MILITARY DIALOGUES

Scene.—The drawing-room of the Colonel's quarters, decorated with trophies from many lands and water-colour sketches. Mrs. Bulkwise, the Colonel's wife, a tall, broad and assertive lady, is giving tea to Mrs. Lyttleton-Cartwright, with the stamp of fashion upon her, and Mrs. Karmadine, who has a soul for art—both ladies of the regiment. Colonel Bulkwise, a small and despondent man whose hair is "part-worn" gazes morosely into the fire.

Mrs. Bulkwise (waving a tea cup). As surely as woman is asserting her right to a place in medicine, in law, and in the council, so surely will she take her proper place in the control of the army.

Mrs. Lyttleton-Cartwright. What a lovely costume one could compose out of the uniform. I've often tried Jack's tunic on.

Mrs. B. (severely). The mere brutal work of fighting, the butchery of the trade, would still have to be left to the men; but such matters as require higher intelligence, keener wit, tact, perseverance, should be, and some day shall be, in our hands.

Mrs. Karmadine. And the beauty and grace of life, Mrs. Bulkwise. Surely we women, if allowed, could in peace bring culture to the barrack-room, and garland the sword with bay wreaths?

Mrs. B. Take the War Office. I am told that the ranks of the regiments are depleted of combatant officers in order that they may sit in offices in Pall Mall, and do clerical work indifferently. Now, I hold that our sex could do this work better, more cheaply, and with greater dispatch.

Mrs. L.-C. "Pall-Mall" would be such an excellent address.

Mrs. B. The young men, both officers and civilians, who are employed waste, so I understand, the time of the public by going out to lunch at clubs and frequently pause in their work to smoke cigars and discuss the odds. Now a glass of milk, or some claret and lemonade, a slice of seed-cake, or some tartlets, brought by a maid from the nearest A. B. C. shop would satisfy all our mid-day wants.

Mrs. L.-C. And I never knew a woman who couldn't work and talk bonnets at the same time.

Mrs. C. Just a few palms—don't you think, Mrs. Bulkwise?—in those dreary, dreary rooms, and some oriental rugs on the floors, and a little bunch of flowers on each desk would make life so much easier to live.

    [Colonel Bulkwise murmurs something unintelligible.

Mrs. B. What do you say, George?

Colonel B. (with sudden fierceness). I said, that there are too many old women, as it is, in the War Office.

Mrs. B. George!

    [The colonel relapses again into morose silence.

Mrs. B. The Intelligence Department should, of course, be in our hands.

Mrs. L.-C. I should just love to run about all the time, finding out other people's secrets.

Mrs. B. And the Clothing Department calls for a woman's knowledge. The hideous snuff-coloured garments must be retained for warfare, but with the new costume for walking out and ceremonial I think something might be done.

Mrs. L.-C. The woman who makes my frocks is as clever as she can be, and always has her head full of ideas for those sort of things.

Mrs. C. Michel Angelo did not disdain to design the uniform of the Swiss Guard. Perhaps Gilbert, or Ford, or Brock might follow in the giant's footsteps.

Col. B. You ladies always design such sensible clothes for yourselves, do you not?

    [He is frozen into silence again.

Mrs. B. And the education of young officers. From a cursory glance through my husband's books on law, topography and administration, I should say that there are no military subjects that the average woman could not master in a fortnight. Strategy, of course, comes to us by intuition. The companionship and influence of really good women on youths and young men cannot be over-rated, and the professors both at the Staff College and at the Military Academy should be of our sex.

Mrs. L.-C. I always love the boys; but I think some of the staff college men are awfully stuck up.

Mrs. B. Now as to the regiment. The mess, of course, should be in our province.

Mrs. L.-C. How ripping. The guest-nights would be lovely dinner parties, the ante-room we'd use for tea, and the band should always play from 5 to 6. We'd have afternoon dances every Thursday, and turn the men out once a week and have a dinner all to ourselves to talk scandal.

    [The colonel groans.

REGULATIONS FOR YEOMANRY OUTPOSTS

1. Never recognise your enemy when you meet him on the road, in case you might be compelled to take him prisoner and so cause unpleasantness and unseemly disturbance.

2. Advanced guards should walk quietly and without ostentation into the enemy's main body, and be careful never to look behind bushes, trees, or buildings for an unobtrusive cyclist patrol. To do so might cause the enemy annoyance.

3. An advance guard, if surrounded, will surrender without noise or alarm. To make any would disturb the main body, who like to march in a compact and regular formation.

4. Never allow your common-sense to overcome your natural modesty so far as to induce you to report to a superior officer the presence of the enemy in force. You will only acquire a reputation for officiousness by doing so.

5. Always attack an enemy in front. It is unsportsmanlike and unprofessional to attack the flanks.

6. When retiring before an attack maintain as close a formation as the ground will admit of, and retire directly upon the main infantry support. You will thus expose yourselves to the fire of both your own friends and the enemy, and as blank cartridge hurts nobody it will add to the excitement of the operation.

7. It is more important to roll your cloaks and burnish your bits than to worry about unimportant details of minor tactics.

8. Since a solitary horseman never attracts the enemy's attention, be careful to take up a position in compact formation; to do so by files might escape observation.

9. When being charged by the enemy, go fours about and gallop for all you are worth; it is just as agreeable to be prodded in the back as in the chest, and gives the enemy more satisfaction. To extend, or work to the flanks, might deprive your enemy of useful experience.

10. Never cast your eyes to the direction from which the enemy is not expected, as that is the usual direction of his real attack, and it is not polite to spoil the arrangement of your friend the enemy.

11. Lastly, remember that the best motto for Yeomanry Troopers is "Point de Zèle."

OUR RIFLE VOLUNTEERS

CHAT À LA MODE

Brown, Jones, and Robinson, discovered discussing the stats of the Navy in a first-class compartment.

Brown. My dear fellows, I can assure you we are in a terrible condition of unpreparedness. If France was to declare war to-morrow we should be nowhere—absolutely nowhere!

Jones. You mean, of course, with Russia.

Robinson. Or was it Italy?

Brown. It doesn't matter which. I fancy that France alone could tackle us. Why, a man was telling me the other day that if Gibraltar was seized—as it might be—we should not get a ship-load of wood for months—yes, for months!

Jones. But what has Gibraltar to do with it?

Robinson. Why, of course, it guards our approaches to the Suez Canal.

Brown. Oh, that's only a matter of detail. But what we want is a hundred millions to be spent at once. Cobden said so, and I agree with Cobden.

Jones. But upon what?

Robinson. Oh, in supporting the Sultan, and subsidising the Ameer.

Brown. I don't think that sort of thing is of much importance. But if we had a hundred millions (as Mr. Cobden suggested), we might increase our coaling stations, and build new ships, and double the navy, and do all sorts of things.

Jones. But I thought we were fairly well off for coaling stations, had lots of ships on the stocks, and, with the assistance of our merchant marine, an ample supply of good sailors.

Robinson. That's what all you fellows say! But wait till we have a war, then you will see the fallacy of all your arguments. No, we should buy the entire fleet of the world. There should be no other competitor. Britannia should really rule the waves.

Brown. Yes, yes. Of course; but after all, that is not the important matter. What we want is a hundred millions available to be spent on anything and everything. And it's no use having further discussion because that was Cobden's view of it, and so it is mine.

Jones. Where is it to come from—out of the rates?

Brown and Robinson (together). Certainly not.

Jones. Or the taxes?

Brown and Robinson (as before). Don't be absurd.

Jones. Well, it must come from somewhere! Can you tell me where?

Robinson. Why should we?

Brown. Yes, why should we? Even Cobden didn't go so far as that, and——But, here we are at the station.

    [Invasion of porters, and end of the conversation.

MILITARY DIALOGUES

Scene.—The canteen of the Rutlandshire Regiment, at Downboro', an airy, plastered hall with high windows. A bar at one end is backed by a rampart of beer barrels. A double line of barrack tables and benches runs down the room. The hour is 5 p.m. At one of the tables sits Mr. W. Wilson, late Private in the regiment, in all his glory of a new check suit with an aggressive pattern, a crimson tie, a horseshoe pin, an aluminium watch-chain, a grey "bowler" and a buttonhole of violets. Privates W. and G. Smith, P. Brady, E. Dudd and other men of H. company are at the table, or standing near it.

Mr. Wilson (passing round a great tin measure containing beer, after taking a preliminary pull himself). Of course I do 'ear more, being in the smoke, than you 'ear down in this provincial 'ole; and there's generals and statesmen and such-like comes and stays at our place, and when they gets tied up in a knot over any military question, as often as not they says, "Let's ask Wilson, the under-gardener. 'E's a hex-military man; 'e's a 'ighly intellergent feller"; and I generally gets them out of their difficulty.

Pte. W. Smith. D'ye know anything about this army reform?

Mr. Wilson (with lofty scorn). Do I know anything about it?

Pte. G. Smith. D'ye think they're going to make a good job of it?

Mr. Wilson. Naaw. And why? Becos they're goin' the wrong wai to work. They're arskin the opinion of perfeshernal hexperts and other sich ignoramuses, and ain't goin' to the fountain 'ead. Oo's the backbone of the English service?

Pte. P. Brady. The Oirish private.

Mr. Wilson. Right you are, my 'Ibernian—always subsitooting British for Hirish—and the British compiny is the finest horganisation in the world. Give the private a free 'and and a rise of pay, and make the compiny the model of the army, and then yer can put all the hexperts and all the Ryle Commissions and their reports to bed.

Pte. Dudd. As how?

Mr. Wilson. As 'ow, yer old thick head? It's as plain as a pike-staff. Taike this question of responsibility. When some one comes a bloomer, and the paipers all rise 'ell, the civilian toff, 'oos a sort of a commander-in-chief in a Sunday coat and a chimney-pot 'at, 'e says, "It ain't me. Arsk the real commander-in-chief," and the feeld-marshal 'e says, "Arsk the hadjutant-general," and the hadjutant-general, 'e says, "Arsk the hordnance bloke." Now in the compiny there ain't none of that. If the colonel goin' round at kit inspection finds the beds badly made up, or jags and sight-protectors deficient, or 'oles in the men's socks, 'e goes fierce for the captin' and threatens to stop 'is leave; and the captin' don't say, "Oh, it's the hadjutant, or the quarter-master, or the chaplain what's to blame," no, 'e gives the subalterns and the coloured-sergeant beans, and they slip it in to the sergeants and corprils in charge of squads, and the beds is set up straight, and the men put down for jags and sight-protectors, and the 'oles in the socks is mended.

Pte. W. Smith. That's so, old pal. What else would you recermend?

Mr. Wilson (reaching out for the measure). Thank yer. This 'ere army-reforming's a dry job. Now as to the metherd of attack. When the regiment goes out field-firing the henemy's a line of hearthenware pots, touched up on the sly by the markers with a dash of white; the captains count the telergraph posts up the range and give the exact distance; and the men goes 'opping along in line like crows on a ploughed field, the sergeantes a-naggin' 'em about the 'Ithe position and the coprils calling them back to pick up empty cartridge cases. Is that the wai, that you, George Smith, and you, Bill, and you, Pat, used ter creep up to the rabbit warrens when we used ter go out in the herly morning to assist the farmers to keep down the ground gime—poaching the colonel called it? No, we hexecuted wide turning movements and never showed no more than the tip of a nose. Let drill of attack alone, I say, and develop the sporting hinstinct of the private.

Omnes. 'Ear, 'ear.

Mr. Wilson. And this matter of mobility. Why, if you or me or any of us was on furlough at 'Ampstead or Margit, we was never off a 'orse's or a moke's back as long as the dibs lasted. Give us the brass, and we'll find the mobility.

Pte. W. Smith. Why don't yer write to the Prime Minister, and give him your ideas?

Mr. Wilson. I shall. A few hintelligent ex-privates in the Cabinet, a rise of pay for privates and two days' rabitting, and a trip to Margit every week would sive the British Army.

TRAMPS

THE BUSY BISLEY