“Then guess,” she sez.  Well, I’m a patient bloke,
So I sits down an’ starts to cut a smoke. 
  (To play this game yeh’ve got to persevere.)
  “Couldn’t,” I sez, “if I guessed for a year”;
Then lights me pipe, an’ waits for ’er to speak. 
At last she sez, “Jim’s comin’ back next week!”

“Go on,” sez I; an’ puffs away awhile
Quite unconcerned.  But for to see ’er smile
  Was jist a treat:  ‘er eyes was shinin’ bright,
  An’ she’d grow’d ten years younger in a night. 
Jist ’ere, Doreen she sez to me, “Good Lor,
Wot do yeh want two plugs uv ’baccer for?”

I takes me pipe out uv me mouth an’ stares,
An’ stammers, “Must ’ave found a piece—­somewheres.” 
  But, by the way she smiles—­so extra sweet—­
  I know she twigs me game, an’ I am beat. 
“Fancy,” she sez.  “Yeh’re absent-minded, dear. 
Sure there was nothin’ else yeh wanted ’ere?”

“Nothin’,” I sez, an’ feels a first-prize fool;
An’ goes outside, an’ grabs the nearest tool. 
  It was the crosscut; so I works like mad
  To keep me self-respeck from goin’ bad. 
“This game,” I tells meself, “will do yeh good. 
You ain’t proficient, yet, at sawin’ wood.”

XII.  JIM

Jim

“Now, be the Hokey Fly!” sez Peter Begg. 
“Suppose ’e comes ’ome with a wooden leg. 
  Suppose ’e isn’t fit to darnce at all,
  Then, ain’t we ‘asty fixin’ up this ball? 
A little tournament at Bridge is my
Idear,” sez Peter.  “Be the Hokey Fly!”

Ole Peter Begg is gettin’ on in years. 
‘E owns a reel good farm; an’ all ’e fears
  Is that some girl will land ’im, by are by,
  An’ share it with ’im—­be the Hokey Fly. 
That’s ‘is pet swear-word, an’ I dunno wot
‘E’s meanin’, but ’e uses it a lot.

“Darncin’!” growls Begg.  We’re fixin’ up the ’all
With bits uv green stuff for a little ball
  To welcome Jim, ‘oo’s comin’ ‘ome nex’ day. 
  We’re ‘angin’ flags around to make things gay,
An’ shiftin’ chairs, an’ candle-greasin’ floors,
’As is our way when blokes come ’ome from wars.

“A little game uv Bridge,” sez Peter Begg,
“Would be more decent like, an’ p’r’aps a keg
  Uv somethin’ if the ‘ero’s feelin’ dry. 
  But this ‘ere darncin’!  Be the Hokey Fly,
These selfish women never thinks at all
About the guest; they only wants the ball.

“Now, cards,” sez Begg, “amuses ev’ry one. 
An’ then our soldier guest could ’ave ’is fun
  If ’e’d lost both ’is legs.  It makes me sick
 ’Ere!  Don’t yeh spread that candle-grease too thick
Yeh’re wastin’ it; an’ us men ’as to buy
Enough for nonsense, be the Hokey Fly!”

Begg, ‘e ain’t never keen on wastin’ much. 
“Peter,” I sez, “it’s you that needs a crutch. 
  Why don’t yeh get a wife, an’ settle down?”
 ‘E looks reel fierce, an’ answers, with a frown,
“Do you think I am goin’ to be rooked
For ’arf me tucker, jist to get it cooked?”