* * * * *

THE ARMY ORACLE.

I cannot conceal from myself that I am a great acquisition to the Army of Occupation.  My knowledge of the language being far and away superior to that of any other British officer for miles around, I am looked upon by the natives as a sort of high military authority in whom they may have the privilege and the pleasure of confiding all their troubles.  According to the intensity of their various desires I am addressed crescendo as “Herr Ober-Leutenant,” or “Herr Hauptmann,” or “Herr Majeur,” or “Herr Commandant.”  They always approach me in a becomingly servile attitude—­cap or hat in hand—­and await with obvious tension my weighty pronouncements.  They hide round corners and wait behind doors or down narrow passages until I come past, and then they spring out on me.

“What about the coal we are burning?  The electric light we are using?  Who is going to pay?” “So-and-so’s charlady, who was out obliging another lady, had a breadknife pinched while she was away from home.  Was it one of my Soldaten, perhaps?  Did I know anything about it, and if so, would I punish the evildoer and restore the implement?”

The village expert in calf-delivery wants to know whether, in the case of the happy event taking place after 9 P.M. (which it usually does), I would give him permission to leave his home after closing hours, so that he might assist at the function.

The local yokels of this spot and its neighbouring villages want to resume their bi-weekly choral society meetings but cannot reach the rendezvous until 8.45 P.M., which leaves them just a quarter-of-an-hour to have their practice and to take cover for the night.  “Would the high-well-born be so fearfully gracious as to allow them to continue until 10 P.M.?”

To be suddenly taken unawares and to have such conundrums volleyed at you in a strange tongue is apt to be rather exhausting.  However I have a reputation to live up to and must be as frightful as possible.  I find the best thing to do is to refer them to the nearest notice-board, which reads:—­

HALT!

VORSICHT!

ALLES VERBOTEN!!!

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

The Visiting Brigadier cracked a walnut and glanced towards the General.  “I wonder if you remember a French interpreter by the name of de Blavincourt, Sir?  He was with you once, I believe.”

The A.P.M. across the way paused in the act of tapping a cigarette on his case.  “Little gunner man, wore red plush bags and a blue velvet hat?  Yes, up in the salient in ’17.”

The General puffed three perfect smoke rings towards the chandelier (an accomplishment he had acquired thirty-five years previously at the “Shop” and was still proud of) and smiled.  “De Blavincourt? why, yes, I remember him.  He knew more about cooking than all the chefs in Europe and taught my poisoner to make rations taste like food.  Of course I remember him.  Why?”