Читать книгу The Seed of Empire - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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They had come from the north and south, from the east and west in their thousands at the first sign of danger. Not that any one of them admitted that the Empire was in peril, for such a thing was incredible. Was not Britain the mistress of the sea, and had she not been so for centuries? And did she not possess the finest navy that the world had ever seen? It was a hard thing to make the typical Englishman believe that within thirty years Germany could build up a fleet to compare with ours. To begin with, her people had not the right blood in their veins; they had no traditions, and practically no seaboard. Where were the men coming from, to cope with sailors who were the sons and grandsons of the men descended from the followers of Hawkins and Frobisher and Drake?

And again, at the very outbreak of hostilities, the German fleet had been carefully shepherded in the North Sea, and driven behind the shelter of Heligoland. If anything happened now, it would be from the fact that England was too confident.

Still, he national anger was aroused, for the callous betrayal of Belgium had sunk deep into the hearts of the people in whom the love of honour and fair play was instilled from childhood. And England exulted in the staggering blows which little Belgium had dealt the great bully in the early days of the campaign. All London rocked with excitement; the name of King Albert was cheered to the echo in every place of amusement, and the sons of Britain came rolling in. They came so fast at first that they taxed the resources of the authorities to the uttermost. England became one armed camp, and the tents of the fighting men were as pebbles on the seashore.

A month had passed by as if it had been no more than a breath. Out Harrow way the men of the Musketeers were working side by side without distinction. The man who a week or two before had been in authority over scores of fellow-creatures was now content to stand at attention before the young subaltern who a little time ago might have been taking down his letters. But it is all part of the great game, and even professional humorists like Ginger Smith forgot to smile.

He had taken to his work as if he had been born to it. In a month he was a smart soldier in a smart regiment, and he thrilled with secret pride as he heard the general who inspected them pronounce them to be the equal of any line regiment of the country. He was keen on getting recruits, too. Few days passed without one or two of them coming along at Ginger's instigation. He had developed, too, a certain rugged eloquence of his own, half-humorous and half-pathetic, that went a long way at meetings where his own class were concerned. He had rather a good voice, of which he was sufficiently proud, and he was not modest in the use of it. He grinned from ear to ear at Kemp's suggestion that he should motor over to the latter's place for a recruiting meeting one evening and address a few remarks to some of the labourers in the district, who were somewhat slow in appreciating the situation. For some little time now Mrs. Bentley had been established at The Keep House, and Nettie Bentley was on the high road to gratify her darling ambition.

"Now you come, Ginger, and give us a song," Kemp suggested. "And my sister shall play your accompaniments for you."

"You does me proud, sir," Ginger said, smilingly. "Ah, I've heard the lady play accompaniments before. A regular dab at the gime she is. Only give 'er a charnce ter look at the music and she's on it like a bird. What shall I sing, sir?"

"Well, what were you singing last night just before you turned in?" Bentley asked. "It was something with a real lilt in it. Ripping good chorus, too."

"Oh, you means 'Tipperary,'" Ginger cried. "It was in last year's pantomimes, and didn't seem ter catch on no 'ow. But it's wot the Yanks call the goods. Cully—which I mean, sir—and no mistake abaht it. It's the best marching song as we've 'ad for many a dye. And, you see, there's wot them writin' blokes calls a halegory; means it's a long, long wye ter Tipperary, which yer can call Berlin if yer like, and whilst the blokes ain't making too light of the little job afore 'em they're goin' ter get there all the sime. And fer all I say it as shouldn't, I can sing that little ditty a fair treat. Me an' the lidy'll rope 'em in properly between the two of us."

Ginger turned out to be no false prophet. For the first time a mixed and crowded audience heard 'Tipperary' sung as it should be with its humorously pathetic touch, heard it sung by a British Tommy, a soldier of the King proud of his uniform, and the task that lay before him. The song is a classic now, and will go down to posterity as such, but it was new then, and it gripped the audience as it has gripped the sons of the flag in every quarter of the globe many a time since then. Long before Ginger had finished he had the sons of the soil roaring the chorus with all the fervour of a national slogan. His voice was just a little unsteady, but the cheery impudence of the little man never deserted him for a moment. He turned with a friendly wink to the slim dark beauty in evening dress who was at the piano. Ginger had a fine eye for a dramatic effect.

"Don't you stop, miss," he whispered. "You go on 'ammerin' at that there chorus for all you're worth, and I'll give yer brother the tip ter get the 'ole bahnder in the chair to invite recruits up on the platform."

Dorothy Kemp nodded graciously. She could see what was uppermost in Ginger's mind, and her fingers crashed out the inspiring chords of the chorus. Almost before the chairman opened his mouth there was an eager rush for the platform. It was Ginger's hour, and he knew it, the first of many triumphs he was to win alongside those friends of his who had picked him up in the gutter and given him the chance to show the splendid manhood that was his.

"That's a smart move of yours, Ginger," Bentley whispered.

"Yus," Ginger said modestly. "That was a bit of alright, that was. 'An if you can get these blokes in the recruitin' offices to work 'Tipperary' for all it's worth you'll 'ave the chaps tumblin' over one another ter 'ave a smack at them 'Uns as yer call 'em. You leave it to us. There ain't nothin' the matter with our little lot if you treats us the right way."

Down at the back of the hall a lean, brown-faced man with captain's stars on his sleeve was watching the proceedings with deepest interest. He made his way to the platform presently, and called Kemp and Bentley on one side.

"How did you three manage to get leave to-night?" he asked.

"Oh, that's all right, sir," Kemp said. "We've got to be back at 10. The chairman is rather a pal—I mean a friend—of the colonel's, and therefore—"

"Well, never mind that," the captain said. "I want you to forget just for a moment that I am your company officer, and that you are two of my men. I believe your mother's here, isn't she Bentley, and I think that is Miss Kemp at the piano? Now, would you be good enough to just go and say good-bye to them, and ask them not to say a word about it to anybody."

Bentley's eyes gleamed, and Kemp caught his breath eagerly.

"Good man!" he whispered. "Oh, I think we understand. Here, don't be captain just for a minute. Do you mean that we are on the move, Crighton, on the way to the—"

"Steady, steady," the captain whispered. "If I am doing wrong, don't give me away. At half-past ten to-night we start for Waterloo in the clothes we stand up in. And by this time to-morrow we shall be—somewhere else."

"Off to the front," Kemp whispered. "Think of it, Harold! My aunt, what a bit of glorious luck!"