larceny of pannikins was a common and popular crime. Many a heated, yet
amusing, quarrel, many a storm in a porringer relieved the monotony of
camp life.

Concerts did it, too, at frequent intervals; and fine concerts they
were. At the Reservoir camp they were particularly excellent, not the
least interesting "turns" being the sanguinary "sword speeches" of the
Officer Commanding. Comic and melodious songs were rendered with equal
gusto; the Royal Artillery rivalled the D.F. Artillery, and Tommy
Atkins, the merchants, shopboys, clerks, and "civies" generally. The
services of an Irishman--_born_ great, by virtue of the brogue with
which he kicked Off to Philadelphia--were in great demand at all the
halls. One night the Chair was occupied by the Senior Officer,
surrounded by his staff, in a halo of cigarette smoke. He (the Chairman)
had a box in front of him, doing duty as a table; a rough programme lay
before him, and two candles, with long beer bottles serving as
_candelabra_, threw sufficient light on the "table," and lit the
cigarettes. The president had bottles in front of him, containing
something still more illuminating than tallow (judging by the hue of the
faces privileged to sample it), from which the ring round the "table"
from time to time regaled itself. Many an envious glance was shot at the
ring; and by-the-by it was wonderful the celerity with which the
diffidence so marked at the outset disappeared when it was observed that
vocal contributors (soloists) were by courtesy entitled to a "pull" from
the bottles. Everybody wanted to sing, and dismal howlers who,
ordinarily, would die first, were driven, tempted, lured, impelled to
howl for drink. The liquor, _generously_ diluted with minerals, was
served out in pannikins; and when the concert ended the National Anthem
was taken by storm, as also were the empty bottles to squeeze, lick, and
drain to the dregs.