IV.  DIGGER SMITH

Digger Smith

’E calls me Digger; that’s ’ow ’e begins. 
’E sez ’e’s only ‘arf a man; an’ grins. 
  Judged be ’is nerve, I’d say ’e was worth two
                               Uv me an’ you. 
Then ’e digs ’arf a fag out uv ’is vest,
Borrers me matches, an’ I gives ’im best.

The first I ’eard about it Poole told me. 
“There is a bloke called Smith at Flood’s,” sez ’e;
  Come there this mornin’, sez ’e’s come to stay,
                             An’ won’t go ’way. 
Sez ’e was sent there be a pal named Flood;
An’ talks uv contracts sealed with Flanders mud.

“No matter wot they say, ’e only grins,”
Sez Poole. “’E’s rather wobbly on ’is pins. 
  Seems like a soldier bloke.  An’ Peter Begg
                            ’E sez one leg
Works be machinery, but I dunno. 
I only know ‘e’s there an’ ’e won’t go.

“’E grins,” sez Poole, “at ev’rything they say. 
  Dad Flood ’as nearly ’ad a fit to-day. 
   ‘E’s cursed, an’ ordered ’im clean off the place;
                               But this cove’s face
Jist goes on grinnin’, an’ ’e sez, quite carm,
’E’s come to do a bit around the farm.”

The tale don’t sound too good to me at all. 
“If ’e’s a crook,” I sez, “’e wants a fall. 
  Maybe ‘e’s dilly.  I’ll go down an’ see. 
                       ’E’ll grin at me
When I ’ave done, if ‘e needs dealin’ with.” 
So I goes down to interview this Smith.

’E ’ad a fork out in the tater patch. 
Sez ’e, “Why ’ello, Digger.  Got a match?”
 “Digger?” I sez.  “Well, you ain’t digger ’ere. 
                             You better clear. 
You ought to know that you can’t dig them spuds. 
They don’t belong to you; they’re ole Dad Flood’s.”

“Can’t I?” ’e grins.  “I’ll do the best I can,
Considerin’ I’m only ’arf a man. 
 Give us a light.  I can’t get none from Flood,
                            An’ mine is dud.” 
I parts; an’ ‘e stands grinnin’ at me still;
An’ then ’e sez, “’Ave yeh fergot me, Bill?”

I looks, an’ seen a tough bloke, short an’ thin. 
Then, Lord!  I recomembers that ole grin. 
 “It’s little Smith!” I ’owls, “uv Collin’wood. 
                            Lad, this is good! 
Last time I seen yeh, you an’ Ginger Mick
Was ’owling rags, out on yer final kick.”

“Yer on to it,” ‘e sez.  “Nex’ day we sailed. 
Now ’arf uv me’s back ‘ome, an’ ’arf they nailed. 
  An’ Mick. . . .  Ar, well, Fritz took me down a peg.” 
                                   ’E waves ’is leg. 
“It ain’t too bad,” ’e sez, with ’is ole smile;
“But when I starts to dig it cramps me style.

“But I ain’t grouchin’.  It was worth the fun. 
We ‘ad some picnic stoushin’ Brother ’Un—­
  The only fight I’ve ’ad that some John ’Op
                        Don’t come an’ stop. 
They pulled me leg a treat, but, all the same,
There’s nothin’ over ’ere to beat the game.