THE COFFEE-SHOP AND WANKIN

What the pump is to the villager, so the coffee-shop is to the soldier
of the New Army. Here the men crowd nightly and live over again the
incidents of the day. Our particular coffee-shop is situated in our
corner of the town; our men patronise it; there are three assistants,
plump, merry girls, and three of our men have fallen in love with
them; in short, it is our very own restaurant, opened when we came
here, and adapted to our needs; the waitresses wear our hat-badges,
sing our songs, and make us welcome when we cross the door to take up
our usual chairs and yarn over the cosy tables. The Jersey youth
with the blue eyes, the Oxford man, who speaks of things that humble
waitresses do not understand, the company drummer, the platoon
sergeants, and the Cockney who vows that water is spoilt in making
every cup of coffee he drinks, all come here, and all love the place.

I have come to like the place and do most of my writing there,
catching snatches of conversation and reminiscence as they float
across to me.

"I wasn't meanin' to 'urt ole Ginger Nobby nohow, but the muck I
throwed took 'im dead on the jor. 'Wot's yer gime?' 'e 'ollers at me.
'Wot's my gime?' I says back to 'im. 'Nuffin', if ye want ter know!' I
says. 'I was just shyin' at squidges.'"

Thus spoke the bright-eyed Cockney at the table next me, gazing
regretfully at his empty coffee-cup and cutting away a fringe of
rag-nails from his finger with a clasp-knife. The time was eight
o'clock of the evening, and the youth was recounting an adventure
which he had had in the morning when throwing mud at sparrows on the
parade ground. A lump of clay had struck a red-haired non-commissioned
officer on the jaw, and the officer became angry. The above was the
Cockney version of the story. One of my friends, an army unit with the
Oxford drawl, was voluble on another subject.

"Russian writers have had a great effect on our literature," he said,
deep in a favourite topic. "They have stripped bare the soul of man
with a realism that shrivels up our civilisation and proves--Two
coffees, please."

A tall, well-set waitress, with several rings on her fingers, took the
order as gravely as if she were performing some religious function;
then she turned to the Cockney.

"Cup of cawfee, birdie!" he cried, leaning over the table and trying
to grip her hand. "Not like the last, mind; it was good water spoilt.
I'll never come in 'ere again."