I wish you
could lay hands on it, Jenkins. Copy of the _Times_, I think."
"Yes, Sir. Copy of the _Times_, Sir," said Jenkins, without a quiver, and
went forth to make his own arrangements.
"Copy of the _Times_" said the blameless Alf, from beneath his blanket. "I
ain't a member of the Soldier's Institoot. Go an' look in the reg'mental
Readin'-room--Veldt Row, Kopje Street, second turnin' to the left between
'ere an' Naauwport."
Jenkins summarised briefly in a tense whisper the thing that Alf Copper
need not be.
"But my particular copy of the _Times_ is specially pro'ibited by the
censor from corruptin' the morals of the Army. Get a written order from K.
o' K., properly countersigned, an' I'll think about it."
"I've got all _you_ want," said Jenkins. "'Urry up. I want to 'ave a
squint myself."
Something gurgled in the darkness, and Private Copper fell back smacking
his lips.
"Gawd bless my prisoner, and make me a good boy. Amen. 'Ere you are,
Jenkins. It's dirt cheap at a tot."
STEAM TACTICS
THE NECESSITARIAN
I know not in whose hands are laid
To empty upon earth
From unsuspected ambuscade
The very Urns of Mirth:
Who bids the Heavenly Lark arise
And cheer our solemn round--
The Jest beheld with streaming eyes
And grovellings on the ground;
Who joins the flats of Time and Chance
Behind the prey preferred,
And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance
The Sacredly Absurd,
Till Laughter, voiceless through excess.
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