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I then
break the news about the paratroops and the armed party, and
he is very sympathetic, being that sort of character.
"Can you tell me of any mutts," I ask him, "who
might care to join this party and spend a pleasant Thursday
afternoon?" "Thursday is early closing in these
parts," he informs me, "and it's more than likely
that our local braves are not very interested in battle
and sudden death unless such subjects are handed out to
them at their favourite cinema. And that's where they're
probably heading for at this moment. Now, if I were you,
I should get the bloke at the picture house to write a slide
and show it on the doings, telling all L.D.Vs. to report
at B.H.Q. immediately. It would be a grand advertisement
and that would bring in recruits."
I'm not very keen on this suggestion because, the way I
look at it, if the citizens hereabouts get the idea that
their Thursday half-holiday is likely to be messed about
in this way it might lead to more resignations than recruits.
Besides, I take a poor view of sitting all afternoon in
my office on the off-chance of the L.D.V. being composed
of nothing but film fans.
"You know old Morse, my storeman clerk?" says
the Q.M., "Well, in case there's a rush of storeman
clerking comes on suddenly, I have an arrangement that I
allow him a certain sum each day which he undertakes to
exchange for beer at a specified rendezvous. So, as it is
not yet closing time, I think we might count him in."
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Now
this is excellent news, because old Morse will be a great
acquisition to the party on account of his many years service
in the Army. He wears two rows of medal ribbons on his wescut
and a beautiful line in handlebar moustaches under his beezer.
He is known to us as Mr. Morse because, when he was in
the South African War, some Boer guy gives him the heat
in one of his legs and it is never quite the same since.
In fact, it remains very stiff and causes him to walk in
Morse code. When he is moving at ordinary cruising speed
he does a dot with one leg and a dash with t'other. In a
hurry he spells out a couple of dots with his good leg and
a dash with the poor-quality one. So, if you should hear
dot-dot-dash dot-dot-dash coming up the street, you can
bet a bottle of rye to an old pair of pants that our friend
is speeding up his revs. in order to arrive somewhere before
they close. He is known to have given the ‘V’ sign before
Mr. Churchill thought of it, because, taking a very sharp
corner in top, he taps out dot-dot-dot-dash. One ‘V’ and
he’s round.
"Have you any suggestions regarding transport"
I ask.
"Well," says the Q.M., "I've just thought
of another bloke who would enjoy just such an outing as
we have on hand. He runs a furnishing joint in High Street
and, what's more, he has a car."
We seem to have a possible nucleus of a very good fighting
force, and the situation appears to be well in hand.
(......continues.....)
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