FURTHER NOTES BY A WAR-DOG.
My name's "Scottie." I'm a collie and wear a box in which I collect contributions for the National Relief Fund. Probably you've met me—and, I hope, contributed. Not long ago, so Mabel told a friend the other day, a few of my early experiences were published in a book called Punch. I've had heaps more since then. I'm getting quite an old hand at the piteous "Won't-you-spare-me-something?" look. For one thing, I've learnt to let people put anything into my box. Once I got a penny (from a little girl) that turned out, when the box was opened, to be chocolate. A bit cocoa-y by then, but still eatable. But my best haul was during my—and Mabel's—weekend by the sea.
We went down in a corridor train, where I collected quite a lot of money. When the train stopped half-way there, I jumped out for a mouthful of air, and there, on the platform, was a black retriever wearing a collecting box like mine! I asked him what he meant by it, and, as he didn't explain himself, I went for him, and stood him upside down; and in the scrimmage half a crown fell out of his collecting box. Everybody thought that it had fallen out of mine; Mabel was sure it had; so it was given to me. You should have seen that retriever when I smiled at him from the carriage window.
We reached the sea at last. The Serpentine's a puddle by comparison. The very first morning I tore across the shingle with two two-shilling pieces in my box rattling like eighteen-pence in copper. Such a time I had, though my box was dreadfully heavy, being full of sand and sea water. Presently, joy! the bottom fell out. But the public later seemed quite satisfied, until a horrid nurse-girl gave the show away—and of course Mabel had it mended.
The very day we came away I met the millionaire man. It was a wild wet day, and I was draining in an alcove underneath the promenade when he appeared. He didn't look rich, and he was running and panting and glancing over his shoulder in a hunted manner. No sooner did he see me than he whispered, "Blimy, 'ere's a chance! Good dawg, then—'old yer 'ed up," and at once crammed a heap of "goblins" (Mabel's word) and lots of crackley paper into my box. He followed this up with about two yards of shiny chain and things that winked so that I had to wink as well. Then came lots of things like goblins with their middles bitten out; and hardly had he given me the last before two monstrous men in blue rushed round the corner. I don't remember exactly what happened, but the millionaire man said, Blimy, couldn't he run after his wat wot the wind blown off? and the blue men said why, yes he could, but they were sure he hadn't. Then he said, Blimy, they could "turn him over," straight they could, and they said straight they would. But they didn't. Instead they felt in all his pockets, and only found a clay pipe and some cheese wrapped up in newspaper. Then things became so uninteresting that I sauntered back to Mabel.
The day after our home-coming my box and I were marched to the committee. I've had some bad times there, but nothing quite so bad before. The way an old girl gushed about the "darlings" (whoever they were) parting with their jewellery simply wearied me. As soon as Mabel felt strong enough to walk we went home. She seemed to forget that the haul was entirely due to me. Yet she's a wonderful memory for some things. Ever since breakfast to-day she's done nothing but talk about a darking robbery at Winklebeach, and looks at me in the most extraordinary manner. I don't know what Winklebeach may be, but it's as clear as daylight that she's thinking of the six sweet biscuits that I stole behind her back at her last "At home." But how did she find out?
OUR FIRST CAPTURE.
By Special Constable XXX.
You must understand that the work of the Special Constable is so utterly dreary that we heave sighs of envy on seeing one of our number, an L.C.C. employee, being allowed to clean the windows of a public building. The lucky dog!
Imagine, therefore, our joy at receiving a staff order to watch out for motor-cars with hoggish headlights, and report their numbers to head-quarters. We were not to arrest them—even if we could.
Within half an hour of the staff order we registered Our First Capture. Myself, I received a fleeting impression of LL—8183; my colleague took it for LS—6163. An amicable discussion ensued. I pointed out that LS might mean London Scittish, who should be allowed to go scot free; he countered with the suggestion that LL might stand for Lloyd George, who should also be above the law. We tossed for it. I won. The honour fell to me to report the capture.
"Sergeant, oblige me by recording the following episode in your official notebook: Special Constable XXX has the honour to report that on or about the 15th instant, in the year of grace———"
"Is there much more like this?"
"Don't rob me of my hour of glory. I've had four blank months... In the year of grace 1914, at the hour of 5.15, post meridian, at the corner of ——— Street, a motor-car contravening, traversing or otherwise infringing His Majesty's Regulations promulgated by the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, pursuant to an order in Council———"
"What was its number?" demanded the Sergeant crudely.
"LL—8183, Sir. And I have the honour to suspect that it belonged to the Right Hon. David Lloyd George."
The Sergeant, who wears a yellow brassard, reported to the Sub-Inspector (red band), and from there the information will travel upwards and onwards to the Chief Sub-Inspector (light-blue band), the Inspector (dark-blue band), the Commander (white band), and the Chief Staff Officer, who resides in the west wing of New Scotland Yard and probably wears a cocked hat. From there it will cross the Bridge of Sighs to the east wing, occupied by the more ordinary police, and will trickle down in reverse order of precedence to a regular Constable, who will probably call on Mr. Lloyd George with an official blue paper in his hand:—
"Sir,—From information received, it transpired that on or about the 15th instant, in the year of grace 1914,... head-lights contravening, traversing or otherwise infringing... and should the offence be repeated... In the name of our Sovereign Lord the King, Emperor of India, Defender of the Faith."
Lloyd George will humbly submit to the decree, will sign a promissory note of obedience (Moratorium barred), and the incident will close.
Think of the glory of putting all that in motion!
Yes, it was worth while joining the Force.
It having been officially announced (in "Charivaria") that members of the O.B.C. (Old Boys Corps) object to being called the Old B.C.'s, an intolerable suggestion is now put forward that they should be known as the "Obese He's."
Read-Admiral Schlieper says in the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger that the Germans could never overcome a certain sentimental feeling of justice and delicacy with regard to England. We do not know how Scarborough regards this veracious statement, but our own motto is "Let Schlieping dogs lie."
