The biggest nuisance on God’s earth is a batman who spends all his spare moments getting drunk! Usually, however, he is a first-class batman during his sober moments! He will come in “plastered to the eyes” about eleven o’clock, and begin to hone your razors by the pallid rays of a candle, or else clean your revolver and see if the cartridges fit! In his cups he is equal to anything at all. Unless the case is really grave the man wins every time, for no one hates the idea of changing his servant more than an officer who has had the same man for a month or so and found him efficient. Not infrequently batmen are touchingly faithful. They will do anything on earth for their “boss” at any time of the day or night, and never desert him in the direst extremity. More than one batman has fallen side by side with his officer, whom he had followed into the fray, close on his heels. Once, after a charge, a conversation ensued between the sergeant of a certain officer’s platoon and that officer’s batman, in this fashion: “What were _you_ doin’ out there, Tommy?” “Follerin’.” “And why was you close up on his heels, so clost I could ’ardly see ’im?” “Follerin’ ’im up.” “And why wasn’t you back somewhere _safe_?” (This with a touch of sarcasm.) “Lord, Sargint, you couldn’t expect me to let _’im_ go out by ’isself! ’E might ha’ got hurt!” RATIONS “Bully-beef an’ ’ard-tack,” said Private Boddy disgustedly. “Bully-beef that’s canned dog or ’orse, or may be cats, an’ biscuits that’s _fit_ for dawgs.... This is a ’ell of a war. W’y did I ever leave little old Walkerville, w’ere the whiskey comes from? Me an’ ’Iram we was almost pals, as you may say. I worked a ’ole fortnight in ’is place, at $1.75 per, an’ then I----” Mr. Boddy broke off abruptly, but not soon enough. “Huh!” broke in a disgusted voice from a remote corner of the dug-out, “then I guess you went bummin’ your way till the bulls got you in Windsor. To hear you talk a chap would think you didn’t know what pan-handlin’ was, or going out on the stem.” “Look ’ere,” said Boddy with heat, “you comeralong outside, you great long rubberneck, you, an’ I’ll teach you to call me a pan-’andler, I will. You low-life Chicago bum, wot never _did_ ’ave a better meal than you could steal f’m a Chink Chop Suey.” “Say, fellers,” a quiet voice interposed, “cut it out. This ain’t a Parliament Buildings nor a Montreal cabaret. There’s a war on. If youse guys wants to talk about rations, then go ahead, shoot, but cut out the rough stuff!” “Dat’s what _I_ say, Corporal,” interrupted a French-Canadian. “I’m a funny sort of a guy, I am. I likes to hear a good spiel, widout any of dis here free cussin’ an’ argumentation. Dat ain’t no good, fer it don’t cut no ice, _no’ d’un ch’en_!”