As we crawled through the canvas at the back of the stage they cheered us to the echo.  The platform was about the size of a dining table, which rather cramped our style.  We always began our shows with a topical song, each taking a verse in turn, and then all singing the chorus.  Towards the end of our first song the Lieutenant and the others arrived.  The guns boomed so loudly at times the words were quite drowned.  The Programme consisted of Recitations, Songs at the Piano, Solo Songs, Choruses, Violin, etc.; and to my horror I found they counted on me to do charcoal drawings, described out of courtesy as “Lightning sketches!” (an art only developed and cultivated at the insistence of Sergt.  Wicks, who had once discovered me doing some in the wards to amuse the men).  There was nothing else for it, rolls of white paper were produced and pinned on a table placed on end, and off I started.  I first drew them a typical Belgian officer with lots of Medals which brought forth the remark that he “must have been through the South African Campaign!” When I got to his boots, which I did with a good high light down the centre, someone called out “Don’t forget the Cherry Blossom boot polish, Miss.”  “What price, Kiwi?” etc.  When he was finished they yelled “Souvenir, souvenir,” so I handed it over amid great applause, and felt full of courage!  The Crown Prince went down very well and I was grateful to him for having such a long nose.  “We don’t want him as no souvenir,” they called—­“Wish we drew our pay as fast as you draw little Willie, Miss.”  The Kaiser of course had his share, and in his first stages, to their great joy, evidently resembled one of their officers!  (There’s nothing Tommy enjoys quite so much as that.)

After the “Nut” before the war (complete in Opera hat and monocle) and “now” in khaki, I could think of nothing more, and boldly, but with some trepidation, asked if any gentleman in the audience would care to be drawn.  You can imagine the scene.  A tent packed with Tommies, every available place taken up, and those who could not find seats sitting on the floor right up to the edge of the stage.  Yells of delight greeted the invitation, and several made as if to come forward; finally, one unfortunate was heaved up from the struggling mass on to the stage.  I always noticed after this that whenever I offered to draw anyone it was always a man with absolutely no particularly “salient” feature (I think that is the term) who presented himself.  This individual could best be described as “sandy” in appearance, there was simply nothing about him to caricature, I thought in despair!  The remarks from the audience, which had been amusing before, now fairly bristled with wit, mostly of a personal nature.  My subject became hotter and hotter as I seized the charcoal pencil and set off.  “Wot would Liza say?” called out one in a horrified voice.  “Don’t smile, mate, yer might ’urt yer fice,” called another.