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.
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