THE CARTOONIST AT WORK—A STUDY IN PSYCHOLOGY.

Flak, 1 July 1943, Page 23

THE CARTOONIST AT WORK—A STUDY IN PSYCHOLOGY.

I thought I would drop in and see George.

George is the cartoonist—the bloke who did most of the sketches for this magazine. As I stepped into the hut he was just putting a cigarette into his mouth. “ Gotta match? ” he says. “ Darned if I can find mine. Must be about somewhere.” There were three boxes behind his elbow.

He was sitting at a table. At one end of it was a neat pile of military diagrams and a pair of soccer —the rest of it looked like a snowstorm. I could see a sketch of myself in the middle of —a nose like a carrot with a pair of glasses on it.

“ I’m knocking off smoking,” said George. “ Can’t be good for a man. Got any advice? ”

“ Sure I have. I’ve knocked off at least thirty times myself.” I pulled a packet out of my pocket and lit up. George had finished his by now, so he had one, too. He didn’t seem interested in my advice. As he was talking, he idly did a sketch of the Colonel standing on his head. The Colonel was standing on his head, I mean, not George. That’s George’s hobby, doing sketches of the Colonel. He does them when he’s resting. He changed the pencil from one hand to the other, then back again. “ Fair cow sometimes,” he said, “ deciding which hand to draw with. Ever get that way?

“ No,” said I. “ Never.” “ See the game on Saturday? ”he asks. “ They tell me the Army fixes it up if you get hurt. I’ll be able to go for it next time.” “ Good Lord,” said I. He shot four goals last Saturday. Sounded pretty good for the rest of the competition. Where’s my hat? ” said George, burrowing under the mountain of paper. “ Must be about somewhere.” “ There you are. You were sitting on it.” “Be back in a sec,” he said, darting out of the door. He was, too. “ Had to go and ask the M.O. to take his hat off,” he explained. “ Where’s my brush? Must be about somewhere.” He burrowed into the snow again, “ It’s stuck on your ear,” I said. Just then Gunner -■ — - walked past the window. I couldn’t help following her with my eyes. George looked up. “ Not much of a face, that,” he says. .- ' “ Heavens,” said I. “ She must be the prettiest girl in the camp.” “ That’s the trouble,” he explained. “ Nothing to take off about her. Now, if she had a hooked nose, or a double chin, or glass eye, or something, she’d be O.K. Very poor face, that ! ” ££ Gotta smoke? ”he asked, a few minutes

later. I gave him one. “ I’m knocking off smoking. Can’t do a man any good.” “ I know,” I said. “ You told me before.” “ Gotta match? ” he said. “ Darned if I can find my matches. Must be about somewhere.” I handed him a box. He lit up and put it in his pocket. “ What does Jack Cunningham say? ” he said, suddenly. I look at him. “ Good Lord ! ” I said. “ When? "‘Anytime,” he says. “ You know — want some saying of his. Some silly expression or other.” He thought for a minute. “ It’s O.K. I’ve got it.” I looked over his shoulder. He was putting

the finishing touches to a cat. “ What do you think of that? ”he said. “ That’s funny, isn’t it? ” I looked at his face. It was so serious you would have thought he was conducting a post mortem. I looked at the sketch. Yes, it was funny. I wanted to laugh, but with George looking like that I was too scared to. “ Yes,” I said. “ That is funny. Damned funny.” “ That’s good,” he said. “ I get worried stiff over these things. Think I must be too serious about them.” He settled down to work again. Quietly I crept to the door, stepped out, and gently

shut it.