Yes, the Major spoke. Sir Anthony is a peppery little person and
the audience enjoyed the cayenne piquancy of his remarks. The red-
tabbed Lieutenant-Colonel spoke. He was a bit dull. The elderly
orator from London roused enthusiastic cheers. The wounded
sergeant, on crutches, displaying a foot like a bandaged mop,
brought tears into the eyes of many women and evoked hoarse cheers
from the old men. I spoke from my infernal chair, and I think I
was quite a success with the good fellows in khaki. But the only
men we wanted to appeal to had studiously refrained from being
present. The whole affair was a fiasco.
When we got home, Marigold, who had stood behind my chair during
the proceedings, said to me:
"I think I know personally about thirty slackers in this town,
sir, and I'm more than a match for any three of them put together.
Suppose I was to go the rounds, so to speak, and say to each of
them, 'You young blighter, if you don't come with me and enlist, I
'll knock hell out of you!'--and, if he didn't come, I did knock
hell out of him--what exactly would happen, sir?"
"You would be summoned," said I, "for thirty separate cases of
assault and battery.
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