No More Parades Ford Madox Ford (mini ebook reader txt) đ
- Author: Ford Madox Ford
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The advanced wave of the brown tide of men was already at his feet. The extraordinary complications of even the simplest livesâ ââ ⊠A fellow was beside him Private Logan, formerly, of all queer things for a Canadian private, a trooper of the Inniskillings: owner, of all queer things, of a milk-walk or a dairy farm, outside Sydney, which is in Australiaâ ââ ⊠A man of sentimental complications, jauntiness as became an Inniskilling, a Cockney accent such as ornaments the inhabitants of Sydney, and a complete distrust of lawyers. On the other hand, with the completest trust in Tietjens. Over his shoulderâ âhe was blond, upright, with his numerals shining like gold, looked a lumpish, cafĂ©-au-lait, eagle-nosed countenance: a half-caste member of one of the Six Nations, who had been a doctorâs errand boy in Quebecâ ââ ⊠He had his troubles, but was difficult to understand. Behind him, very black-avised with a high colour, truculent eyes and an Irish accent, was a graduate of McGill University who had been a teacher of languages in Tokyo and had some sort of claim against the Japanese Governmentâ ââ ⊠And faces, two and two, in a coil round the hutâ ââ ⊠Like dust: like a cloud of dust that would approach and overwhelm a landscape: everyone with preposterous troubles and anxieties, even if they did not overwhelm you personally with themâ ââ ⊠Brown dustâ ââ âŠ
He kept the Inniskilling waiting while he scribbled the rapid sestet to his sonnet which ought to make a little plainer what it all meant. Of course the general idea was that, when you got into the line or near it, there was no room for swank: typified by expensive funerals. As you might say: No flowers by compulsionâ ââ ⊠No more parades!â ââ ⊠He had also to explain, while he did it, to the heroic veterinary sexagenarian that he need not feel shy about going into the Glamorganshire Mess on a man-catching expedition. The Glamorganshires were bound to lend him, Tietjens, P.B. officers if they had not got other jobs. Lieutenant Hotchkiss could speak to Colonel Johnson, whom he would find in the mess and quite good natured over his dinner. A pleasant and sympathetic old gentleman who would appreciate Hotchkissâs desire not to go superfluously into the line. Hotchkiss could offer to take a look at the colonelâs charger: a Hun horse, captured on the Marne and called Schomburg, that was off its feedâ ââ ⊠He added: âBut donât do anything professional to Schomburg. I ride him myself!â
He threw his sonnet across to Mackenzie, who with a background of huddled khaki limbs and anxious faces was himself anxiously counting out French currency notes and dubious-looking tokensâ ââ ⊠What the deuce did men want to draw moneyâ âsometimes quite large sums of money, the Canadians being paid in dollars converted into local coinsâ âwhen in an hour or so they would be going up? But they always did and their accounts were always in an incredibly entangled state. Mackenzie might well look worried. As like as not he might find himself a fiver or more down at the end of the evening for unauthorized payments. If he had only his pay and an extravagant wife to keep, that might well put the wind up him. But that was his funeral. He told Lieutenant Hotchkiss to come and have a chat with him in his hut, the one next the mess. About horses. He knew a little about horse-illness himself. Only empirically, of course.
Mackenzie was looking at his watch.
âYou took two minutes and eleven seconds,â he said. âIâll take it for granted itâs a sonnetâ ââ ⊠I have not read it because I canât turn it into Latin hereâ ââ ⊠I havenât got your knack of doing eleven things at onceâ ââ âŠâ
A man with a worried face, encumbered by a bundle and a small book, was studying figures at Mackenzieâs elbow. He interrupted Mackenzie in a high American voice to say that he had never drawn fourteen dollars seventy-five cents in Thrasna Barracks, Aldershot.
Mackenzie said to Tietjens:
âYou understand. I have not read your sonnet. I shall turn it into Latin in the mess: in the time stipulated. I donât want you to think Iâve read it and taken time to think about it.â
The man besides him said:
âWhen I went to the Canadian Agent, Strand, London, his office was shut upâ ââ âŠâ
Mackenzie said with white fury:
âHow much service have you got? Donât you know better than to interrupt an officer when he is talking? You must settle your own figures with your own confounded Colonial paymaster: Iâve sixteen dollars thirty cents here for you. Will you take them or leave them?â
Tietjens said:
âI know that manâs case. Turn him over to me. It isnât complicated. Heâs got his paymasterâs cheque, but doesnât know how to cash it and of course they wonât give him anotherâ ââ âŠâ
The man with slow, broad, brown features looked from one to the other officerâs face and back again with a keen black-eyed scrutiny as if he were looking into a wind and dazed by the light. He began a long story of how he owed Fat-Eared Bill fifty dollars lost at House. He was perhaps half Chinese, half Finn. He continued to talk, being in a state of great anxiety about his money. Tietjens addressed himself to the cases of the Sydney Inniskilling ex-trooper and the McGill graduate who had suffered at the hands of the Japanese Educational Ministry. It made altogether a
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