Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3830/A Servant of the King
"Your King and country need You."
"Lor!"
Tilda Perkins, her cap awry and a smudge on her diminutive nose, came to a sudden halt, arrested by the staring blue type.
"Your King and country need you."
That personal appeal drove straight home. Tilda's heart swelled; a flush of excitement invaded her cheeks. "
"Bless 'em! They shall 'ave me," she vowed in a fervour of self-immolation.
Tightly clutching the newspaper containing her master's breakfast haddock she scudded off, ablaze with patriotic fire.
"There 'tis, Ma'am," she gasped breathlessly, plumping down her burden on the kitchen table. "An' now I'm goin'."
"Going! Where?"
"To King George, God bless 'im. The poster ses 'e wants me."
Her mistress shook a regretful head.
"No, Tilda. It's not you and I he wants."
Gloom unutterable descended upon Tilda as her mistress expounded the situation.
"Men 'as all the luck," she jerked out. "I ain't surprised them Suffera-jettes got sick o' things."
A pause.
"Still, I s'pose it ain't King George's fault. I'll 'elp 'im out as well as I can," she announced.
It was a resolute Tilda who awaited her swain at the kitchen door that night.
"Take off yer shoes," she said abruptly.
Jem obeyed.
"'Old up yer 'ead. Don't loll," came the sharp command.
Jem drew himself up to attention, and Tilda manipulated an inch tape.
"Sixty-three inches an' a bit. Twelves into sixty go five. Five feet three an' a scrap. You'll jest do," she said with a complacent nod.
Jem, motionless, but turning a fine blush-rose under the touch of the busy fingers, levelled an enquiring gaze at the preoccupied face.
"I'm giving you to King George," remarked Tilda. "I'm sorry you ain't taller, but he'll understand I've done the best I can for 'im," she added with a little sigh.
"But—but—" faltered Jem.
"There ain't no buts about it," broke in Tilda with swift asperity. "Think what you'd feel like if you was me."
"Why, it's you a-sendin' me," protested Jem. "I won't go if you don't want me to leave yer."
Tilda flung back her head with an impatient snort at man's obtuseness.
"You don't s'pose I'm whinin' cos you're goin', do you?" she demanded.
An abashed Jem diminished perceptibly.
"Well, why then?" he asked humbly.
"Cos I can't go, stoopid. It ain't fair."