“What is ’e? ’Nother Colonial rebel to be ’orribly disenfranchised, or a Cape Minister, or only a loyal farmer with dynamite in both boots. Tell us all about it, Burjer!” “You leave my prisoner alone,” said Private Copper. “’E’s ’ad losses an’ trouble; an’ it’s in the family too. ’E thought I never read the papers, so ’e kindly lent me his very own _Jerrold’s Weekly_—an’ ’e explained it to me as patronisin’ as a—as a militia subaltern doin’ Railway Staff Officer. ’E’s a left-over from Majuba—one of the worst kind, an’ ’earin’ the evidence as I did, I don’t exactly blame ’im. It was this way.” To the picket Private Copper held forth for ten minutes on the life-history of his captive. Allowing for some purple patches, it was an absolute fair rendering. “But what I dis-liked was this baccy-priggin’ beggar, ’oo’s people, on ’is own showin’, couldn’t ’ave been more than thirty or forty years in the coun—on this Gawd-forsaken dust-’eap, comin’ the squire over me. They’re all parsons—we know _that_, but parson _an’_ squire is a bit too thick for Alf Copper. Why, I caught ’im in the shameful act of tryin’ to start a aristocracy on a gun an’ a wagon an’ a _shambuk_! Yes; that’s what it was: a bloomin’ aristocracy.” “No, it weren’t,” said McBride, at length, on the dirt, above the purloined weekly. “You’re the aristocrat, Alf. Old _Jerrold’s_ givin’ it you ’ot. You’re the uneducated ’ireling of a callous aristocracy which ’as sold itself to the ’Ebrew financier. Meantime, Ducky”—he ran his finger down a column of assorted paragraphs—“you’re slakin’ your brutal instincks in furious excesses. Shriekin’ women an’ desolated ’omesteads is what you enjoy, Alf …, Halloa! What’s a smokin’ ’ektacomb?” “’Ere! Let’s look. ’Aven’t seen a proper spicy paper for a year. Good old _Jerrold’s!”_ Pinewood and Moppet, reservists, flung themselves on McBride’s shoulders, pinning him to the ground. “Lie over your own bloomin’ side of the bed, an’ we can all look,” he protested. “They’re only po-ah Tommies,” said Copper, apologetically, to the prisoner. “Po-ah unedicated Khakis. _They_ don’t know what they’re fightin’ for. They’re lookin’ for what the diseased, lying, drinkin’ white stuff that they come from is sayin’ about ’em!” The prisoner set down his tin of coffee and stared helplessly round the circle. “I—I don’t understand them.” The Canadian sergeant, picking his teeth with a thorn, nodded sympathetically: “If it comes to that, _we_ don’t in my country!… Say, boys, when you’re through with your English mail you might’s well provide an escort for your prisoner. He’s waitin’.” “Arf a mo’, Sergeant,” said McBride, still reading. “’Ere’s Old Barbarity on the ramp again with some of ’is lady friends, ’oo don’t like concentration camps. Wish they’d visit ours. Pinewood’s a married man. He’d know how to be’ave!”