The Brown Brethren. Patrick MacGill

girl Fifi is a nice snug parcel o' love," Snoggers interrupted, "I 'aven't arf got my 'and in down that quarter. Wot d'ye fink o' 'er, Fitz?"

      "Who?" asked Fitzgerald. He had become suddenly alert.

      "'Ear 'im," said Bubb, winking at the Sergeant. "Old Fitz ain't arf a dodger; one o' the nuts that's wot 'e is."

      "Fifi, the girl at the farm," said Snogger in answer to Fitzgerald's question. "Yer don't say much when you're down there and 'er in the room but your eyes are never off 'er. … I wouldn't say nothin' against rollin' 'er in the straw. … This mornin' … a funny thing … she came up to me and told me to put my 'and in 'ers. I obliged 'er. Then she said to me: 'Two sous for your thoughts.' I didn't tell 'er wot I was finkin' of, but I didn't arf fink."

      Snogger laughed loudly; Fitzgerald was silent.

      "Bet yer, yer wos finkin' somefing wot wasn't good, sarg," said Bubb.

      "Aye; and old Fitz is gwine dotty on the wench," said the sergeant. "I see it in his eyes."

      "Botheration," Fitzgerald remarked. "I know the girl by sight and I know she makes good café-au-lait, but I didn't even know her name until now."

      "Sing a song, Fitz," Bubb called out. "A good rousin' song wiv 'air on't."

      "I pay no heed to that creation, his tap-room wit and yokel humour," muttered Fitzgerald, turning to Benners. "But if you desire it. … "

      "Give us a bit o' a song, Fitz," Benners replied.

      "Give me a cigarette and I'll sing you a song that I love very much," Fitzgerald said. "It was sung in Ireland by the old women in the famine times when they were dying of starvation. You must picture the famine-stricken leaning over their turf fires and singing their songs of desolation. (God! I think it was the turf-fires that kept the race alive.)"

      CHAPTER II

       THE LONE ROAD

      "I want to go 'ome,

       I want to go 'ome,

       I don't want to go to the trenches no more,

       Where the bullets and shrapnel do whistle and roar,

       I want to go over the sea,

       Where the Alley man can't get at me;

       Oh, my!

       I don't want to die,

       I want to go 'ome!"

      (A Trench Song.)

      A strange glow overspread Fitzgerald's face and he rose from his seat by the stove and sat down again on a bench in a corner and spread out his hands timorously towards an imaginary fire. He bent his head forward until it drooped almost to his knees and his whole attitude took on a semblance of want and woe beset with an overpowering fear. Benners gasped involuntarily as he waited for the song.

      A long, drawn out, hardly audible note that wavered like a thread of smoke quivered out into the evil atmosphere of the apartment, it was followed by a second and a third. A strange effect was produced on all the listeners by the trembling voice of the singer. Bubb gaped stupidly, his eyes fixed on the roof, as he rubbed his chin with the fingers of his right hand. The sergeant drew himself up and listened, fascinated. Fitzgerald's song was the song of a soul condemned to inevitable sorrow; there was not a relieving touch, not a glow of hope, it was the song of a damned soul.

      "Oh, the praties they are small

       Over here.

       Oh, the praties they are small

       Over here.

       The praties they are small

       And we ate them skins and all,

       Aye, and long afore the Fall,

       Over here.

      No help in hour of need

       Over here.

       And God won't pay much heed

       Over here.

       Then whisht! Or He'll take heed

       And He'll rot the pratie seed

       And send other mouths to feed

       Over here.

      I wish I was a duck

       Over here.

       To be eating clay and muck

       Over here.

       I'd sooner … sooner … I'd sooner. … "

       "My God, I've forgotten it, Benners, forgotten the rest of the song," Fitzgerald exclaimed, throwing his unlighted cigarette on the floor and gripping his hair with both hands as if going to pull it out of his head. Then, as if thinking better of it, he brought both his hands to his sides and sat down on his original seat, his whole face betokening extreme self-pity.

      "My memory!" he exclaimed. "My memory! Why was I brought into being?"

      A minute's silence followed, then an eager glow lit up Fitzgerald's face. A happy inspiration seemed to have seized hold of him. "Benners!" he exclaimed in an eager voice. "Have you a cigarette to spare, Benners?"

      "Gorblimey!" laughed Bubb. "Listen to 'im. 'E's always on the 'ear-'ole for fags, an' 'e throws arf of 'em away. 'E's not arf a nib, ole Fitz."

      "Good Heavens, how can I endure such remarks from a damned Sassenach! (I beg your pardon, Bubb)" Fitzgerald exclaimed, gripping with both fingers the cigarette which Benners had given him and breaking it in two. "You don't understand me, Bubb, you can't. I don't bear you any malice, but, heavens! you are trying at times. … By the way," he added, "can you give us one of your songs?"

       Bubb looked at Fitzgerald for a moment then lit a cigarette and got to his feet.

      "Wot about Ole Skiboo?" he asked, addressing the remark to all in the room.

      The soldiers knew that he was going to oblige and applauded with their hands.

      Bubb fixed his eyes on the patronne and started:

      "Madame, 'ave yer any good wine?

       Skiboo! Skiboo!

       Madame, 'ave yer any good wine?

       Skiboo!

       Madame, 'ave yer any good wine

       Fit for a rifleman o' the line?

       Skiboo! Skiboo! Skiboolety bill skiboo!

      "Madame, 'ave yer a daughter fair?

       Skiboo! Skiboo!

       Madame, 'ave yer a daughter fair?

       Skiboo!

       Madame, 'ave yer a daughter fair?

       And I will take her under my care,

       Skiboo! Skiboo! Skiboolety bill skiboo!

      "Madame, I've got money to spend,

       Cinq sous! Cinq sous!

       Madame, I've got money to spend,

       Cinq sous!

       Madame, I've got money to spend,

       Seldom the case with your daughter's friend,

       Cinq sous! Cinq sous, cinq slummicky slop! Cinq sous!"

      The song, an old one probably, but adapted to suit modern circumstances, was lustily chorused by the soldiers in the room. Bubb having finished sat down, but presently rose to his feet again.

      "'Oo'l whistle the chorus of 'It's a long way to Tipperary'?" he asked. "Everybody do it together and the one that does it froo I'll stand 'im a drink. Nobody to laugh. And the one that's not able to do it will stand me a drink. Is that a bargain? Nobody to laugh, mind."

      The men agreed to Bubb's terms and started whistling. But they did not get far. They had drunk quite a lot and Bubb's final injunction tickled them. One smiled, then another. Bowdy Benners lay back and roared with laughter. He tried to form his lips round a note but the effort was futile. It was impossible to laugh and whistle at the same time. Fitzgerald was making a sound