Punch (61.1871)

132

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 30, 1871.

EMPTY FOR FULL PRIVATE.

rtxly it is incredible
that the Special
Correspondent of the
Post at Aldershot
could have imagined
the circumstances
which he has thus
stated:—

" The arrangements
of the commissariat are
not only faulty, but the
rations allowed to the
men are inadequate,
and, as a General Officer
remarked to me to-day,
positively' cruel.' Six-
pound tins of ' bouilli'
have been issued as
rations to messes of
thirteen men. What
sort of sustenance is
half a pint of thin soup
for a hungry soldier at
the end of a twenty-five
miles march ?"

It is fortunate for
the British Nation,
which has to depend
for keeping up its
Army on voluntary
enlistment, that the
31orning Post is a
fashionable paper. "Were it a journal circulating among the less
wealthy classes, the foregoing statement might have readers whom
it would deter from becoming recruits. The Conscription will be
found necessary for procuring soldiers, if the People (so called by
our eloquent Premier) contract the idea that the common British
soldier is called a Private in consequenoe of the privations which
he is doomed to suffer.

MY HEALTH.

" 0 do let me have a line—just a little one," says Miss Straith-
mere to Wetherby, putting on an infantine way, as if a refusal
would send her into tears. "I'll drop it on this side, and be so
quiet." Tome, "You'll fish, too, won't you? 0, do ask ! Mr.
Wetherby won't refuse you." This at Wetherby.

Wetherby says he doesn't think there are lines ready. The
other two ladies continue their conversation.

"0, yes!" returns the fair-haired enthusiast, perseveringly,
"I'm sure, Robert" (hitting him with a shot from her eyes, as
he comes aft, bringing a stool for Captain Dawson), "I'm sure
Robert will get me one."

Wetherby objects that it will interfere with the trawling. Robert
irresolute.

" 0 no, it won't," she cries, impulsively ; then, appealingly, to the
Captain at the helm, "Will it, Reynolds?" Reynolds smiles,
and looking out to sea, so as to avoid the eyes of the siren, is under-
stood to answer that it won't make any difference; whereupon she is
off, ecstatically, " There ! you hear Reynolds says so. I may have
one," coaxingly to Wetherby, "mayn't I?" Dawson smiles,
Wetherby smiles, I smile. Then she continues, "Robert will
fetch it." Robert smiles.

Robert does fetch it. A long line with hook and bait.

"0 it's gone!" she exclaims, with a little scream, as it passes
rapidly through her hand and I stop it, triumphantly. I feel as if
I'd been overboard and saved her.

Will you hold it ? " she asks in her italicised manner.

" Will you ? " Of course I will, it needs no answer : I do. I am
holding it, and it is rather cutting my fingers. As I do not reply, she
goes on, poutingly, " Don't do it if it bores you ? Does it bore you ?
Do you mind holding it—only a minute—for me ? "

For her ! Doesn't she see that I am holding it ? Doesn't she see
from my way of grasping it and concealing the pain which the
sharp cord gives me, that I would hold it against twenty whales at
the other end if necessary ? I merely reply " I will."

"And Jo catch a fish," she continues. " You will, wonH you?
Reynolds and I caught a fish the other day, didn't we ? " This at,
more than to Reynolds, who clings to his helm and smiles in a vision-
ary way. He seems to say, " I'm at my duty. Miss, I am : do not, do
not speak to the man at the wheel; it's not fair, it ain't really."

For one moment I turn, and catch Btjnter's eye. It says, with

contemptuous humour, " Well, I never see such a gal as that. If
she was Mrs. Bttnter, I'd let her know ..." But here he is told
off to his department in the trawling business.

Btjnter's is a rough nature. He has not lived in drawing-rooms.
Thoughts while Fishing.—Would she flirt with anyone, even a
man at the wheel ? Why does she talk at servants ? Can't she get
on without admiration from some one, from everyone, from anyone ?
[I think there is a bite. I haul up. A wet process. Nothing. I
let it go again. A wetter process. The sea seems to have sharpened
the line as it runs through my hand. It hurts.] If Miss Janie ... I
mean if such a person as Miss Janie was my wife should I like to
see her eyes going up at the butler, or seeking for admiration, or appro-
bation, from the buttons ? * * * * Perhaps if sobered down she
wouldn't do it . . perhaps ... I am getting very hungry . . . and,
it seems to me, a trifle faint. . . . Don't like to ask for more biscuits.
I think standing in one position with my eye on the line is not
good. To compare " hunger "to "a sharp thorn " is not a happy
simile. You feel hunger all over you. This is not the case with
thorns. ... A bite . . . No . . . I am painfully hungry . . . Miss
Straithmere is talking to Lady Wetherby on the other side.
Why couldn't she stay here ? After she's made use of me to hold
her fishing-line she leaves me. I will fasten it to the side and sit
down. Captain Dawson offers me a cigar. No, thank you.
Somehow I don't fancy a cigar. Hunger detests smoking. I say to
him sadly, " I shall be so glad when luncheon's ready." He
laughs. A smell of cooking is wafted towards us. It seems out of
place at sea. I wish we could have the luncheon without the cook-
ing. Only half an hour more, he says. I feel that, somehow, on that
half hour hangs my fate. * * * * Miss Straithmere crosses to us.
" 0 ! " she exclaims, " There is a fish ! I'm sure there's a fish! Do
pull it up! WonHjou?"

I can't rise from my chair to do it. Hunger seems to have
suddenly enfeebled me. Captain Dawson will lug the bothering
thing up. I don't say this, only "No, there isn't," rather shortly
(really, hungrily,) while the Captain operates. Miss Janie goes on,
to me, "0! you promised you'd get me a fish!" Then turning
round to Lady Wetherby, "0 isn't it unkind of him, Lady
Wetherby? He" (meaning me) " wonH get me a fish." The
two ladies smile, and I can't help replying petulantly, " I didn't
promise." How could I have promised such a thing? It's too bad
of her. I should like to add, " 0 don't bother,"—even to her—" I
am so hungry * * and I feel so * * queer." But no, she doesn't
see that I'm really unwell, but goes on, archly prattling ... I
begin to hate prattling. " You don't talk?" she says. " Why?"
then seating herself, as Captain Dawson turns to Wetherby, and
getting, as it were, under her parasol, but not in the least lowering
her voice, so that any one mav hear, " Why don't you talk to me ?
Why not to poor little me ? Why ? "

I can't stand it any longer. "Because," I blurt out, "I'm
so . . ."—no, it's rude. I am sroing to say " confoundedly hungry,"
but restrain myself. I substitute, wearily, "I didn't know you
wanted me to talk."

She returns simply, " Why?" Pause. " Why ? Do tell me
ivhy?"

I feel that I am being soured. " Why?" I demand, bitterly.
"Why? Because—don't you see, why?" I ask, meaning that my
face ought to express hunger, misery, emptiness, and * * * all
uncomfortableness.

Strange Symptom—1 am gradually ceasing to be positively
hungry, and am becoming negatively empty. "Being hungry"
means that one can actively eat. " Being empty," means, I feel,
that one is collapsing, and must be passively filled.

" See why ? " she repeats, but not in a soft, gentle tone, inaudible
to others, as / should like to hear, and to reply in. " No, do tell me,
why. Why ought I to see ? " I can only express, by a sort of im-
patient wag of my head, and a roll of my eyes, that it is impossible
to explain. I am so hungry, and so empty, and so . . . but if I
could only be fed, at once, I should be all right. She continues,
just as loud as before, " If you don't want me to sit here, I '11 go.
Say do you want me to sit here ? " Wetherby is looking at us. I
remark this to her in an undertone. She replies quite loudly, ' It
doesn't matter." I say, still in an undertone (and I really do wish
she'd go away and leave me quite alone—I don't want anyone), " It
looks so odd for us to be together so much." She returns, " Why ?"
Why!! Oood heavens! "Now," she says, "you're angry. 0
look ! " suddenly. " I'm sure there 's a fish. Why don't you pull
it up? Why?"

Mental Flash of Quotation adapted—

" 0 woman ! in our hour of ease.
Capricious, coy, and hard to please,
"When pain and anguish rack our brow—
I wish you wouldn't bother now."

But I keep this to myself. In fact, I have no words. My
mouth is too dry for words. Robert announces luncheon. Lady
Wetherby will not go below, she observes, smiling, being afraid