Edgar Wallace

Nobby

Warsaw 2018

Contents

DEDICATION

I. NOBBY’S BEST GIRL

II. AUTHORSHIP

III. PRIVATE CLARK’S WILL

IV. ON ADVERTISING

V. ON PROMOTION

VI. NO. 2 MAGAZINE

VII. SMITH. AMBASSADOR

VIII. HOGMANAY

IX. ON FINANCE

X. THE HEROES

XI. THE COMPETITORS

XII. UNCLE JOE’S TRACT

XIII. THE BAA-LAMB

XIV. NOBBY’S DOUBLE

XV. THE FIGHTING ANCHESTERS

XVI. SECRET SIGNS

XVII. THE FAITH OF PRIVATE SIMPSON

WITH CARRINGTON THROUGH RHODESIA

THE ELAND’S RIVER GARRISON

THE REBEL AND THE PSALMIST

THE BIRTH OF A CORPS THE STORY OF KITCHENER’S FIGHTING SCOUTS

THE BETTER PATH

THE COMING OF DE WET

CAPETOWN TO-DAY THE CITY OF REFUGE

OUT ON THE VELDT

KITCHENE. THE GENERAL

WHY WE LOST DE WET THREE GOOD REASONS

A NICE WAR

PROFIT AND LOSS

TRAGED. A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH

THAT VICTORIAN. A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH

MRS. RESERVIST

A BIRD’S EYE VIEW OF THE WAR

“KITCHENER’S THE BLOKE”

A VELDT ALDERSHOT A PICTURE OF BLOEMFONTEIN

THAT TIRED FEELING!

A SUNDAY MORNING CITY INTO JOHANNESBURG BY THE STAGE DOOR

IN DEATH’S EYE

AMERICA’S BID FOR THE RAND

SOPS TO SENTIMEN. SETTLEMENT PROBLEMS

THE VLAKFONTEIN HORROR ENEMY MURDER OUR WOUNDED

THE CENSORSHIP

A LETTER FROM BROTHER BOER

THE BASER KIND OF BOER

HOW THE PUBLIC IS DEPRIVED OF NEWS

WHY THE WAR DRAGS

THE FORGOTTEN ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND

A LITTLE PESSIMISM

THE KING AND HIS ARMY

LORD KITCHENER’S PROCLAMATION

THE TREACHERY OF BOER WOMEN

THE GREAT WAR MUDDLE

AN ALARM AT CRADOCK

MORAL OF GOUGH’S DEFEAT

NEVER UNDER FIRE

THE GLORIOUS STORY OF ITALA HOW GENERAL BOTHA WAS CHECKED

AT A TRIAL FOR TREASON

WHAT DOES THE END MEAN?

PRO PATRI. THE EMPIRE BUILDER

FIGHTING IN THE MIST

WA. FROM A SALOON WINDOW

IN SEARCH OF A FIGHT

JUSTIC. HOW A TRAITOR DIED

THE ROCKS AHEAD LORD MILNER’S DIFFICULT TASK

JOHANNESBURG OF TODAY RETURN OF FIRST-CLASS REFUGEES

CHRISTMAS DAY ON THE VELDT

THE ART OF CONSPIRACY

THE CONCENTRATION CAMP. A JUSTIFICATION

IN BLOCKHOUSE STREET

A LITTLE OPERATION

STORYETTES OF WAR THE HUMOUROUS SIDE OF THE CAMPAIGN

THE NIGHT OF THE DRIV. IN A BLOCKHOUSE

PEACE FACTORS THE JUSTIFICATION FOR A GENERAL SURRENDER THE BURGHERS’ FEAR

THE BACKBONE OF THE ARMY

HOME AGAI. THE END OF A PERIOD

BACK FROM THE WAR THE RETURN OF SMITHY

MR CHAMBERLAIN’S VISIT

ISHMAEL

LORD MILNE. THE AUTOCRAT OF SOUTH AFRICA

AFRICA TO-DA. THE BEATEN BOER

THE SLUMS OF JOHANNESBURG

SOLDIERS OF MERCY A BATTLEFIELD PEN PICTURE

DEDICATION

THE PHILISTINE

OF all the sins that do decide
The place you go to when you die,
The worst of all is wicked pride,
An’ no one knows the reason why.
It bein’ natural to drink
An’ eat an’ sleep. It’s proper, too,
An’ natural for me to think
That I’m a better man than you.

When that I lay me down to sleep
No doubt but what I pray,
For night ‘as terrors which I keep
Out of my mind by day.
I have no daylight faith or fear,
Mine is a mid-day pride
But in the night a voice says,
“‘Ere–Suppose you went an’ died?

“Suppose your heart went wholly wrong,
Or stopped–as well it may
Suppose by night there came along
The Call of Judgment Day?
You, lying down in peace of mind,
Alive, and fairly well,
You would feel sick to wake and find
Your silly self in ‘Ell!”

Therefore I say an humble prayer,
Which I will own to be
A slight attemp’ to put things square
Between my God an’ me
A slight attemp’ to rectify
The sinful way I’m in,
An’ with my penitence, to buy
Another day of sin.

When that I lay me down to rest,
I put my pride aside
An’ pray for them that I like best,
An let the others slide.
An’ often–when I keep awake–
I thank Him all I can
That He saw fit to take and make
Of me a soldier man!

That He took me an’ set me down
Along with human men
Who live in barracks miles from town,
An’ go to bed at ten,
Who sleep an’ rise an’ drink an’ eat–
An’ sometimes die likewise–
To certain bugle calls that meet
Occasions that arise.

An’ I am thankful I have got
The strength of mind to see
It’s wrong to sneer at them who’ve not
Advantages like me.
An’ if I had the time to spare
I often would incline
To pray for them who cannot share
This sinful pride of mine.

Of all the sins that do decide
The place you go to when you die,
The worst of all is wicked pride,
An’ no one knows the reason why.
It bein’ natural to drink
An’ eat an’ sleep. It’s proper, too,
An’ natural for me to think
That I’m a better man than you.

I. NOBBY’S BEST GIRL

SMITHY sat on the canteen table swinging his legs, and all that was best, brightest, and most noble in the First Battalion of the Anchester Regiment sat round listening.

The glow of sunset lingered in the sky, but blue dusk sat on the eastern side of the barrack square; where, in the shade of the tall oaks–those oaks that had waved and rustled just as bravely when Clarendon of the 190th was preparing the regiment for the Peninsular Wars–the low-roofed married quarters twinkled with lights.

A bugle call interrupted the narrative of the raconteur; a sharp, angry, slurred call that sent two of the company at a jog trot to the guard-room.

But the interruption furnished at once a text and an illustration for Private Smith.

He addressed the audience generally, but mainly his remarks were directed toward the only civilian present.

“Bein’ married is like bein’ a defaulter,” he explained, and was so struck with the sagacity of his reasoning chat he repeated it.

“When a soldier breaks out of barracks, or talks in the ranks, or does those things within this Act mentioned,” Smithy was quoting the Army Act, “along comes an officer and sez, ‘Private What’s-your-name, you will be confined to barracks for seven days’ an’ the poor young feller has to do extra drill an’ extra fatigues, an’ answers his name regular every half-hour.

“It’s very nice breakin’ out of barracks,” continued Smithy inconsequently, “an’ so is courtin’, but the end is the same. Up you come before some one or other, an’ punishment is as sure as daylight. If a feller was to ask me which I’d prefer–to be married or to go to prison, I’d say ‘prison’ like a shot; because it’s shorter an’ not so crowded.’

Here Smithy paused to ruminate.

“You can never trust a woman,” he continued bitterly. “A woman is like the bright green birds of paradise you buy in Petticoat Lane–all right till you’ve had ‘em a day or two, and the natural-born sparrer begins to wear through. I’m not talkin’ out of the back of my head, as you suggest, Tiny, but from my own blessed experience.

“When the Anchesters went to Dabbington there wasn’t a nicer, smarter, or more friendly company on the face of the earth than ‘B’ Company. Nice respectable fellers they were, more like brothers than comrades. It was ‘Lend us a pipe of shag, ole boy,’ an’ ‘Certainly, ole feller,’ an’ ‘Do you mind my borrowin’ your best boots to go an’ meet my girl in?’ an’ ‘Let me clean ‘em for you, ole chap,’ till all the rest of the regiment used to come an’ look through the winders of our barrack room to see us bein’ polite to each other.

“It was the talk o’ the battalion; they used to call us the Gentlemanly B’s’ till a chap from ‘G’ Company went an’ spoilt it by callin’ us the ‘Pretty Pollies’.

“You don’t know Dabbington, do you? It’s a little garrison town with seventeen chapels, an’ a market day. It wasn’t exactly lively. Every year there was two select concerts an’ a magic lantern lecture on ‘My Visit to Rome’ by the curate, but it wasn’t exactly dull There was a sort of prejudice against soldiers in some quarters, an’ in other quarters there was a feelin’ that the soldier ought to be rescued from sin. A feller named Rogers, a young feller with spectacles, used to run a sort of Rescue Home, where the troops could be kept out of the nice, bright, sinful public-houses by bein’ given a cup of coffee and last week’s Graphic to read in a tin mission-hall. As a matter of fact, the public-houses in Dabbington wasn’t so bright or lively, an’ when young Mr. Rogers came round barracks an’ began talkin’ about the ‘arty welcome, come-one, come-all, that was waitin’ for us round the comer, Nobby Clark up an’ sez ‘We’ll be round there to-night.’

“Young Mr. Rogers was highly delighted, an’ said if we got there by seven-thirty, we’d be in time for the bright little half-hour service that the proceedin’s started with.

“So me an’ Nobby turns up soon after eight, an’ there was Mr. Rogers waitin’ to shake hands an’ as pleased as Punch to see us, though a bit disappointed we hadn’t come earlier.

“‘What have you let us in for?’ I sez to Nobby as we walked in after Mr. Rogers.

“‘Close thy mouth,’ sez Nobby, who always gets religious in a church. We was the only soldiers in the place, an’ I felt a bit uncomfortable, but Nobby seemed to enjoy it. There was a lot of civilians present. Nice young ladies, an’ young gentlemen in frock coats, an’ they all got very friendly. One young gentleman with a very red face sez to Nobby: ‘Brother, I extend the hand of friendship to you,’ an’ Nobby sez, ‘Thank you, brother, the same to you.’

“‘I suppose,’ sez the young gentleman, ‘you don’t often see bright faces round you?’

“‘Not so bright as yours,’ sez Nobby, an’ the young gentleman looked very ‘ard at him.

“Then Mr. Rogers made a speech an’ said he welcomed these two young military men, an’ hoped they would be the advance guard–he believed that was the military term (applause) of the Army element in Dabbington (Applause).

“So then we played games. There was one game that two of the nicest young ladies knew, an’ they offered to teach me an’ Nobby. I picked it up at once; it was a silly sort of game, played on a lop-sided draught-board, an’ one piece hopped over another piece. But Nobby couldn’t seem to learn it at all, an’ the two young ladies sat on each side of him, guiding his hand for half an hour, and even then he was still makin’ mistakes. By an’ by, Mr. Rogers came up to us an’ asked Nobby if he could sing. Nobby said he’d got a cold, but he’d do his best, an’ everybody started clappin’. One of the nice young ladies went to the piano an’ Nobby leant over and hummed the tune to her for about ten minutes. It seemed to me that he kept on hummin’ different tunes, but I might have been mistaken.

“I was a bit nervous, for old Nobby only knows three songs, ‘Who Wouldn’t be a Lodger?’ ‘All Through Going to Margate on a Sunday,’ an’ a sentimental song about a girl an’ a soldier.

“I tell you I was a bit relieved when be said he couldn’t sing without his music, an’ promised to come another night.

“I asked Nobby how he’d enjoyed hisself as we was goin’ home, an’ he said First class, in an absent-minded way. I forgot to tell you that her name was Miss Elder–the girl who taught him to play ‘Hoppit,’ an’ played the piano.

“Next day me an’ Nobby went out of barracks an’ strolled round town. When we came to a music shop Nobby sez, ‘Hold hard, Smithy, let’s go in an’ buy a bit of music.’

“‘What for?’ I sez, amazed.

“‘To sing,’ sez Nobby.

“‘Don’t waste your money,’ I sez, but Nobby went in, an’ I followed. There was a young lady behind the counter; she wore spectacles, too, an’ she sez in a voice about the size of an orange pip: ‘What can I do for you?’

“‘I want a song,’ sez Nobby. ‘A good religious song with easy words, for about fourpence.’

The young lady shook her head.

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