AN R.A.F. HUT COUNTER.
" SHOP !" cried Sylvia, and we hurried through from our meal to the " three-deep " at the counter. If lunch happens to be late, the men are always early. There is some causal connexion about the coincidence which we have not yet fathomed.
Right in the front of the hungry mob is "Cherry." He always manages to get there somehow ; yet it is certainly neither greed nor push that impels his progress. He is simply one of the fortunate ones who always arrive, whether their goal be the counter, leave, or a commission. If it is a matter of luck, it is luck aided and abetted by unfailing cheerfulness and good humour. These pricelees qualities ate inherent in him, and do not derive their origin from drink or smoke. Sylvia thinks Mrs. Cherry is a lucky woman to sit opposite that bright face all her days, and she is right. We " rag " him about his smile. "And why shouldn't I amoile," he replies, "with four such noice young lydies to serve me ? " Yet if he had four sour faces to look at it would still be the same. Like most of the men, he has a motto, and if you can only produce an old album, he will write in it for you :—
" SMILE ! BECAUSE:
From the time you are born Till you ride in a hearse, There's nothing so bad But it might have been worse ; SO, SMILE!"
There are two little Cherries, Diana Pearl and Rupert, whose names perpetuate the memory of their mother's former charges, and of course they are the most wonderful children you could see Lucky little people indeed if they are blessed with their father's temperament ! If you can switch the conversation off the little Cherries and on to the 'dromo and its 'buses, before you know where you are " Cherry " will have promised to get permission to show you round.
But "Home John" is patiently waiting. His appearance is reminiscent of horses, hence his name. If he only know it, he would touch his cap at once. He too is generally well in the forefront of the "three-deep," but it is dogged Scots perseverance and not charm of personality that does it. He sets out with the aim and object of getting there, and he arrives. The process is certainly a scientific one ; and nobody grudges him his success. But he is very reserved, and after you have supplied his bodily wants he seems to have no further use for you. If the war lasts long enough, some bright hutter may plumb these hidden depths All honour to her when she does ; but we have not succeeded.
Yet he looks as if he would like to make friends if only his native reticence would allow him. His respectful requests compare favourably with many of those of his countrymen. The laconic demand, "An oonce o' tvrust " or "Tea," shows up very badly beside "A cup o' tea, please, Miss, and may I have two cakes ? " But "Home John's" contribution to your album, were he bold enough to make it, might quite consistently be "Manners makyth man."
"The Breathless Runner" has not a moment to wait. It is always the same with him ; but unlike many who are born too late, he is not at all particular. "Anything will do for me as long as I catch the train," seems to be his philosophy ; and if he has not a train to catch, there is always something else. "Four packets of Woodboines or two Pryers; it's all the sime," he will tell you ; but speak to him about music, and you will find that at least subjects of conversation are not "all the sime." He can always get back a little of his breath while he expounds his views on that theme. "What I bike, Miss, is something with a toon in it." He prefers classical to popular music, always provided you remember his important proviso. He will revel in Chopin or Schumann ; but ask him to follow a Bach fugue or wander with you through the labyrinth of a Debussy arabesque, and frankly he will be bored stiff ; only he is not a drawing-zoom audience, and will tell you so at once. He has a great instinct for rhythm, and loves Morris Dances and Folk Songs. There! he's off to swallow his food and catch something.
"I'm Here" takes himself very seriously indeed. The hut seems suddenly to expand whenever he appears. There is a touch of the bantam about him, and he can't help advertising his name.
He fusses too, and is a bad victim of the registration habit common to all soldiers. If he were sending a handkerchief home he would register it. He is rather consequential, and inclined to think that his order will cause a flutter in the bun-market. Yet we have often been thankful that he is here, for he is a very handy man. Every trade is represented in the squadron. Break the piano pedal, and a tuner will mend it for you ; let the wind blow in your window-pane (it's a way the wind has in a hut), and a glazier will appear. A watchmaker looks after the clocks, a plumber plumbs for you, a music-hall artist will discourse a clog-dance at your concert. You may get the latest hints on running your counter from a café-proprietor; and if you are imbued with a patriotic spirit of sartorial war economy, a tailor will remodel your costume. There is a beautiful division of labour about it all which would please Adam Smith. "I'm Here" was a godsend when our pipes froze. "Isn't it bitterly cold ? " said one of four frozen beings who welcomed him. "Yes, Miss," he replied ; "I haven't got accustomed to these Scotch temperaments yet," and set to work with a will. So we register his handkerchiefs with a smile, not forgetting our debt of gratitude.
Meanwhile Sylvia is engaged in earnest conversation with "The Pacificist." She wears the intent look one might see on an evangelist's face during a religious revival. "The Pacificist " bears all the marks of his natural order. After the manner of his kind, he is newly fledged, having only joined the Army a few months ago, and he is a big eater, for the problem of wheat is not his. He hankers for his home ha a way that a Mons veteran could hardly understand. His longings are probably just as great, but he acquiesces in the fortunes of war, and realizes that it is only by perfect performance of his present duties that he can hasten the time when he may resume the role of paterfamilias. "The Pacificist " seems to live on the top of a volcano. There are depths of smouldering rebellion within him which may blaze out at any moment and surprise you as you inoffensively offer him a scone. You must choose your topics of conversation with care, for all their roads lead to Rome, and if you are not careful you will be plunged into the middle of an unwieldy argument. Then ivoe betide you if you are worsted in the fight, for you will only have helped to confirm your opponent in his unpatriotic views. It is no easy matter for your brain to prepare doughty arguments while your hands are busy pouncing on " Pryers " or tooth-paste. It is like a first lesson in Eurhythmics. Reason clearly, and your hands will begin to fumble, so your best course is to keep out of it altogether. If you can content yourself with looking down the counter and hearing the echoes, you may watch the storm from a safe harbour. Sylvia is pressing home the well- worn arguments. "But it's the militarism of Germany we want to crush, not the German people." It is vain. "The Paefficist " suspects that the discussion is taking a philosophical turn, and he distrusts philosophy like the plague. His thoughts and language are those of the man in the street. He "knows himself," and, in defiance of the precept, judges others by the knowledge. He wants his home, his wife, and his little son. He supposes that human nature is a more or less constant quantity, so he may justly assume that the German soldier is of the same mind. To him the mailed fist which stands between the Hun and his hearth and home is only a figure of speech. He can only see one form of Conscription as long as the result is the same. It's a homeless "Tommy" against a homeless Hun, and where's the difference ? All very well for Lloyd George to speak ; he'll never have to fight. No matter if it has to be fought all over again ten years hence, as long as he is out of it. But Sylvia holds the ace of spades. "And what about your little boy ? " she asks. He retires, armed with half the counter ; but don't be mislefl. He will return to the fray a few days later. That trump card has been played before, and though it certainly never fails to give a breathing-space, it does not "confound his politics."
"The Bottomless Pit" is bearing down on us. Now, all Pacificists are bottomless pits, but not all bottomless pits are Pacificists—not by any manner of means. Our "Bottomless Pit" eats with a purpose. He wants to beat the Hun, and to beat him in the air. No sooner has he repaired one aeroplane than he wants to get under way with the next. He does not lack heart, yet the human side of an accident does not appeal to him. It is simply another case for him to repair. He is always munching at something, but in a meaningless way. There is nothing of the glutton about him, and as you watch him eat you may even wonder if he has a sense of taste. He seems to eat, not to enjoy, not even to live, but to mend aeroplanes. His kindred spirit is "The Socialist," though the point of attraction is puzzling. "The
• Bottomless Pit" is certainly a democrat, but not an aggressive one. "The Socialist," on the other hand, is a Scot, and perhaps because of it a thinker; and the result of his reflections is his klief in the Apostolic doctrine of having all things in common. His receptive faculty is largely developed, and he has yet to learn that "it is more blessed to give than to receive." Tell him perversely that democracy has never achieved anything, and he will ask you if you know that it is America that is going to win the war. You return to safer ground, and try to arrive at a logical definition. "What is democracy ? " you ask him, and he answers ; "Oh.
we'll be you, and you'll be us." You may say that six months will see the positions reversed again, but he will not believe you. He takes nothing on faith, but he is not dogmatic, for his mind works on Socratic principles, though he is frankly predisposed in favour of a Socialistic conclusion. Like all those of an inquiring turn of mind, he is a great reader, and his taste runs chiefly on such authors as Dickens and Jack London. When he looks gawky and approaches you with a blush, you may know he is going to ask for a love story, "but it's for the Missus, ye ken ; she's me the floe." In his most fiery moments he will make your flesh creep with visions of coming days of tumbrils and a guillotine, when your friendship with him may stand you in good stead.; but at heart he is very human, and generally ends the encountert by a request for " twa sticks o' liquorice for the bairn," or by telling you that "as long as the hut stands ye'll hae ma patronage."
A hut counter is like a lucky-bag. One never knows what conversational prize one may draw, and when the men disperse, and our "crowded hour of glorious life" is over, it is dreary to turn to the drudgery of clearing up. Much waits to be done, but we stand about aimlessly before we make up our minds to begin It does need a definite act of will to break our various threads of thought and set to work. Sylvia looks at her hands, and sighs. They are red and boast many hacks, yet they have obviously seen better days. "Pale bands I loved," quotes Hutter No. 3. "Never mind ; they're worth it," says No. 4 enigmatically. H. M. T.
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