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"Oh, mummy, what a lot of pennies it will take to fill that dog!"
OXYGEN EXERCISE.
Scene.—A mud puddle in ———shire, in which are discovered forty yeomen in khaki lying on their backs and flapping their legs like seals. They are not really seals, but men whom their King and country needs, doing breathing exercises. The reason they do not get up out of the puddle and walk away is that they would probably be killed by the enormous troop sergeant who is instructing them.
Troop Sergeant (fiercely). Now then. Work at it. I'm 'ere to do you a bit of good, I am. Finest thing in the world, this is. Some of you fellows don't know a good thing when you see it. What is it that causes tuberckylosis? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it is. Look at San Stevens—middle-weight champion of the world he was. And what did he die of? Why, drink. And what made him take to drink? Why, want of hoxygen. That's what it was. If a man can't breathe hoxygen he'll drink it. How many cells do you suppose you 'ave in your lungs, Number Three?
Number Three (inhaling through the mouth). Don't know, Sergeant.
Troop Sergeant. Why, fifty million. Fifty million cells in your lungs you've got.
[Number Three, appalled at this revelation, inhales briskly through the nose in the hope of filling some of them.
Troop Sergeant. And how many do you suppose you generally use? Why, not half of them. Twenty-five million cells you've got doing nothing.
[Number Three exhales despondently through the mouth, realising the vanity of all human endeavour. The Troop Sergeant, satisfied that he has disposed of Number Three, glares contentedly at the troop in silence.
Troop (exhaling through the mouth). F-s-s-s-s-h.
Troop Sergeant (with sudden emotion). Look at your neck, Number Ten. I ask you, look at the back of your neck.
[Number Ten, feeling that this is a difficult feat to perform at any time and quite impossible when lying on his back, continues to gaze upwards, conscious of insubordination.
Troop Sergeant. Why is it twisted like that? A bone out of place, the doctors will tell you. But (solemnly) why is it out of place, I ask you? Tell me that. Want of hoxygen—that's what it is. It's as plain as day.
[Enter Troop Officer.
Troop Officer (explosively). A-tssh! Code id by head, Sergeadt.
Troop Sergeant. Ah, Sir, if you was to do these breathing exercises you wouldn't 'ave no colds, Sir. If everyone was to do these exercises there wouldn't by no doctors, Sir. It's only want of hoxygen that makes people ill. There isn't a man in this troop's 'ad a cold since we began, Sir.
Numbers Five, Seven and Nine (surreptitiously). A-tissh!
[The Troop Sergeant is about to ignore this breach of discipline when Number Three, who has been trying to repress a sneeze while inhaling through the nose and at the same time carrying the legs to a vertical position above the body, explodes violently.
Troop Sergeant (ominously). Number Three!
Number Three (weakly). Yes, Sergeant.
Troop Sergeant. Have you got a cold?
Number Three (ingratiatingly). Only a very little one, Sergeant.
Troop Sergeant (appealing to Officer). Isn't it enough to break one's 'eart, Sir? 'Ere am I trying to do them a bit o' good and 'ere's this man lies there with his 'ead tucked into 'is chest, and doesn't even try to breath. There's only one thing that causes a cold. Want of hox——— A-tissh! A-tissh!
*****
[A painful silence ensues. The Officer walks away, leaving the Sergeant to his grief. The forty seals continue to flap in the mud puddle in ———shire.
