Chapter 5 No.5

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.'