny-in-the-slot variety immortalised in song and story by Little Tich, and there you are."
We take one more chance, and pick a prize Little Tich, to wit, a harlequin no more than four feet in his shoes, but as full of humour as a fraternal order funeral. Before these few lines find you well, Little Tich, I dare say, will be on Broadway, drawing his four thousand stage dollars a week and longing for a decent cut of mutton.
And I've no money to buy any more. I had seventeen of Edna May." Barry, feeling that he was expected to say something, said, "By Jove! Really?" "In various positions," continued Milton. "All ruined." "Not really?" said Barry. "There was one of Little Tich " But Barry felt unequal to playing the part of chorus any longer.
There were also smaller twenty and twelve-oared boats, but not a single "four" but ours. Our little mahogany Oxford-built boat, lying very low in the water, looked pitiably small beside the great French galleys. It wasn't even David and Goliath, it was as though "Little Tich" stood up to Georges Carpentier. We saw the race from a sailing yacht; my father absolutely beside himself with excitement.
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