"Oh, yes, you must. He never makes a mistake. You may be sure that,
before he wrote that, he drank each one of those drinks, one after
another."
"Quite likely," whispered Cleary to Sam, as he came up on the other
side.
"I wish I could hear it sung in Lunnon," said the captain. "A chorus of
duchesses are singing it at one of the biggest music-halls every
evening, and then they pass round their coronets, lined with velvet,
you know, and take up a collection of I don't know how many thousand
pounds for the wounded in South Africa. It stirs my blood every time I
hear it sung."
The party broke up at a late hour, and Sam and Cleary walked back
together to the hotel.
"Interesting, wasn't it?" said Cleary.
"Yes," said Sam.
"Canon is a good title for that parson, isn't it? He's a fighter. They
ought to promote him. 'Bombshell Gleed' would sound better than 'Canon
Gleed,'" said Cleary.
"'M," said Sam.
"And that old general looked rather queer in that red and gilt
bob-tailed Eton jacket," said Cleary.
"Yes, rather."
"Convenient for spanking, I suppose."
"The captain next to me told me a lot about Bobbets," said Sam. "Wasn't
he nearly kidnaped in South Africa?"
"Yes; that comes of sending generals away from home who only weigh
ninety-five pounds. We hadn't any such trouble with Laughter. They'd
have had to kidnap him with a derrick.
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