Well, not afraid, per’aps, but—­shook. 
It’s jist the form ’is nerves ’ave took. 
  Now ‘e’s been watchin’ Flo an’ seen
 ‘Er style, an’ ’ow she’s always keen
For news uv Jim.  Then ’e starts out
To ‘ope, an’ ‘esitate, an’ doubt.

’E wonders if ’is own girl spoke
Jist this same way about ’er bloke. 
 ’E wonders if in ’is girl’s eyes
  That same look came; an’ then ’e sighs,
An’ dulls ’is senses with the dope
That ’arf a man ain’t got no ’ope.

’E makes me tired.  But, all the same,
I tries to work a little game. 
 “Look ’ere,” I sez.  “About this Flo. 
  Jim mightn’t come back ’ome, yeh know. 
You ’ave a fly; yeh’re sure to score;
Besides, all’s fair in love an’ war.”

“Sling that!” ’e sez; but I goes on
“Ole Jim won’t blame yeh when she’s gone. 
 ‘E knows, the same as me an’ you,
  These silly tarts, they can’t keep true.” 
I piles it on until I’ve got
’Im where I want ‘im—­jumpin’ ’ot.

An’ then ’e sez, “’Ere, sling that talk! 
I might be groggy in me walk;
  But if yeh say them things to me
  I’m man enough to crack yeh; see?”
“Righto,” sez I.  “That was me plan. 
Now wot about this ’arf a man?”

‘E stares at me, an’ then sez, slow,
“Wot is yer game?  Wot do yeh know?”
 “Nothin’,” I tells ’im, “only this
  When there’s a waitin’ tart to kiss
Yeh’re only ’arf a man; but when
There’s blokes to fight, yeh’re twenty men.”

“Wot tart?” ’e asks.  “Yeh mean this Flo?”
“P’r’aps not,” I sez.  “You ought to know.” 
  I waits to let me words sink in. 
  An’ then—­’e beats me with that grin. 
“Match-makin’, Bill?” ’e laughs.  “Oh, ’Ell! 
You take up knittin’ for a spell.”

IX.  THE BOYS OUT THERE

The Boys Out There

“Why do they do it?  I dunno,”
  Sez Digger Smith.  “Yeh got me beat. 
Some uv the yarns yeh ’ear is true,
An’ some is rather umptydoo,
  An’ some is—­indiscreet. 
But them that don’t get to the crowd,
Them is the ones would make yeh proud.”

With Digger Smith an’ other blokes
  ’Oo ’ave returned it’s much the same
They’ll talk uv wot they’ve seen an’ done
When they’ve been out to ’ave their fun;
  But no word uv the game. 
On fights an’ all the tale uv blood
Their talk, as they remark, is dud.

It’s so with soldiers, I ’ave ’eard,
  All times.  The things that they ’ave done,
War-mad, with blood before their eyes,
An’ in their ears wild fightin’ cries,
  They ever after shun. 
P’r’aps they forget; or find it well
Not to recall too much uv ’Ell.

An’ when they won’t loose up their talk
  It’s ’ard for us to understand
’Ow all those boys we used to know,
Ole Billo, Jim an’ Tom an’ Joe,
  Done things to beat the band. 
We knoo they’d fight; but they’ve became
‘Ead ringers at the fightin’ game.