# The Young Stagers/Drummers and Rummers
### X. DRUMMERS AND RUMMERS.

"Do you like Bobball best, or Nurse Perfect?" inquired the Vice.
"Do you like treacle-pudding or sea-bathing best?" was the somewhat scathing reply of the President. "If you are hungry and hollow you'd rather have treacle-pudding, but if you are very hot and sticky and stuffy you'd rather go in the sea.
"No, I wouldn't," answered the Vice. "I'd rather have an ice-cream as big as my head in a pail of lemonade."
The President snorted, but the tenacious mind of the small boy pursued the subject of the comparative merits of Bobball and Mrs. Perfect. Inarticulately he decided that he admired the moral excellences of Mrs. Perfect more than he could do those of Bobball, while he loved the ​human imperfections of Bobball more than he could love those of Mrs. Perfect. In fact it rather seemed that Bobball was one large human imperfection—and lovable, while Mrs. Perfect was one small moral excellence—and admirable.
"I wonder if she's called Mrs. Perfect because she is perfect, or whether she's perfect because she's called Mrs. Perfect."
"Ask her," grunted the President.
But when they reached the spot on the sands where Mrs. Perfect was presiding over the picnic nominally given by Phyllis and Ethel, her young charges, she was quickly seen to be in one of her frequent moods which were quite unfavourable to the pursuit of investigations of a private and personal character. But faultily faultless, icily regular, and splendidly null, as she seemed to the children before the advent of Bobball, what words shall convey the correctness, propriety, and frozen rectitude of Mrs. Perfect's perfection when that man of war and wrath hove in sight.
"Hallo Bobball, darling!" hailed Boodle. ​"Come and have some tea and then let's all play pirates-on-a-desert-island, down by the wreck—and, striking a piratical attitude, she sang in sepulchral voice that well-known old favourite of all the Best Pirates,
"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest,
Yo ho, ho! and a bottle of rum."
"Good a'ternoon, Mrs. Puffick, ma'am. I 'opes I sees you well," greeted Bobball, in propitiatory manner, as he gave his horny hands to the simultaneous embrace of a dozen small ones.
"Afternoon," snapped Mrs. Perfect.
"Ho yus, I could do with a bottle o' rum, Missy," continued the soldier, accepting the united invitation of the children that he would sit him down and be part of the picnic.
"Let's pretend the tea is rum," replied the little girl, "and you can be a dead man and we'll all sit on your chest."
"That ud be what you might call a rum go, Missy," returned Bobball, with an unexpected flight of wit.
​"Rum is a deadly poison," stated Mrs. Perfect.
"Wisht you'd p'ison me wiv' it, Mum, when you've 'ad enough o' my company," replied Bobball.
Ignoring the remark, Mrs. Perfect addressed the children at large.
"I don't think I ever told you the beautiful story of the little blue-eyed drummer-boy and the bottle of rum, did I?" she asked.
"No," squealed the children in chorus. "Do tell us."
A story was a story even though it were a Perfect one.
"Yes," added the President, "and then Bobball must tell us one too."
Loud cheers.
"Once upon a time," began Mrs. Perfect, eyeing Bobball with extreme disfavour, "there was a regiment of good, self-respecting, total-abstaining men who never drank, nor smoked, nor used langwidge, nor caused their Colonel a moment's anxiety."
A strange sound, as of one who strangled, proceeded from the throat of Bobball, but as the ​children turned their innocent, all-seeing gaze upon him, he coughed and looked into his helmet as one who suffereth in church.
"Now in this regiment," continued Mrs. Perfect, "there was a little blue-eyed, golden-haired drummer-boy, the sole support of his widowed mother——"
"Eightpence a day," murmured Bobball.
"—who had brought him up a total abstainer, not to use malt and spiritual liquors or tobacco in any form. Well, one day, as the Colonel came out of the officers' mess who should he see but this little drummer-boy, whose name was Horace, playing his bugle at the bottom of the steps——"
"They allus plays their little bugles there," murmured Bobball.
"—to give his kind officers pleasure, in his spare time. The Colonel smiled kindly and brightly at him and said, 'Step inside and have some refreshment, my little man'. . . ."
"They allus do—jest like that," whispered Bobball, whose face appeared to grow more and more suffused.
​"—and led the way to where the officers sat at their wine——"
"Wot! Wasn't they total abstainers too?" inquired Bobball, in pained surprise.
"They were gentlemen," was the cold and crushing answer.
"‘And what will you take, Horace?' asked the Colonel.
"‘Lemonade, Sir, if you please, and thank you kindly,' replied Horace, who had very nice manners, as all teetotally-abstaining children have. But the Colonel was a gentleman who liked his little joke as the gentry often do.
"‘No, Horace,' said he. 'You shall join me in a glass of rum.'
"‘Oh, Sir, pray excuse me,' said poor Horace in dismay. 'I have been a total abstainer from birth, belonging to two Band-of-Hopes and a Mutual Improvement Society. My father was a Good Templar, Forester, Ancient Order of Buffaloes, and was buried with banners and a band.'
"‘Drink!' said the Colonel, pouring out a tumbler of rum.
​"‘Oh, Sir, I promised my widowed mother that never would I touch the accursed poison—no, not to save my life, if it was ever so. '
"‘Hear, hear, my little man,' cried the officers who had gathered round, and prepared to take his part against the Colonel, whose conduct surprised them. But with a wink which reassured them, the Colonel put on a terrible frown and again pointed to the rum.
"‘Drink!' said he once more, in a dreadful voice.
"Poor Horace fell upon his knees and raised his clasped hands to Heaven. How awful was his position! Either he must be guilty of an offence against military discipline, or he must break his word to his mother and go against his lifelong convictions.
"‘Oh, Sir, I cannot,' he cried.
"‘Drink!' roared the Colonel. 'Drink or die!' and he pulled a loaded pistol from his belt——"
"They allus carries loaded pistols in their belts," corroborated Bobball, in a whisper, adding, as an afterthought, "and p'isoned daggers in their braces."
​"—and pointed it at Horace's head.
"‘You drink that rum, or I blow out your brains,' growled the Colonel, taking out his watch. 'I give you two minutes.'
"‘May I spend it in prayer, Sir?' asked the boy, 'for I shall never drink that rum.'
"The Colonel swallowed hard and nodded, and the officers turned away.
"Horace said his prayers, and as he finished up, 'Please bless Colonel Jones, and make him a teetotaller,' the Colonel could bear it no longer. Throwing his arms round Horace, he burst into tears and hurried from the room.
"It was a cruel joke and in a way it brought its punishment, though Horace forgave him. That night the Colonel became a teetotaller and all the officers signed the pledge——"
"Blimey!" whispered Bobball under his breath.
"—Shortly after, the Colonel caught a chill and was taken very ill indeed. The doctor was sent for.
"‘What you want is a glass of good hot rum,' said he.
​"‘No, doctor, I'd sooner die,' replied the Colonel.
"The doctor laughed, and had the hot rum prepared.
"‘Drink!' said he.
"‘I cannot,' replied the Colonel, 'I promised Horace.'
"‘Drink or die,' repeated the doctor, holding out the rum.
"The Colonel feebly shook his head—and died——"
"Nat'rally!" commented Bobball. "Serve 'im right.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Perfect," said the President, and turned with relief and hope to Bobball.
"Now you tell us one, darling Bobball," she besought.
"Well, Missy," replied Bobball, producing a tin tobacco box and a cutty clay. "I ain't wot you might call a thorough-paced uncorrigible story-teller—like Mrs. Puffick, but has it so 'appens, I also knows a little story about a drummer-boy likewise. But 'is name weren't ​'Orrice, an' 'e 'adn't got no blue eyes nor golden 'airs. 'Is name was called Cully 'Ookit, an' 'e had black eyes—most days o' the week any'ow—an' black 'air where 'e weren't bald, an' 'e wasn't the support o' no widowed muvver neither. No,—'e'd gorn an' deserted 'er, 'e 'ad, just acause she'd burnt 'is face wiv a fryin'-pan an' bashed 'im a bit wiv a poker, through gettin' delirious trimmings, 'er bein' partial to a drop o' gin——"
"Disgusting," murmured Mrs. Perfect.
". . . an' a bit o' exercise a-Saturday nights. No, 'e weren't no golden-eyed 'Orrice, but the funny thing abaht it is, that when 'e run away an' went fer a sojer, 'e must a 'listed in the Fifes an' Drums o' the werry same Regiment as 'Orrice once adorned, as Mrs. Puffick so truly told yer——"
Mrs. Perfect sniffed.
"There couldn't a bin two sich Regiments, so it must a bin the same one—all good, self-respectin', total-abstainin' men, as never drank nor smoked nor used langwidge nor caused their Colonel a moment's anxiety. Six 'undred an' fifty of 'em, there was, an' six 'undred an' ​forty-nine was R.A.T.A., the one an' honly hexception bein' that wicked Cully 'Ookit. Did 'e sit hon the steps o' the Hofficers' Mess a playin' of 'is little bugle in 'is spare time to give 'is kind Orficers pleasure, as 'Orrice 'ad useter do? Not 'alf 'e didn't. Ho no! I don't fink. No, all ’is spare time was a took up in the Canteen where 'e loved ter set an' 'ear the pop o' the ginger-beer an' lemonade bottles a bein' opened for the good, self-respectin', total habstainin' men as was in the 'abit of rottin' their g—. . ."
Mrs. Perfect coughed loudly.
"—good hinteriors wiv sich gashious swipes. An' one day that abandoned young bloke. Cully 'Ookit, wot did 'e do but walk inter the Canteen, plank down 'alf a rupee, say as 'ow 'e were froze to 'is marrer along o' fallin' in the water when fishin', an' called fer a go o' rum, 'ot, wiv. Strike me purple! You should ha' seen the commotion there was in that Regiment o' good, self-respectin', total habstainin' men! Talk abaht never givin' their Colonel a moment's anxiety! Five 'undred of 'em run straight off to 'is bungalow to tell 'im wot 'ad 'appened, one 'undred ​ran fer the chaplin', forty sloped fer the doctor, an' the remainin' nine mounted guard over Cully 'Ookit an' the eight pennoth o' 'ot rum as the astounded barman 'ad give 'im before he knowed wot 'e was a doin' of.
"In spite o' the fact that the Regiment 'ad got its route an' was entrainin' fer the Plains in the mornin', the Colonel drops heverything an' hups an' leaves 'is work an' rushes dahn ter the Canteen, follered by all the hofficers. Wot a sight meets 'is 'orrified heye. There, at the bar, stood Cully 'Ookit, an' in 'is 'and a steamin' glass o' the best!
"‘Put it dahn or die,' roars the Colonel.
"‘Ho Sir, I cannot,' whimpers the little drummer-boy, aturnin' one black heye hup to 'Eavin' while akeepin' the uvver on the Colonel.
"‘Put it dahn or die,' again roars the Colonel, pluckin' a loaded revolver from 'is belt an' lookin' to the primin' thereof, while hall the hofficers turns their 'eads away.
"‘Ho Sir! pray excuse me,' said pore 'Ookit in dismay. ‘It's too bloomin 'ot.'
"‘Fer the last time,' roars the Colonel, pre​sentin' the pistol at pore 'Ookit's ead—'put it dahn hor die. . . .'
"And in three gulps pore 'Ookit puts it dahn, aburnin' 'is little blue-eyed throat most 'orrible in so doin'.
"‘Faithful to the last,' he cried. 'I 'ave obeyed your cruel orders though it scald my stummick so to do'—and 'e fell at 'is Colonel's feet dead . . . drunk."
Mrs. Perfect snorted.
"Drunk he were, drunk all night 'e remained, an' so drunk 'e was in the mornin' that 'e couldn't git up—an' the regiment entrained while 'e lay wrop in swinish slumber. So wrop he were that when 'e reached the station the train 'ad gorn, bearin' those six 'undred and forty-nine good, self-respectin', total habstainin' men to their 'orrible doom. For a havalanche crashed dahn upon that train, leavin' only Cully 'Ookit of all that battalion to tell the awful tale. . . ."
Bobball sighed, and pressed down the tobacco in his pipe. "The tale's called ‘Saved by a Glass o' Rum,’" added Bobball, as he struck a match and avoided the eye of Mrs. Perfect.