Captain Jinks, Hero by Ernest Howard Crosby (story read aloud txt) 📕

After dinner Sam was introduced to Canon Gleed, another missionary, who seemed to be on very good terms with himself, and stood rubbing his hands with a benignant smile.

“These are great days, Colonel Jinks,” he said. “Great days, indeed, for foreign missions. What would St. John have said on the island of Patmos if he could have cabled for half-a-dozen armies and half-a-dozen fleets, and got them too? He would have made short work of his jailers. As he looks down upon us tonight, how his soul must rejoice! The Master told us to go into all nations, and we are going to go if it takes a million troops to send us and keep us there. You are going on to the Capital tomorrow? You will meet a true saint of the Lord there, your own fellow countryman, the Rev. Dr. Amen. He is a true member of the Church Militant. Give him my regards when you see him.”

“I see there is another clergyman here,” said Sam, looking at Mr. Parker.

“Yes, and I must say I am surprised to see him. Let me warn you, Colonel. He is, I fear, altogether heterodox. I don’t know what kind of Christianity he teaches, but he has actually kept on good terms with the Porsslanese near his mission throughout all these events. He is disloyal to our flag, there can be no question of it, and he openly criticizes the actions of our governments. He should not be received in society. He ought to be sent home⁠—but, hist! someone is going to sing.”

It was the young lieutenant who had seated himself at the piano and was clearing his throat as he ran his hands over the keys. Then he began to sing in a rather feeble voice:

“Let the Frenchy sip his cognac in his caffy,
Let the Cossack gulp his kvass and usquebaugh;
Let the Prussian grenadier
Swill his dinkle-doonkle beer,
And the Yankee suck his cocktail through a straw,
Through a straw,
And the Yankee suck his cocktail through a straw.

“Let the Ghoorka drink his pugaree and pukka,
Let the Hollander imbibe old schnapps galore.
Tommy Atkins is the chap
Who has broached a better tap,
For he takes his ’arf-and-’arf in blood and gore.
Blood and gore,
For he takes his ’arf-and-’arf in blood and gore.

“When at ’ome he may content himself with whisky,
But if once he lands upon a foreign shore⁠—
On the Nile or Irrawady⁠—
He forgets his native toddy,
And he takes his ’arf-and-’arf in blood and gore.
Blood and gore,
And he takes his ’arf-and-’arf in blood and gore.

“He’s a connoisseur of every foreign vintage,
From the claret of the fat and juicy Boer
To the thicker nigger brand
That he spills upon the sand,
When he draws his ’arf-and-’arf in blood and gore.
Blood and gore,
When he draws his ’arf-and-’arf in blood and gore.”

“Fine, isn’t it!” exclaimed Sam’s neighbor, the captain, who was standing by him, as they all joined in hearty applause. “I tell you Bludyard Stripling ought to be our poet laureate. He’s the laureate of the Empire, at any rate. Why, a song like that binds a nation together. You haven’t any poet like that, have you?”

“No-o,” answered Sam, thinking in shame of Shortfellow, Slowell, and Pittier. “I’m afraid all our poets are old women and don’t understand us soldiers.”

“Stripling understands everything,” said the captain. “He never makes a mistake. He is a universal genius.”

“I don’t think we ever drink cocktails with a straw,” ventured Sam.

“Oh, yes, you must. He never makes a mistake. You may be sure that, before he wrote that, he drank each one of those drinks, one after another.”

“Quite likely,” whispered Cleary to Sam, as he came up on the other side.

“I wish I could hear it sung in Lunnon,” said the captain. “A chorus of duchesses are singing it at one of the biggest music-halls every evening, and then they pass round their coronets, lined with velvet, you know, and take up a collection of I don’t know how many thousand pounds for the wounded in South Africa. It stirs my blood every time I hear it sung.”

The party broke up at a late hour, and Sam and Cleary walked back together to the hotel.

“Interesting, wasn’t it?” said Cleary.

“Yes,” said Sam.

“Canon is a good title for that parson, isn’t it? He’s a fighter. They ought to promote him. ‘Bombshell Gleed’ would sound better than ‘Canon Gleed,’ ” said Cleary.

“ ’M,” said Sam.

“And that old general looked rather queer in that red and gilt bobtailed Eton jacket,” said Cleary.

“Yes, rather.”

“Convenient for spanking, I suppose.”

“The captain next to me told me a lot about Bobbets,” said Sam. “Wasn’t he nearly kidnaped in South Africa?”

“Yes; that comes of sending generals away from home who only weigh ninety-five pounds. We hadn’t any such trouble with Laughter. They’d have had to kidnap him with a derrick.”

“I never thought of that,” said Sam. “Perhaps that’s the real reason they selected him. I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Of course it was,” responded Cleary.

“What sort of a chap was the one with the V.C. next to you?” asked Sam.

“A fine fellow,” said Cleary. “But it does seem queer, when you think of it, to wear a cross like that, that says ‘I’m a hero,’ just as plain as the beggar’s placard says, ‘I am blind.’ ”

“I don’t see why,” said Sam.

“On the whole I think that a placard would be better,” said Cleary. “Everybody would be sure to understand it. ‘I performed such and such an heroic action on such and such a day, signed John Smith.’ Print it in big letters and then stand around graciously so that people could read it through when they wanted to. I’ll get the idea patented when I get home.”

“It’s a pity we don’t give more attention to decorations at home,” said Sam. “But I don’t quite like the placard idea.”

On the following morning the two friends started on their journey up the river toward the Imperial City. They went on a barge