“Take ’is temperature, Miss,” they called, as the perspiration began to roll off him in positive rivulets, and “Don’t forget ’is auburn ’air,” they implored.  As the poor unfortunate had just been shorn like a lamb, preparatory to going into the trenches, this was particularly cutting.  The remark, however, gave me an inspiration and the audience yelled delightedly while I put a few black dots, very wide apart, to indicate the shortage.  When finished we shook hands to show there was no ill feeling, and quite cheerfully, with the expression of a hero, he bore his portrait off amid cheers from the men.

The show ended with a song, Sergeant Michael Cassidy, which was extremely popular at that time.  For those who have not heard this classic, it might be as well to give one or two verses.  We each had our own particular one, and then all sang the chorus.

   “You’ve heard of Michael Cassidy, a strapping Irish bhoy. 
    Who up and joined the Irish guards as Kitchener’s pride and joy;
    When on the march you’ll hear them shout, ‘Who’s going to win the war?’
    And this is what the khaki lads all answered with a roar: 

Chorus

     “Cassidy, Sergeant Michael Cassidy,
      He’s of Irish nationality. 
      He’s a lad of wonderful audacity,
      Sergeant Michael Cassidy (bang), V.C.”

Last Verse

   “Who was it met a dainty little Belgian refugee
    And right behind the firing line, would take her on his knee? 
    Who was it, when she doubted him, got on his knees and swore
    He’d love her for three years or the duration of the War?”

Chorus, etc.

This was encored loudly, and someone called out for Who’s your lady friend? As there were not any within miles excepting ourselves, and certainly none in the audience, it was rather amusing.

We plunged through the mud again after it was all over and were taken to have coffee and sandwiches in the Mess.  We were just in time to see some of the men and wish them Good Luck, as they were being lined up preparatory to going into the trenches.  Poor souls, I felt glad we had been able to do something to cheer them a little; and the guns, which we had heard distinctly throughout the concert, now boomed away louder than ever.

We had a fairly long walk back from the Mess to where the Mors car had been left owing to the mud, and at last we set off along the dark and rutty road.

One facetious French sentry insisted on talking English and flashing his lantern into the back of the ambulance, saying, “But I will see the face of each Mees for fear of an espion.”  He did so, murmuring “jolie—­pas mal—­chic,” etc.!  He finally left us, saying:  “I am an officer.  Well, ladies, good-bye all!” We were convulsed, and off we slid once more into the darkness and rain, without any lights, reaching home about 12, after a very amusing evening.