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    Scally: The Story of a Perfect Gentleman
    Scally: The Story of a Perfect Gentleman
    Scally: The Story of a Perfect Gentleman
    Ebook50 pages37 minutes

    Scally: The Story of a Perfect Gentleman

    By Ian Hay

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    About this ebook

    Excerpt: “And so the drill goes on. All over the drab, dusty, gritty parade-ground, under the warm September sun, similar squads are being pounded into shape. They have no uniforms yet: even their instructors wear bowler hats or cloth caps. Some of the faces under the brims of these hats are not too prosperous. The junior officers are drilling squads too. They are a little shaky in what an actor would call their "patter," and they are inclined to lay stress on the wrong syllables; but they move their squads about somehow. Their seniors are dotted about the square, vigilant and helpful--here prompting a rusty sergeant instructor, there unravelling a squad which, in a spirited but misguided endeavour to obey an impossible order from Second Lieutenant Bobby Little, has wound itself up into a formation closely resembling the third figure of the Lancers.”
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOtbebookpublishing
    Release dateNov 26, 2017
    ISBN9783958649767
    Scally: The Story of a Perfect Gentleman

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    • 4/5
      Delightful and sweet. More of a short story, really. Sort of Terhune-ish, with a nice romance.

    Book preview

    Scally - Ian Hay

    SCALLY

    THE STORY OF A PERFECT

    GENTLEMAN

    By IAN HAY

    I

    Bettersea trem? Right, miss! My wife, who has been married long enough to feel deeply gratified at being mistaken for a maiden lady, smiled seraphically at the conductor, and allowed herself to be hoisted up the steps of the majestic vehicle provided by a paternal county council to convey passengers—at a loss to the ratepayers, I understand—from the Embankment to Battersea.

    Presently we ground our way round a curve and began to cross Westminster Bridge. The conductor, whose innate cockney bonhomie his high official position had failed to eradicate, presented himself before us and collected our fares.

    What part of Bettersea did you require, sir? he asked of me.

    I coughed and answered evasively:—

    Oh, about the middle.

    We haven't been there before, added my wife, quite gratuitously.

    The conductor smiled indulgently and punched our tickets.

    I'll tell you when to get down, he said, and left us.

    For some months we had been considering the question of buying a dog, and a good deal of our spare time—or perhaps I should say of my spare time, for a woman's time is naturally all her own—had been pleasantly occupied in discussing the matter. Having at length committed ourselves to the purchase of the animal, we proceeded to consider such details as breed, sex, and age.

    My wife vacillated between a bloodhound, because bloodhounds are so aristocratic in appearance, and a Pekinese, because they are dernier cri. We like to be dernier cri even in Much Moreham. Her younger sister, Eileen, who spends a good deal of time with us, having no parents of her own, suggested an Old English sheep dog, explaining that it would be company for my wife when I was away from home. I coldly recommended a mastiff.

    Our son John, aged three, on being consulted, expressed a preference for twelve tigers in a box, and was not again invited to participate in the debate.

    Finally we decided on an Aberdeen terrier, of an age and sex to be settled by circumstances, and I was instructed to communicate with a gentleman in the North who advertised in our morning paper that Aberdeen terriers were his specialty. In due course we received a reply. The advertiser recommended two animals—namely, Celtic Chief, aged four months, and Scotia's Pride, aged one year. Pedigrees were inclosed, each about as complicated as the family tree of the House of Hapsburg; and the favor of an early reply was requested, as both dogs were being hotly bid for by an anonymous client in Constantinople.

    The price of Celtic Chief was twenty guineas; that of Scotia's Pride, for reasons heavily underlined in the pedigree, was twenty-seven. The advertiser, who resided in Aberdeen, added that these prices did not cover cost of carriage. We decided not to stand in the way of the gentleman in Constantinople, and having sent back the pedigrees by return of post, resumed the debate.

    Finally Stella, my wife, said:—

    "We don't really want a dog

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