A
middle-aged gentleman rose from his seat and offered it to the
Highlander. The Highlander smiled his thanks and shook his head. The
middle-aged gentleman in his sympathy became pressing, attracting
attention to the officer's infirmity. It was then that the officer
lost his temper. I saw him flush.
"I don't want it," he said sharply. "There's nothing the matter with
me. Thanks all the same. I'll stand."
This habit of being self-forgetful gives one time to be remindful of
others. Last January, during a brief and glorious ten days' leave, I
went to a matinee at the Coliseum. Vesta Tilley was doing an
extraordinarily funny impersonation of a Tommy just home from the
comfort of the trenches; her sketch depicted the terrible discomforts
of a fighting man on leave in Blighty. If I remember rightly the
refrain of her song ran somewhat in this fashion:
"Next time they want to give me six days' leave
Let 'em make it six months' 'ard."
There were two officers, a major and a captain, behind us; judging by
the sounds they made, they were getting their full money's worth of
enjoyment. In the interval, when the lights went up, I turned and saw
the captain putting a cigarette between the major's lips; then, having
gripped a match-box between his knees so that he might strike the
match, he lit the cigarette for his friend very awkwardly. I looked
closer and discovered that the laughing captain had only one hand and
the equally happy major had none at all.
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