A CANADIAN NEWSPAPER.
One evening I was seeking for something to read, when my eye lighted on a strange-looking newspaper with American sort of headings. I picked it up. It was The Shack Valley Times, a typical Canadian production, bright, brief, personal, and amusing. I got all the milk records of the Dominion, the price of wheat, the names of the mayor’s last set of twins, and an obituary notice of a famous race-horse. ‘Good!’ I thought, turning over the page. Lo and behold! there was a huge photo of Tosher and a full-page heading:
‘SHACK VALLEY’S NEW NAPOLEON,
TOSHER JOHNSON, THE MAN-EATER,
GOES TO SCHOOL FOR FIELD-MARSHALS.
SPECIAL INTERVIEW.’
‘The boys and girls in Shack Valley,’ ran the editorial introduction, ‘will be real glad to know that Tosher Johnson of this city is making good. When he left here in 1915 he said he was out to win the war. Since then he has been collecting scalps on the Western front. He has sloshed no less than twenty Germans, and his name is famous from Boulogne to Verdun.
‘Our correspondent, Jim Penman, at present with the Canadian Forces, was fortunate enough to secure a special interview with our gallant townsman, who thus unbosomed himself: “Tell the boys of Shack Valley that I’m pushin’ real hard in the fireworks business, and have got the option of a corner lot in Ypres to shove old Kaiser Bill into when we Canadians get him. It isn’t all beer and dollars out here. It’s all mud and death by instalments. Since leavin’ home I’ve lost my false teeth, two stones off my corporation, and my Sunday School character. They’ve turned me into a white-tusked Khalifa, bent on canning Huns and catchin’ curios for the Shack Valley girls.”
‘“All the married men of Shack Valley who want to get quit of their wives ought to book right here. There’s free passes up to the Sudden Death Establishment, and a photo-man to take your chivvy when you’re passing in your checks. I’ve been near it, but the Devil doesn’t want me yet. I’ve had my pants blown clean away to Berlin, my sittin’-down place peppered with shrapnel; the beef of my legs is lyin’ up in Bapaume; and there’s blood from my nose around La Bassée. I’ve been choked with the Kaiser’s lavatory gas, and got chucked to heaven one night along with a horse and an automobile. Oh my, I did want to go home!
‘“Still, it ain’t bad! I was made a lance-corporal for rescuing the captain’s bottle of whisky under a bombardment, and a full corporal for collaring three pimple-headed Huns who came over to ask me the time. Why, I’m just real good at the butchering business. I’ve got a jab-knife and a bludgeon dotted with nails. When I’m bored stiff I hops over, clubs a few German waiters on the top knot, and brings back the latest news from the Crown Prince’s doss-house behind the line. They calls me ‘Butcher Bill,’ and stuck a tin medal on my chest for flopping out a fat fellow who wanted to take a lease of our front line. Talk about pictures! Why, this is the best picture-show out of Toronto.
‘“Oh, you can tell the boys they’ve given me the Military Medal for doin’ a little job on a dark night. It was dirty work at the cross-roads. A fight for a hole—a shell-hole. They wanted it, and we wanted it. So we staked our pitch and said, ‘Come on.’ I cut a pound o’ steak out o’ a German lootenant, and made three widows in Potsdam. Had to be done! No Shack Valley boy’s goin’ to lie down to them fellows. Oh, it’s a hellifa life!
‘“Now I’m in a school for officers. They reckon Tosher is push-and-go stuff, and want to rig me out as a big-gun in the fightin’ business. I ain’t at all keen, for you’ve got to be respectable, and when you’re wearing one pip, you’re barred from asking a lady, ‘Is this the way to Bond Street?’ There’s a real first-class crowd here—remittance men, cow-punchers, log-rollers, grafters, and let-me-downs, not forgetting sky-pilots and kids from school. But they’re bright boys, and can jaw on anything from eugenics to corn cure. Why, it’s just good to think o’ the stuff that wants the King’s commission. Some are all ‘side,’ and some need it. And they’re all gaw-damn Tories, except one, and he’s a lawyer. (I’m watchin’ this fellow.)
‘“They teaches me how to eat sardines without using a knife, and how to chew an orange without splashing my dial. And you can bet your boots they show me how to do the big salaams to the Great Boss. It’s a wonderful business! When I get back I’ll know how to wipe my feet on the mayor’s mat. They call it ‘form,’ and they think we wild fellows from Shack Valley are the ruddiest lot of gum-chewing hobos that ever wore an army shirt and climbed up a gun. But I’m givin’ them hot stuff, an’ teachin’ them that we from out West ain’t one-eyed chicks from lop-brained Alabama.
‘“Still, it ain’t a bad institooshun, and the girls round here are prime. I can get a kiss for a maple-leaf, and a wife by giving a nod.
‘“Oh, boys, it’s a hellifa fine war! Give Laurier a miss and come right over. The way to heaven’s cheap, and all funeral expenses paid.
‘“Besides, the beer’s real good.”’
THE MODERN GIRL.
In peace or war we cannot do without the ladies. They brighten this weary world, cheer us when we are in the depths, and tend us ‘when pain and anguish wring the brow.’ Our mothers mould our characters, our sisters help to keep us clean, while other men’s sisters provide the love and the inspiration so needful to man. And war is good for the business of Cupid. Danger gives admiration scope, and promotes the deeper affection.
Adela was my star. When drill and lectures were done, I basked in her smiles and played the old, old game. But, like all women, she loved to tease. It was, therefore, in keeping with her character to send me the following:
‘My dear Johnnie,—Don’t come on Saturday, as I shall be engaged. We are having two Australians to lunch, and shall be busy all day. You will understand. Love.
Adela.’
That was all she said. Two Australians! I felt annoyed, for these Cornstalks are the deadly rivals of the British Army. One of them had stolen my little French girl in La Bassée, while another had eloped with my V.A.D. from a Strand hotel. No, it wasn’t good enough, and I loudly swore.
‘What’s wrong, John?’ inquired Beefy.
‘Adela is booked for Saturday. The Anzacs are cutting me out. I’m fed up!’
‘I’m in your boat too, old chap. Her sister is apparently on the same stunt. She sent me word this morning, but I am not worrying. There’s lots of girls in this world. A little change will do us good. I’m fed up being respectable. Women are the limit. They’re getting too sure of themselves. They’re like trout—want a lot of playing before you land them. There’s nothing like cold indifference to bring them round.’
‘You’re an authority, Beefy.’
‘Well—yes. I’ve paid for my experience. I’ve loved everything from a parlour-maid to a general’s daughter. They’re all the same. As Kipling says:
The colonel’s lady
And Judy O’Grady
Are sisters under their skin.
‘Pursue them, lavish the wealth of a millionaire on them, yield them your life and soul, and they’ll go round the corner to—the other fellow.
They’re contrary,
And they’re wary;
They’re devils till they die.’
‘You’re a cynic, Beefy. You’ve met the wrong sort. You can’t expect barmaids and ballet-girls to have souls. They trade their charms and squander their affections, but the real decent kind are not half-bad. I’ve a weakness for the opposite sex.’
‘Oh, you’re a ruddy idealist. You’re always up in the moon. You’re too trusting. One can’t trust a woman. If I had my way, I’d go over to the system of the Moslems.’
‘You’re blasé, Beefy. You have had such a good time that you think the world has gone wrong. What’s the good of being a cynic? I’m not posing, old chap, but I do think there’s a lot of goodness in modern girls if you care to search for it. Why, they’re real sports! Look what they’re doing to win the war. They’re nursing, driving, ploughing, and cooking, without a grouse. It’s a great revelation! This war has given them their opportunity. You can’t put these girls into harems after the war. Your mentality is crooked, Beefy.’
‘Per-haps! All the same, I’m convinced the modern girl is neurotic. I may be blasé and all that, but I’d much sooner have the steady old Mid-Victorian type than these short-skirted creatures, who love a naval man on Monday and elope with a soldier on Tuesday. Seems to me they want only a good time. A fellow with a Rolls-Royce has a better chance than a man with a Ford. Women judge you by your cheque-book. They want to hook the fellow who can give them everything from a pug-nosed poodle to a collar of diamonds. They’re nearly all adventuresses, and the only chap they understand is the primitive one who spanks them hard when they get into their tantrums. Women are all right when they’re mastered. We men are long-suffering, and much too generous to the average girl.’
‘Love keeps a woman straight, Beefy.’
‘Yes—love and the whip. Force appeals to women. They admire pugilists, and even the most beautiful women like to marry big, strong, ugly, powerful creatures—Neros rather than Apollos. I tell you, John, that women to-day are as primitive as Eve.’
‘You’re a jealous devil, Beefy. You want your own way. Freedom apparently is made for you, and not for the girl. I’m no great Christian, but I do think if you trust a girl she will always play the game.’
‘Oh, you’re a blinkin’ ass!’
‘Why?’
‘Adela has just told you not to come to-day, as she is busy with the Anzacs. And yet you talk about trust!’
‘That’s true. Still, on reflection, it would be an impertinence for us to warn all the other fellows off the track. If I’m annoyed, I’m not going to be narrow-minded about it. Besides, I’m not engaged to the girl. I’ve an open mind so far as a mate is concerned. I’m simply looking around, and I won’t endorse your barbarian creeds. Why, Beefy, you’re almost a Hun where the other sex is concerned. Come on, you silly old ass; let’s go and get some fresh air,’
‘All right, John Bunyan,’ mumbled Beefy, shoving on his cap and sauntering out of the camp.
We took a train to the nearest town, a manufacturing place, alive with munition-girls and other war-workers. As we ambled along we had time to observe the manners and methods of the crowd. A healthy Amazon gave us ‘the glad eye.’
‘There, John, didn’t I tell you they’re as primitive as in the Bronze Age?’
‘That’s just the fun of the uneducated. Hang it all! I thought you rather liked that sort of thing.’
‘That’s not the point. What I want to prove is this. You can “pick up” almost every girl in this street. These girls are man-mad.’
‘You judge by superficial things. Of course, there may be a little in what you say; but you must remember that men now and after the war will be scarce in the marriage-market. I’m sorry for all the nice girls who are being left on the perch. As for the lady who smiled, she doesn’t represent her sex. You know it, too, but you are simply bent on “chewing the rag.” You’re a fat-headed old’——
‘Excuse me,’ said a sweet-faced girl at that moment, touching my arm.
‘Yes,’ I answered, a little abashed.
‘Are you in the Cadet Battalion at Windmoor?’
‘Yes,’ I replied more pleasantly, observing how charming she and her companion looked. Beefy was grinning like a nigger.
‘I wonder if you could give this note to your fellow-cadet, Robert Clarke.’
‘I believe you call him “Nobby.”’
‘Certainly—delighted! May I have the pleasure of telling him the name of the sender?’
‘His sister—Marjory. I do hope you will excuse my asking you, but I want him to come to-morrow for tea, and I thought I should meet somebody from the camp. I was rather nervous about stopping you, for you appeared so engrossed in some discussion.’
‘Yes, we were discussing girls. My friend here is a bit of a cynic.’
‘Don’t believe him,’ interjected Beefy.
‘I think you are all very gay at the Cadet School. Now, will you excuse me? My sister and I have to go on to hospital. We’re V.A.D.’s, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ pleaded Beefy. ‘I wonder if we may ask you to tea at the picture-house.’
‘It’s hardly conventional, is it?’
‘But it’s war-time, Miss Clarke, and of course—we know your brother. He will be quite pleased, I am sure.’
‘That sounds consoling to my conscience.’ Then, turning, she called her sister Hilda over, and away we went to the tea-rooms.
They were well-educated and most charming girls, and Marjory dispensed tea like a duchess.
‘Do tell me, Mr Brown, what you two were fighting about when I stopped you.’
‘A simple matter. Beefy, here, was saying women are neurotic and cheap these days. I took a brief in defence of your sex—that’s all.’
‘Mr Jones is saucy, I think,’ muttered Marjory, just as she was about to put her pretty teeth into a cherry-cake.
‘Per-haps; but don’t you think you girls get it all your own way these days?’ answered Beefy.
‘Yes, after thousands of years of bondage. It was surely time to break the shackles. We’ve been cooped up like canaries. There’s a big difference between freedom and folly. I don’t think the average girl makes a mess of things. Ours is not the easy path you think, Mr Jones. Why shouldn’t we do things? We can’t all get married, so we have to carve out our careers. If we do have our innocent pleasures, I think we work mighty hard for them, especially in war-time.’
‘Yes; but aren’t you girls a fickle lot?’
‘That depends on the sort of girl. Many of you boys chase powdered creatures, who are as brainless as they are hopeless. They are the moths who rush at every bright candle, but they don’t represent the nice girls in the provinces or away in the decent West-End homes. These stupid girls are getting our sex a bad name. You boys are so silly.—Do have more tea,’ she said, peering into Beefy’s cup.
‘Thanks—I will.’
‘I think you boys learn a lot of nonsense when you go to public schools. Some schools have a rotten atmosphere. You dabble in Wilde and Zola, and feed yourselves on Oriental and degenerate trash. What you want is fresh air and plenty of tennis or golf with real nice girls! You won’t get the best of our sex at stage-doors or in saloon-bars. And that’s where many boys form their views. However, we’ve got the vote, and we’ll help you through. Have a cherry-cake.’
‘Come, come, Miss Clarke! You’re not all saints; you know that.’
‘Granted, Mr Jones. But what about the men? Don’t you think there are faults on both sides? The world was never perfect, and never will be, but it’s silly to abuse each other. Come now, let’s be friends. You’re much too nice to have those silly cynical views. I really think you’re just arguing the point.’
‘Not exactly. Just look at the bunch of girls around us here. They’ve got bags of flour on their faces, red paint all over their lips, and they do fancy themselves. They’ll pick up anything in trousers.’
‘These are the drones, not the busy bees. All the best girls, like the best boys, are helping to win the war. They haven’t time to idle all day here. But the average man is a queer creature. He doesn’t want a “W.A.A.C.,” a “Wren,” or even a humbly dressed “V.A.D.” They haven’t got enough frills or fripperies. When he gets his leave he hobnobs with the girl slackers. After a day he is disillusioned; then he turns round on the sex. You men are so inconsistent. You want the lilies, but you always grasp the deadly nightshades. Do have another cake.’
‘Ah, well, you’re different,’ mumbled Beefy.
‘Thanks—but I’m really “feeding the brute.” You boys want mothering. It doesn’t do to let you have it all your own way. The world, somehow, has gone mad. This war is making all of us catty. It’s much nicer to be chummy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think you are right on the chummy point.’
‘Good! You’re really not so pagan as I imagined. At first I thought you were a wild man of the woods.’
‘I thought girls preferred that kind.’
‘Perhaps; but they’re not reliable. Still, I believe the average girl likes a blend of the saint and the sinner.’
‘You women are certainly a mystery.’
‘To a man—yes. That’s our armour. You are all so fickle that we daren’t put all our goods in the window. You’re really better when on the end of a string and kept in suspense. It stops you chasing our rivals. Women have no use for polygamy. When we find a good thing we hang on to it.’
‘We’re certainly not so subtle as women.’
‘That’s easily explained. You are the hunter; we are the hunted. We need a lot of tricks to dodge you. For all that, a woman is quite simple. What she really craves for is affection. That’s what she is here for; give her that and she’ll give you the moon.’
‘Well, you’re a marvel.’
‘No; I’m only a girl.’
‘But other girls don’t talk like you.’
‘More’s the pity! You men are so scarce that girls frequently sink opinions and principles to catch you. It’s really not worth the trouble. There are more things in heaven and earth than chocolates or trousers. Why should a girl let a man be the great I-Am? It’s not good for him! It makes him a Turk! Equality of intellect and opportunity is surely reasonable.’
‘By Jove! I believe you’re a suffragette.’
‘Why not? You’ve had it all your own way for centuries. You’ve flooded the world with materialism. There are better things. Surely you don’t want us to be German Fraus—fat frumps, exclusively absorbed in cooking, kids, and kirks. You need Idealism. Girls have more of it than men. And it’s your pagan code that’s really upset our sex. You’d sooner have omelet than love.’
‘But we must have omelets.’
‘Omelets, without love, are like chickens without breasts. You don’t want a woman simply to preside over jam-jars. If the German women had only asserted themselves there would never have been a war.’
‘Explain.’
‘You must know that German women were locked in their kitchens, trained to prostrate themselves at the feet of man, and squashed when they asserted the sweeter and more reasonable philosophy which women have been given, so as to neutralise the barbarism of the world.’
‘There’s something in that, I grant you,’ conceded Beefy.
‘Now you are really coming round.’
‘You are such a good advocate, you know. But I never thought pretty girls like you could be suffragettes. You don’t need to be.’
‘Heavens! What a thought! Must a suffragette have flat feet and a pug-nose? It isn’t really a question of votes; it’s a question of broadening out our philosophy and making the world more happy. There will be no more Hohenzollerns once we take a hand in the legislation of the world.’
‘I’ll vote for you—by Jove, I will!’
‘How nice of you!’ said Marjory, smiling sweetly and collecting her umbrella, gloves, &c.
‘Must you go?’ I asked regretfully. The discussion had been so interesting.
‘Oh yes; we’re on duty at four. Now, good-bye, Mr Brown.—Good-bye, Mr Jones.’
‘Good-bye. Oh, by the way’——
‘What?’
‘Will you come to tea again?’
‘Delighted.... Good-bye.’ And away she and her sister went—a couple of dream-pictures in the garb of the V.A.D.
As they disappeared I turned to Beefy and said, ‘Well, old chap, what about women now?’
‘Marvellous! Marvellous!’
I thought so too, for I had been thinking hard about Adela.
Was she flirting with the Australians?
PSYCHOLOGY.
‘What’s the stunt to-day?’ inquired Ginger one wet morning.
‘Lecture,’ I answered.
‘What on?’
‘Psychology.’
‘A precious lot of psychology we’ll get in this school. They know as much about it as they do about Mars. I’m fed up with these army lecturers. They make me sick. They’re parrots, and all cribbing from one another.’
‘But this is a new man.’
‘Oh, well, we’ll give him a hearing,’ said Ginger, picking up his notebook and sauntering over to the lecture-room.
What Ginger said was partly true, for many of the lecturers bored us stiff. A few of them were dug-outs who got their theories of modern war from the daily papers. Others were well-meaning men, but often they lacked originality. Army training had repressed their individuality, and they were apparently afraid to break conventions. When a good man did come along the dead-heads seemed to get jealous, and the brilliant rebel quietly disappeared. The army will not be an army proper till jealousy is made bad form.
When we had assembled, Captain Cheerall entered briskly, looked at us—and—smiled. A good beginning! We decided not to sleep, but to plumb his depths.
‘Gentlemen, you may smoke, if you like. I find it breeds a friendly feeling.’
‘Good chap!’ mumbled Beefy.
‘Now that all your chimneys are going, I want to have a chat with you about Psychology; but before I start, let me say to you—don’t hesitate to pull me up if you disagree. Ask as many questions as you like, for I loathe the ancient method which places the lecturer on the pedestal of a mandarin, and forces facts down unwilling throats.’
‘The goods!’ I whispered.
‘Psychology, in brief, is the science which classifies and analyses the phenomena of the human mind. As an old army officer, I regret to say we knew precious little about it before the war. Some of the Staff College men had it as a side-line. Haking, in his somewhat rambling book on Company Training, struck the first intelligent notes on the subject. Colonel Fuller of the “Ox and Bucks” tried to drag it into the arena of military training. Here and there an isolated enthusiast worked out his own pet theories. But, broadly speaking, our army knew nothing about it. The French Army, however, was more progressive. Several French officers had produced excellent books on the subject prior to 1914. And in the French military academies psychology was a term well known to every student. Germany also worked at it, but not so effectively as France. Many of the Russian generals, such as Brussiloff, the Grand Duke, and Alexeieff, were keen students of the science.
‘Why, then, did we know little about it? The answer is this. We are a conservative people. We are mentally lazy. We resent new ideas, mainly because they disturb our happy old ways. Let us admit our faults, for it is the negation of all sound work to cover up errors in military training.
‘Psychology is not so difficult as people think. Professors make it difficult when they ramble off into bewildering scientific phenomena instead of getting down to earth. This game is really a study of what the other fellow is thinking; how his thoughts affect his actions; and the sum total of his intellectual output. You do not require to be a university don to grip its essentials. Common-sense, ordinary intelligence, and organised study will give you the rudiments. And no man has a better opportunity to exploit the science than the army officer. He commands all types, all creeds. In his daily work he is rubbing against the efficient and the inefficient, the alert and the lethargic, the successful and the failure. If you, as future officers, will make it your duty to observe the mental meanderings of your units, you will quickly discover the road to high command. By knowing your men, you can handle them. By classifying and treating them as mere units, you will eventually cause anything from a mutiny to a disaster in face of the enemy.
‘All of you, I hope, will shortly command platoons. You will then have sixty men to rule. You will find your job easy or difficult, according to your ability tactfully to enforce your orders, to create in the minds of your men the belief that you are a more powerful personality, and to get out of all ranks the maximum of work with the minimum of friction. Take an example. When I entered this room I did so in a very alert manner. That was not accidental; it was deliberate. I was determined to impress on you that I was no straggler. Next, I reached this desk, then smiled. Why? To make you feel you were not dealing with a ferocious martinet who uses his rank to enforce his orders and opinions. Thirdly, I said you could smoke. This suggestion smashed any remaining vestige of rank or distinction, so far as this actual lecture is concerned. I came here to get at you.’
‘You’ve got us, sir,’ said Ginger.
‘Thank you,’ he answered, amidst laughter. ‘To carry this particular argument to its final conclusion, let me say I do not know the gentleman who said, “You’ve got us, sir,” but, from his appearance, I imagine he is an intellectual, bored stiff with military formalities, and regards me as a Heaven-sent Harry Lauder to cheer him up.’ (Loud laughter.)
‘Your laughter, gentlemen, I accept, not as a mere compliment, but as evidence of a mental sympathy. In brief, we now understand each other. And that is the basis of good work and military efficiency. Therefore, when you get command of your platoons, this will be your first duty. Know your men.
‘When I say you must know your men, I do not mean that you should disregard any of the regulations laid down for the personal conduct of an officer. Stupid familiarity breeds contempt. If you start addressing the sergeant as “old chap,” the corporal as “Bill,” and a man as “Tommy,” your prestige will fall to zero, and your men will regard you as a priceless buffoon! On the other hand, there is absolutely no need to be a snob, a martinet, or an autocrat. A martinet is a man of limited intellect, afraid of his own inferior knowledge. An autocrat is usually a bully like the Kaiser. My tip is, to act the part of a quiet and courteous British gentleman, with just a suggestion of reserve to frighten off a cad who desires to exploit your very good nature. But your greatest asset is knowledge. Ability engenders respect. Tact retains respect. And psychology enables you to exploit that respect in the very best interests of His Majesty’s Service.
‘Let us still keep to the platoon. The first man you will meet will be the platoon sergeant. Supposing you have mastered this science of the mind, and your knowledge enables you to see that the sergeant is, by temperament, what the Scots call “dour;” he may also be quick-tempered, inclined to resent criticism—in short, “touchy.” Now you are up against something. You must remember that temperament is either hereditary or the result of environment. Again, you may discover that this man is otherwise an excellent soldier. Your acquaintance with psychology will immediately suggest to you that your sergeant will have to be handled with kid gloves, even to the extent of openly conceding a point now and again to his little whims. That is common-sense. No sergeant is perfect, and no officer is perfect; and it would be the height of folly and presumption for any new subaltern to give an otherwise excellent N.C.O. a dog’s life. Be patient, well-meaning, and courteous, and in a month’s time the sergeant will, metaphorically, lick your boots.
‘There are other N.C.O.’s in the platoon. In our present-day armies, as you know, these non-coms. are frequently men of social standing, and—more important—men of character. Degrees are as common as peas in the ranks to-day. All are open-eyed and certainly democratic. Such men are sensitive. But they are not Bolsheviks. They are intensely critical, but equally patriotic. They have only one standard of measurement—BRAINS. This is an embarrassing situation to an officer who is simply “a son of his father”—nothing more. But it is not at all a bad atmosphere for a gentleman of culture, vigour, and enthusiasm. Certainly there is a demand for the higher qualities of leadership. To a keen soldier this is a most glorious incentive. You will not succeed unless your will, your personality, and your merits are predominant. You have got to be top-dog. But you must never obtrude your rank as the badge of that right. To go on parade with the feeling that there is a guardroom behind you to enforce your whims and ill-balanced opinions is madness. The guardroom is really meant for the criminal and the hopeless fool. Knowing your job and knowing your men will really result in less crime, less discontent, and the creation of a happy and efficient unit. This aim is perfectly easy to a student of psychology, provided he has the will which springs from health and broad-based culture.
‘Another important point. When your company commander desires to make new N.C.O.’s, he will, if he knows his job, consult you as to the best men in your platoon. Here you must be careful. The unthinking and brainless sub. is frequently attracted by shallow and insincere qualities. A man who soft-soaps his fads and carries “tales” may strike him as “a ripping chap—just the man for the stripe.” On the other hand, a good officer’s servant, a successful regimental policeman, or an obliging company clerk may figure high in his estimation, to the detriment of other men possessed of CHARACTER, EDUCATION, and DETERMINATION. To pass these men by is to commit a great offence against efficiency. Indeed, if ten thousand stupid subalterns selected ten thousand stupid individuals as platoon sergeants, and these N.C.O.’s were all together in a great push, what would happen? Disaster!
‘I am not here to frighten you; but I am here to kill that damnably dangerous theory that platoon drill, and nothing more, is all a soldier requires to know. We have had enough of this fetich. We are fighting the Germans. They are no fools. Unless you realise the serious responsibility of your high office, you are utterly useless for the Service.
‘Again, you will have to father, guide, train, and lead the men—the glorious MEN. I hope you will not regard this as “a beastly bore,” but as a privilege. The men who died at Mons, who leapt forward from the Marne, who barred the gates at Ypres, and stemmed disaster at Cambrai are no servile, cringing crew. They are Cavaliers and—GENTLEMEN. Remember that! Open out your heart, but keep your head. You will find in your platoons dukes’ sons and cooks’ sons, aspiring generals—and some ruddy fools. Occasionally you may strike a desperado—a man who does not give a tinker’s curse for officers, cells, or a firing-squad. When you run across this type you must go easy. A wrong word, and the man may spring from the ranks and strike you down. And it is here that psychology comes to your aid. Study the man from all angles, and you will discover some little thing which touches his real soul. It may be a little act of kindness. For example, I once had a man who had knifed a policeman in civil life. He was a desperado. The N.C.O.’s were afraid of him. They could do nothing with him except chuck him in the guardroom. This made him worse, and I was really afraid of his committing murder. One day when out walking I met him alone on the road. I did not expect him to salute me. But he did. So I said, “Well, Smith, are you having a walk?”
‘“Yes, sir, away from the—— misery. I’m fed up and nearly off my chump. I’ll desert.”
‘“Have a cigarette,” I answered.
‘“Thanks,” he grunted, but a little flicker in his eyes suggested surprise. Very tactfully I led him out into the country, talking about anything and everything till we struck the top of a mound. This, as you know, was quite an unusual procedure for an officer; but I was dealing with a desperate man, and I was going to have no murder in my company.
‘“Sit down, Smith,” I suggested.
‘“I think I will,” he grunted.
‘I gave him another cigarette, and in twenty minutes’ time he was in a most friendly mood. His brutality—which was really superficial—was melting.
‘“Now, Smith, I’m your company commander. What’s the trouble? Let’s have it out, man to man. They say you loathe the army and hate your officers.”
‘“That’s a—— lie, sir. I don’t hate my officers.”
‘“What is it, then?”
‘“I hate Sergeant B——. He’s a swine. He rags me. I’ll murder him!” he shouted. There was an ungovernable madness in his eyes.
‘“Steady, Smith,” I said. “Let’s talk quietly. Have another cigarette.”
He took one, and his gust of passion passed away.
‘“Then you are either going to commit a murder or desert; is that it?”
‘“Exactly, sir. I’ve nothing against you. You’ve been hard, but square. I’ve got my dues. When I’m wrong I takes my punishment. I likes my officers; but I hates the—— sergeants, specially Sergeant B——.”
‘Now, this Sergeant B—— was a good soldier, but he could not tell the difference between an undergraduate and a ploughman. He used men like machines, and had given me a lot of trouble. At the same time, Smith was no Christian. Yet, somehow, I felt all his offences resulted from misdirected energy. So I said, “Look here, Smith; you’ll go back to barracks. And to-night you must declare a truce between yourself and your so-called enemies. To-morrow morning you will come and see me at the company orderly-room, when I shall have an interesting proposition to put before you. Will you do so?”
‘“Yes, sir,” he grunted, after a long pause.
‘I left him to wander back to barracks. Next morning he turned up shaved, boots shining, and buttons cleaned. I checked my expression of surprise and opened out.
‘“Now, Smith, I’ve been diagnosing your case. You’re over-healthy and naturally mischievous. Your hatred for sergeants is really jealousy. I think in some things you are a strong-minded man. In short, you want to lead, and not to be led. If I could get inside your brain-pot I might discover a lurking ambition to be an N.C.O. and throw your weight about.”
‘He burst out laughing, and I felt I had got him.
‘“To-night you will appear in orders as lance-corporal, and you will be transferred to Sergeant Jones’s platoon. I shall expect you to go to school to improve your education. And here is a week-end pass to celebrate your good fortune. Finally, Smith, I hope to God you will never be before me again, for crime in my company breaks my heart. I’m treating you as a gentleman. And I’m quite sure you will always be one. Fall out, please.”
‘Smith saluted like a Guardsman, turned about, and ceased to be a public nuisance.
‘Sergeant-Major Smith died at Mons.’
When the lecturer finished this anecdote, a terrific cheering burst from all the school, and there was just a suggestion of something dim about the lecturer’s eyes. He was thinking of how Sergeant-Major Smith had held up a whole German battalion when all his officers were wiped out.
‘I hope you will excuse my giving you this story of Smith. But, really, that is better than all the pamphlets on psychology. Smith might have ended up on the gallows. Instead of that, he died as a warrant-officer and a hero. You will now see how important it is to study the human mind. And I hold that if you can master the mental meandering of your platoons, you may rightly aspire to the General Staff. When you are a G.S.O., III., II., or I., you will realise what platoons, companies, regiments, and brigades can do, and will never issue orders likely to cause discontent and endanger our moral.
‘Now, the psychology of your own army is an important thing, but the psychology of the enemy is doubly important. We are up against a most cunning, brutal, and ungentlemanly foe. Great victories can be secured only by clever reading of enemy thought, and astute counter-tactics. Take the battle of the Marne. Joffre brilliantly defeated the Germans, not by superior man or gun power, but by superior strategy, based on a correct reading of the enemy’s power, vanity, and historical beliefs. In this work we also assisted. The Germans were stupid enough to believe that Lord French would throw the B.E.F. into Belgium. This was the German scheme and their dream. Lord French declined the bait, and the Germans lost precious days before they found out their stupid analysis of our psychology. As for Joffre, he certainly had no intention (originally) to fight it out at the Marne, but the blunder of a French general before Namur compelled him to select this field. His retirement was a glorious trick in which he pandered to the Paris dream of Von Kluck, tickled the enveloping theories of the Crown Prince, and drugged the whole German nation—Kaiser and all—into the belief that the end of France was near. Time and again he resisted tempting opportunities for a general action, till the Marne was reached. Then, when the German General Staff was drunk with victory, when their line was lengthened, their munitionment and rationing tedious and difficult, their troops tired with their hitherto magnificent marching, he launched his blow—faulty in parts, but staggering and effective as a whole. With a crash he killed the Paris dream. With a bound he swept corps after corps of the hardest-trained troops in the world into a tragic rout and irredeemable disaster. The Marne was the defeat of Germany. Since then they have simply been fighting for terms. And this glorious victory, for which we ought to thank our God, was helped immensely by the ability to read the enemy’s mind, and the refusal to accept his preconceived theories of the Allies’ action in such a war.
‘Since the Marne we have improved. Take Byng’s thrust at Cambrai. For three years we used preliminary bombardments before making a great assault. And at Cambrai the enemy knew of our coming attack. But he waited for our bombardment. Instead of that, Byng’s men took up their beds—and walked for miles into the enemy’s lines. This was entirely unexpected, and therefore successful. Byng, I say, is a most excellent student of psychology.
‘But we must also admit that the enemy has improved. At Cambrai we massed our reserves in the centre to meet the counter-attack which would be launched in accordance with known German tactics. The Germans, however, discovered the weakness of both of our flanks, and struck sledge-hammer blows. Had it not been for the supreme courage of the Guards, of London and Highland Territorials, Cambrai might have been the funeral of our High Command. This proves that we have no monopoly of psychology.
‘While I ask you to respect and never underrate the power of the enemy, do not fear the enemy. And do not believe he is superior. The German clings with frenzied energy to trench warfare. He is afraid of the open—afraid of the British and the French in open manœuvre. He remembers the Marne. He remembers the Russian push into north Germany, the success of Brussiloff in Galicia, the brilliant strategy of Maude, and the glorious work of Allenby and Smuts. In open warfare we can beat the German to a frazzle because of our mental alacrity, willingness to scrap original orders, and to adapt ourselves to sudden and unexpected onslaughts. The German is a worker, a thruster, and a courageous fellow; but a mere handful of troops, with only shrapnel and bayonets, held up one million Huns at Ypres. Lord French outmanœuvred the enemy there. Ypres was the grave of German Push-and-Go.
‘The German is helpless in open warfare.
‘The enemy is not afraid of shells or bayonet, but he is afraid of superior intelligence. The camouflage of Allied military thought is more distressing to Germany than lyddite or gas. Our naval policy in refusing to disclose the facts about the number of German submarines sunk, and how we have sunk them, is destroying the moral of the German Navy. Our counter-propaganda is smashing his propaganda. While he may console himself with the Russian Revolution, he is suffering the fires of hell from the intervention of America. This suffering is easily explained. The American brain is the most resourceful, the most subtle, the most deadly in the world. I am speaking commercially, of course. No Von Kühlmann, Ballin, Hindenburg, or Von Boy-ed can master it. The American discovery and exposure of the German plot in Mexico was a masterly feat in intelligence. The use of German ships to transport American troops to France is a business-like answer to Germany’s submarine campaign. The prompt organisation of an American Propaganda Department in Switzerland, to inform the enemy—free of charge—about his impending doom, is excellent. Ford’s creation of anti-submarine boats, which are being turned out like sausages, will stagger the gentlemen of Kiel. In short, the American knows the German. American aid is the death of Germany, in the military, political, and commercial sense of the term. And the entry of America, like our own entry into this war, was due to faulty German psychology, a stupid reading of the national mind, failure to understand the spirit and soul of America—as of Britain—as well as blind reliance on bluff, bombast, rapine, terror, corruption, and assassination for the intimidation of neutrals.
‘The Allies are more intelligent than the Germans.
‘Now, gentlemen, I have shown you the tremendous importance of psychology, in the work of platoons, regiments, armies, and embassies. You must study the subject. You don’t need to go to Oxford. You can do it in your own hut. Look at your neighbour! Study his face, his eyes, his talk, his facial expressions and physical actions. Watch him at work. See whether he slacks or pulls, fights or funks, tells the truth or dodges the truth. You will feel at sea for a long time, but in the end your eye and brain will enable you to see the hero and the fool, and instinctively to sense the coming thought or action of an opponent. Psychology gives you the wisdom of the old, the touch of the blind, the sense of the tried, and a general strength which is irresistible. This gift will enable you to create an uncomfortable apprehension in the mind of the enemy—a sense of something tragic; a feeling that there are bombs under the earth and above the earth; that something which destroys the nerves of the German nation and the German High Command.
‘That’s all, gentlemen,’ he concluded.
We gave him a mighty cheer.
‘Oh, by the way, any questions?’ he ejaculated.
No one got up. All seemed satisfied; but just as he was turning away, Ginger Thomson jumped to his feet.
‘Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘I want to tell you something. Before we came in here we were arguing the point about rotten lectures and rotten lecturers. But I feel we owe you much. You have helped us a lot. We all hope you will come again, sir.’
‘Delighted! Oh, by the way, I missed a most important point. You can never apply this science—to a woman.’
‘What about a girl, sir?’ we all asked.
‘Hopeless! Good-afternoon.’
We burst out laughing as he turned away. Thus he left us as he met us—smiling.
There’s something in psychology.
THE VALUE OF SPORT.
It all started in a simple way. We were sitting about the hut, smoking and reading, when Beefy blew in with the information that he had managed to get the company officer to challenge B Company (our deadly rivals) to a cross-country run next day.
‘Are they taking it on?’ asked Ginger.
‘You bet they are. And I hope we knock lumps off them. They are a lousy lot; always swinging the lead about being top-dogs. It’s up to us to squash them.’
‘You ought to be pole-axed,’ muttered Ginger.
‘Why?’
‘Haven’t we got enough to do without plugging for ten miles through mud, brambles, cows’ dung, and water? If you’d develop your old fat head, you’d do better. Cross-country run—confound you!’ and he hit Beefy with a barrack pillow.
‘Silly ass! You’re a book-sucking hog. You want a run to shake your liver up. Every blessed thing that comes up, you veto it. Why can’t you follow the crowd?’
‘That’s for you, with your Clapham instincts and shallow brain. You think Rugger and such like the be-all and end-all of our existence. Sport was invented only to keep down your adipose tissue and turn you into a decent citizen. I’ve got beyond that. Joseph Conrad will do me to-morrow. I’m not on for your “follow the crowd” business.’
All this talk, although it sounds hostile, was not really so. It was that frank byplay so characteristic of the army. Ginger regarded Beefy as an over-healthy animal, only fit for Rugger and philandering; while Beefy held the view that Ginger’s physical laziness was a menace to the company and the Empire. In short, Beefy was all sport and Ginger was all books. Each was a champion in that controversy which threatens to remodel our present public school system.
‘Come on, boys,’ I said; ‘gather round the fire and let’s have this out. Is Beefy right or wrong?’
‘He is, and he isn’t,’ said Billy Greens, looking up from his beautifully kept notebook. ‘When he talks about beating B Company I’m with him. But behind it all is that insane idea that games make the superman, and those who won’t play are damned. Sport is all right in its own place.’
‘Hear, hear, old Pieface!’ commented Ginger.
‘It’s like this, boys,’ said Nobby Clarke. ‘Beefy is an ass, in the mental sense of the term. And he knows it. He’s hanging on to this Games Committee job for all he’s worth. His whole reasoning is this: “The company commander is an old Blue. If I [Beefy] can’t pull through with my headpiece, I’ll pull through with my zest for games.” And he’ll do it, for the old commandant believes in sportsmen. Beefy will make a jolly good sub., but a rotten general. He will carry out any order, and his rude health might even get him the V.C., but he couldn’t give an intelligent order to save his life. He’s a prize-fighter, not an officer. After the war you’ll see him as a chucker-out at a pub., or throwing cannon-balls about the music-hall stage.’
‘That’s your rotten Nonconformist creed,’ shouted Beefy. ‘You got that in one of those suburban schools where they breed lawyers, Radicals, and Socialists. You can’t see any good in the public school system. I’m not a saint, I know; but I do things in the light, and am not afraid to talk about them. You’re a measly Covenanter. You couldn’t do ten miles at a trot to save your old face. But you can argue the point, and pose as a moralist. I know your type. If games have made me a healthy animal, I rejoice. I can take my punishment. Nobby, you’re a ruddy fool.’
‘Question!’ ejaculated Tosher.
‘Oh! Here’s this “gaw-damned” materialist again,’ remarked Ginger maliciously.
‘These two beauties [Ginger and Beefy] are wash-outs. One’s from Oxford; the other’s from Cambridge. Oxford has made Ginger into a cock-eyed wowser, and Cambridge has turned Beefy into a base-ball looney. Ginger couldn’t sell ham, and Beefy can’t write a decent letter. One’s all Homer; the other’s all beef. Out there [Canada] these fellows don’t cut ice. They can’t work, and they won’t work. You can see them with their tongues hanging out in Calgary saloons, or cow-punching on Armour’s beef-canning stations. They ain’t soft, but they ain’t wise. They’re all right in dress-suits doing the fox-trot, but in dungarees—why, they just make me smile. And this prime cup of oxo [Beefy] has got a lien on sport, but I’d get a bush-whacking kid to lick him soft at wrestling, and knock him sick at running. You’re all jaw and no push in this gaw-damned island.’
‘Now, I wonder if you’re right,’ said Billy, closing his notebook with a snap and jumping up.
‘I guess so.’
‘Give him fits, old Pieface,’ shouted Ginger.
‘What are your qualifications to act as judge?’
‘I’m nootral, and they make us wise out West.’
‘But you’ve only seen the froth of things, and not the substance. Ginger isn’t Oxford, and Beefy isn’t Cambridge. Ten minutes in the Old Country doesn’t confer the right to shake us up and blow traditions into smithereens.’
‘Tradition’s all moonshine, Billy.’
‘Perhaps; but all your grain-lumpers and pork-packers come here for wives and knighthoods. You’d sell your soul to sleep in Buckingham Palace, and pawn your trousers to eat with the Cecils.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tosher, ‘if we wanted to push through a twenty-thousand-dollar deal.’
‘But aren’t we sportsmen? That’s the point.’
‘Sure! But sport won’t pay the rent or win the war, old child. You can’t kill Huns with hockey-sticks, or use tennis-balls in a barrage. Horse-sense and push-an’-go is a live scheme. You’re real good, real kind; but it makes me tired to see the nootrals selling your grub to the Kaiser, and using your papers to get the plans of the latest push. You ain’t wise over here.’
‘And what’s good about us? Anything?’
‘Your soul. It’s as clean as the brook, and true as Lincoln. You’re fools; but you ain’t willing fools. You’re old; but yet you’re green. This island is a happy hunting-ground for Jews, Germans, and assassins. But we can’t see you fall. The Old Land is Our Land. It’s the Old Home, Billy, and that’s why I’m in. God help the Huns when I go out! I’ll go “West” before this land goes “West.” But, say, I’ve got to go. I’m dining with a real live lord. He wants to see a bucking broncho from the West. Cheerio, boys!’ and Tosher stepped out into the night.
‘Well, that’s the greatest artist Canada has produced,’ said Ginger.
‘That’s the true Imperialism,’ shouted Nobby, ‘but you don’t understand it. All the drivel you got in the Union won’t wash in practical politics. Tosher can make rings round you, and’——
‘Look here, boys,’ I said; ‘let’s choke Nobby and Ginger off. The question before the House is sport. We’ve got to run the other company to-morrow, and it’s up to us to see Beefy through. It’s a matter of esprit de corps, and we can’t allow the other crowd to beat us. Sport is the backbone of the army. A good sportsman is usually a gentleman. All the Rugger men are either dead, wounded, fighting, or training for commissions. If they can’t sell night-shirts or soap, they can obey orders, and there’s no doubt they played the game in August 1914. Never mind about “after the war.” We can leave that to Nobby’s crowd. They’ll be running the show. We shall be much happier ranching or hoofing it with the Lost Legion. It will be a much better thing to beat the other company to-morrow than to sit here reading all the Socialistic tripe of H. G. Wells or the maudlin political tosh of Morley. D—— it all, there’s a war on! If Ginger and Nobby won’t turn up to-morrow, then they are rotters, and we should out them.’
‘Duck them,’ muttered Beefy.
‘How the—— do you know we sha’n’t be there to-morrow?’ roared Ginger, getting roused.
‘You’ve vetoed the run, haven’t you?’
‘Have I? Wait and see.’
It was a cold, crisp day, with a keen, but healthy, breeze. The ground was not too hard, and excellent for the show. We were delighted, for there’s nothing like a glorious scramble across God’s green acres. It cleans the lungs, refreshes the brain, and gives one a zest for the things that matter. I am no marvel at the business, yet in pitting one’s strength against a fellow-man in friendly rivalry, one does acquire the sporting instinct, which is a fair instinct. And to an officer it does give a sense of values, a ready appreciation of all that is good in human nature.
Our company officer, Captain Bloggs, was delighted with the weather prospect. He was an old Blue, and he did want his ‘boys’ to knock spots off the other company. And, strange to say, when we all turned out in running attire, we found Ginger, Nobby, and Tosher already there. There was a suspicion of malicious fun in Ginger’s eyes. I scented something, and said, ‘Look here, Beefy; there’s some move on. These fellows are grinning like cats.’
‘Oh, d—— them! they won’t be in my way. They’re soft, and out of training’——
Bang! went the pistol just then. We went off. Two hundred men in running-kit make a pretty show. Our school, I may rightly say, were the cream of manhood, chosen spartans, and a sight for the gods. This was no preparatory school scramble. These fellows were all in splendid condition, and it was a treat to slog along and watch them. How easily they ambled, limbs and will working in perfect harmony! Hurdles and dikes were taken with an easy bound; no puffing, no exertion, no ungainly slithering on the other side. Just a leap and over. I am quite sure that two hundred Hun cadets could not have done so well. Then we reached the open, the crowd spread out, and the stragglers were more easily marked. These were the elderly men, but right merrily they did their best. They wanted to win. Wasn’t that a perfect spirit? And isn’t it the basis of our true nature? We may love to be top-dog, but we do prefer to get it off our own bat. If we have been very foolish in worshipping cups, caps, and blazers before the war, still it helped us at Mons, and certainly at Ypres. As I watched these fine fellows sprint by my side something welled into my heart; it was the pride of school, the pride of race, the mysterious something which makes us give our all to keep the old flag flying. I may be no Christian, but I do love my fellow-men and my country.
‘Hello! the game’s opening,’ I muttered on looking ahead. I was a bit behind, for I had been dreaming. Away in the front was Beefy. He was heavy, but a splendid athlete. His staying-power was good, and he had no nerves. With all his faults, Beefy was a sportsman, and if there was one man consumed with the craving for victory, it was he. I saw a long figure slogging steadily by his side. The style caught my fancy, so I pushed on, and found it was Ginger. Close behind was Billy Greens, the parson, and gently dodging by him was Nobby. Where was Tosher? I looked behind. He was dogging me. I smiled, but inwardly. I was just a bit cut. These men were out for ‘blood.’
I spurted out of my stride, hell for leather, took a good-sized dike, then pushed hard across a wide meadow. It was good going, and my nerves were all out. This was unwise, but I didn’t want Tosher to head me off. On reaching a wood I looked back. He was just behind. With a curse I dashed on, but my foot went plump into a rabbit-hole, and I was violently thrown, wrenching my ankle.
‘Are you hurt, old boy?’ asked Tosher.
‘Yes,’ I grunted.
‘Looks bad. Wait and I’ll get you a bandage.’
He ran to a stream, tore the two arms off his running-shirt, soaked them, came back, and bandaged the now swollen foot.
‘You had better go on now, Tosher. I’ll hobble home.’
‘No, child. I reckon I’ll carry you.’
‘Get off, man. I’ll manage somehow.’
However, it was useless. I was hoisted on his back and carried through the ranks of the grinning stragglers, who shouted, ‘Did ums do it—John Brown?’
I did feel an ass.
Beefy, however, was keeping the flag flying. He saw Ginger, but paid no attention to him. His eye was on Corporal Jason, the leading man of the other company, and a magnificent harrier. This fellow had to be beaten at all costs. He was not ‘all out’—his pace was too steady; so Beefy plugged a couple of yards behind him. For four miles this went on, and all the while Ginger ambled as easily as a deer. He was one of those who are natural athletes, and who do not need to train. Nature endows them with amazing reserve-power. All the time Ginger was studying the bulldog tenacity of Beefy—the steady plod, the quick eye and brain following Corporal Jason’s every move. It was like dog tracking dog; and yet it wasn’t. Above the cunning byplay was the soul of esprit de corps. Both were out to win. And both meant to.
They reached a wide stretch of pasture-land. Jason stretched himself and pushed on. Beefy followed, a little blown, yet able to hold. The supreme test was near. Ginger saw Beefy clench his jaws, raise his head, and point out the toes to get the fullest stride on the green-sward. Jason was undoubtedly the better man, but there was that something which kept his rival fighting on.
Ginger commenced to admire Beefy.
At last they reached the open track near the camp. Ahead was the winning-post. There an excited crowd had gathered, including Captain Bloggs, who was fearfully anxious as he watched the struggle between Jason and Beefy.
‘Go on, Jason!’
‘Stick it, Beefy!’
These cries rent the air, and for a second threw Beefy off guard. Jason made a terrific spurt. With an almost superhuman effort Beefy recovered and levelled up. Close behind was that amazing devil, Ginger, ambling easily. Somehow, no one counted Ginger as being in the piece. He simply looked like a runner-up—nothing more.
‘Hell for leather, Jason!’
‘Come on, Beefy!’
These were the last cries. Jason made another magnificent leap; the prize seemed his, but his foot slipped on the wet soil, and Beefy shot past.
‘You’re winning, Beefy! Go hard!’
It looked like that. Then, just ten yards from the tape, all were dumbfounded to see Ginger leap forward like a deer and breast the line three yards ahead of Beefy Jones.
A terrific cheering burst from the spectators, but my heart was sick for poor old Beefy. However, as he burst through the tape he collided with Ginger, and shouted, ‘Good, Ginger—we’ve won—and I’m happy!’
‘Yes—the Oxford finish.’
‘All right, old cock; come and have a Cambridge bath.’
Ginger used up a whole cake of Sunlight soap.
| • | • | • | • | • | • |
That night Billy Greens found Beefy reading a serious-looking book.
‘What are you swotting?’
‘Oh, one of Ginger’s books.’
‘What’s the subject?’
‘“How to be Happy though Intelligent.”’