“Real!” Humberstall’s voice rose almost to a treble. “Jane? Why, she was a little old maid ’oo’d written ’alf a dozen books about a hundred years ago. ’Twasn’t as if there was anythin’ _to_ ’em either. _I_ know. I had to read ’em. They weren’t adventurous, nor smutty, nor what you’d call even interestin’--all about girls o’ seventeen (they begun young then, I tell you), not certain ’oom they’d like to marry; an’ their dances an’ card-parties an’ picnics, and their young blokes goin’ off to London on ’orseback for ’air-cuts an’ shaves. It took a full day in those days, if you went to a proper barber. They wore wigs, too, when they was chemists or clergymen. All that interested me on account o’ me profession, an’ cuttin’ the men’s ’air every fortnight. Macklin used to chip me about bein’ an ’airdresser. ’E _could_ pass remarks, too!” Humberstall recited with relish a fragment of what must have been a superb commination-service, ending with, “You lazy-minded, lousy-headed, long-trousered, perfumed perookier.” “An’ you took it?” Anthony’s quick eyes ran over the man. “Yes. I was after my money’s worth; an’ Macklin, havin’ put ’is ’and to the plough, wasn’t one to withdraw it. Otherwise, if I’d pushed ’im, I’d ha’ slew ’im. Our Battery Sergeant Major nearly did. For Macklin had a wonderful way o’ passing remarks on a man’s civil life; an’ he put it about that our B. S. M. had run a dope an’ dolly-shop with a Chinese woman, the wrong end o’ Southwark Bridge. Nothin’ you could lay ’old of, o’ course; but----” Humberstall let us draw our own conclusions. “That reminds me,” said Anthony, smacking his lips. “I ’ad a bit of a fracas with a fare in the Fulham Road last month. He called me a parastit-ic Forder. I informed ’im I was owner-driver, an’ ’e could see for ’im-self the cab was quite clean. That didn’t suit ’im. ’E said it was crawlin’.” “What happened?” I asked. “One o’ them blue-bellied Bolshies of post-war Police (neglectin’ point-duty, as usual) asked us to flirt a little quieter. My joker chucked some Arabic at ’im. That was when we signed the Armistice. ’E’d been a Yeoman--a perishin’ Gloucestershire Yeoman--that I’d helped gather in the orange crop with at Jaffa, in the ’Oly Land!” “And after that?” I continued. “It ’ud be ’ard to say. I know ’e lived at Hendon or Cricklewood. I drove ’im there. We must ’ave talked Zionism or somethin’, because at seven next mornin’ him an’ me was tryin’ to get petrol out of a milkshop at St. Albans. They ’adn’t any. In lots o’ ways this war has been a public noosance, as one might say, but there’s no denyin’ it ’elps you slip through life easier. The dairyman’s son ’ad done time on Jordan with camels. So he stood us rum an’ milk.” “Just like ’avin’ the Password, eh?” was Humberstall’s comment. “That’s right! Ours was _Imshee kelb_.[3] Not so ’ard to remember as your Jane stuff.”