Part 6

We reached the lot at last after tramping through so-called woodland scenery for miles and miles. The landscape was a tumbled stretch of scrubby bush which had never been fit for anything once the original big trees had been cut off. So a soulless real-estate agent had sliced it up into suburban lots and sold it to enthusiastic asses like our friend Binks. Twenty years from now it will, no doubt, be a thriving and even fashionable suburb, but not now--Lord, no! It is possible, however, that we are somewhat prejudiced against this particular landscape. Who can enjoy scenery while tramping through it with a twelve-pound sledge, a five-pound wedge, and the handle of a cross-cut saw--sounds almost like a refrain, doesn't it?

How the mischief Binks was able to tell his own lot in that wilderness will always remain a marvel to us. But he picked it out all right, and there, sure enough, was the tree. It was the biggest, knottiest, meanest-looking jack-oak we have seen in years. No wonder the lightning struck it. The only wonder is that it didn't burn it right up.

"Isn't she a beauty?" gloated Binks insanely. "Won't those gnarled logs crackle fine in the grate this winter?"

We looked at him in gloomy wonder. Did the poor idiot think we were going to help dissect that ligneous monstrosity entirely? We didn't mind cutting off a limb or two, but no more--not in one day. Little did we suspect the fate that was hanging over us.

"And now to work," said Binks with the imbecile cheerfulness of his kind. "We'll cut this old rascal into handy lengths in a couple of hours or so, and then the carter will come along with the team, and we'll ride home on the load--just like one of those old pictures of forest-life, you I know."

But we were in no mood to enthuse. Slowly and sadly we pulled off our Norfolk jacket and folded it neatly. We turned a wistful and lingering regard on the landscape; and then we betook us dismally to our toil. We were helpless in the grip of Bink's will, a regular slave of the lamp.

That afternoon will remain a nightmare for years to come. Whenever after this we go into gilded dens of folly and eat lobster _a la Newburg_, whenever we commit indiscretions with mince-pie or home-made whiskey, we know the form our penitential dreams will take. We will see ourself standing at one end of that awful saw with Binks at the other, and we will go on forever and ever shoving the saw away from us and pulling it back again through a cast-iron log with Bessemer-steel knots, which will shriek in agony at every stroke. And Binks will be wearing a red suit of tights and a pair of cute little horns and a spiked tail.

It was a terrible experience. What Binks said about bringing our back muscles into play was perfectly true. We brought them into play with a vengeance. We brought into play muscles that we never dreamed of possessing. But we didn't like the way they played. There was something very rough about it.

The shades of night fell softly upon us, and still we sawed. The hoot-owls hooted at us in derision, but still that fiendish saw rasped on. In the beginning we had suggested rest a few times, but Binks merely assured us that once we got our second wind we would be all right.

We got our second wind, but it wasn't long before we used it up. Then we called out our third line of reserves, our pulmonary landsturm, so to speak, and we exhausted that, too. By the time we finally quit we were using only the extreme upper lobe of each lung, and all we could do was to gasp and hang on to the handle of the saw lest the thing should leap at us and sink its teeth in our jugular.

Finally Binks stopped. We had cut through the last knot of the last limb of the last length of that interminable trunk--by this time it seemed seven miles long. Binks stopped, and we fell in our tracks. We dropped where we stood, right there in the saw-dust.

"Tell you what," said Binks mopping his brow--we could barely see him in the darkness--"tell you what, there is nothing like this fine, simple, open-air life to make a fellow feel like a king."

The creature was inexorable. His remark was a gratuitous insult; but we were beyond the desire or even the possibility of reply. We could only lie there on our back and look up longingly at the stars, and think how mother used to steal in and kiss us in our little white cot, and how horrified Binks would be when he discovered that we were dying.

"Great Jumping Jee-hosophat!" shouted Binks a moment later. He had struck a match and looked at his watch. "It's a quarter to eight, and we were to have been back at dinner at seven. And that damn carter hasn't come yet!"

He said a lot more about the carter, and the carter's family for some generations back, and the carter's prospects in the future life. Binks is not exactly a cussing man, but he gave a very fair imitation of one--it would do till a real cusser came around.

We heard him, but we heeded not. We just lay there and smiled blandly at the Milky Way. We had reached the point where we didn't care a darn if the race of carters became utterly extinct, and we were extinguished with them. All we wanted was to be left alone.

Binks, however, was indomitable. That man's energy was positively terrifying. He got us on our feet, put our coat on us in spite of our feeble resistance, stuck one end of that fatal saw in our hand, and dragged us two miles or more through the bush and the darkness to the street-car. With the help of the conductor he lifted us on and propped us up in the end of a seat. We remember that we moaned when they took the handle of the saw away from us. We had grown attached to it.

We don't recall much about the trip on the car, except hearing the conductor tell Binks that people who couldn't carry liquor any better than we seemed able to do shouldn't be allowed to have any. He said that sort of thing was what started Prohibition movements. And Binks agreed with him!

When we got to Bink's house, the dinner had long since been burned to a crisp, and Mrs. Binks registered about six hundred pounds pressure on her temper-gauge. It was a terrible meal. We don't remember what we ate, or whether we ate at all. All we know is that when it was over, we stumbled right over to our hat and then back to Mrs. Binks.

"Goo' night--lovely time," we said. "Hope you're the same!"

Binks saw us to the door. As a matter of fact, we had started to walk into the fire-place. He seemed to feel the need of some explanation.

"Sorry, old man, about that infernal carter," he said, "but tell you what we'll do. Some day next week we'll stroll out to the lot and have the fun of loading up, and then...."

We are not quite clear what it was that we said to Binks, but we must have said something fairly significant, for neither Binks nor his wife has spoken to us since.

Of course, we are sorry that Binks and his wife feel that way about it. But after all the first law of life is self-preservation, and we can't afford to run that sort of risk again. We didn't heal up for a week or more after that dreadful grapple with the cross-cut saw. In fact, we had some notion of going to a surgeon and having the bites cauterized.

Even this was nothing to the soreness in our legs and arms and the famous "back-muscles" that Binks brought into play. We spent all our evenings for the next fortnight rubbing arnica into them--also a wonderful liniment which our landlady gave us. It must have been a fine liniment for it smelled so strong that people turned around and looked after us on the street, as if they thought we ought to be quarantined and were in two minds about calling a policeman. And we didn't dare visit our friends. But then what's the use of going to see a lady if you moan in pain every time you try to put your arm around--well, around the back of the chair?

*Refreshments at Five*

Five o'clock appears to be a very critical time in the day. On the manner in which the next three-quarters of an hour are spent may depend one's well-being and good temper for the rest of the day and the evening and possibly the first couple of hours of the morrow.

Some people--low persons who need the money or whose bosses will not permit them to leave the office--make a habit of working through till six, or whatever time it is that they punch the clock and go home in a street-car strap. Naturally such persons have no place in an article of this character.

To sensitive and cultured people who have spent the afternoon playing bridge or in the cellar brewing the family liquor--that, we believe, is the intellectual pastime of the moment--or in mahogany-furnished offices persuading innocent folk with money to buy Nicaragua banana-lands or bunk stocks on punk margins, five o'clock is the blessed hour of surcease and repose. It is balm in Gilead, cool rains after the heat of the day, a friendly hotel after walking across a "dry" county, divorce after--oh, g'wan and make your own metaphors!

Personally we are an ardent and determined five-o'clocker. We have played it every way there is--straight, for place, for show, and across the board. There is no kind of five-o'clock performance--in accordance, that is, with the purity and piety of our character and upbringing--that we have not done or witnessed. We have attended teas of every description and shade of color, pink, yellow, mauve, and with dashes of cerise. We have gone to the tango kind, and to those discreet teas in sequestered corners of tea-rooms to which one conducts fair students of the drama after the matinee.

In older and perhaps happier--certainly freer--days, we were a frequent guest and occasional host at little informal five-o'clock functions, where one inquired of the rest of the company what they were having and requested the attendant to "fill 'em up again, Jawn!" We attended such functions in clubs, cafes, and those democratic places of resort which were entered by swinging doors--up to eleven on ordinary nights and seven on Saturdays. And we did this as part of that systematic study of humanity--including the things they eat and the drinks they drink--which is recommended so earnestly by the philosophers.

All this is by way of letting the reader see how thoroughly qualified we are by nature and training to write on this important subject of five-o'clock refreshments. We say "important" advisedly and with no ironic intent. We have devoted to the question of how best to spend the time between five and a quarter to six much time, energy, and serious thought--not without considerable difficulty and several vigorous rows with persons we have at various times consented to work for. And, as a result of our studies, we are convinced that rest and refreshment at five are a human necessity, whether you take it with two lumps or with soda, and whether you eat out of the "curate" or off the free-lunch counter.

Of course, this whole institution of five-o'clock refreshment is an intensely modern and hyper-civilized development--at least, here in Canada. It represents a reaction from the nerve-stresses of up-to-date urban existence. Our sturdy forefathers knew it not, and verily there are still many places where people do not practice it. Farmers as a class, for instance, have still maintained their ancient prejudice against eating and drinking till it is too dark or the weather is too bad to do anything else.

Naturally there would have been something absurdly incongruous in our great-grandfathers stopping in the midst of shooting bears or Indians or burning out a clearing, in order to tramp back to the log-cabin for a pimento sandwich or a cup or two of oolong. But, even at that, we would hate to believe that the old boys didn't occasionally knock off for a few minutes about five, and drag the old cider-jug from its place of concealment in a hollow stump, and have a pull or two at the juice that cheers and eke inebriates--if it is "hard" enough.

Five-o'clock refreshments, however, as we know them, are a peculiarly modern institution. We got the habit from England, where we get our spats and our knighthoods, our green hats and our Governors-General. In England they all do it, and it won't be long before we are all doing it, too. Talk about the effects of the War on our soldiers!--if you could see the splendid fellows now pouring their own in the tea-rooms, you would fear the worst.

A friend of ours who occasionally--and even oftener if things are slow at home--takes a run over to London to refresh his accent and to study life in its more dignified and also its lighter phases, has told us of a visit he paid to a great English factory. As he was being shown over the plant by the owner--jolly old dog, too, egad!--a gong sounded suddenly. Everybody instantly dropped their tools and climbed down from their machines; a gang of waiters burst upon the scene carrying huge trays of steaming cups with two little crackers on the side of each saucer; and everybody had tea. Even the boss, just to show what a democratic old cuss he was, had a cup with the rest--the clawsses drinking with the mawsses, so to speak.

Once in our journalistic youth--we felt about a hundred and eighty in experience of life--we had occasion (meaning we were sent by a profane and peremptory city editor) to interview the heads of a great business corporation regarding the financial situation. It was a time of panic, and this particular concern was reported to be in a bad way. A heavy sense of responsibility weighed upon us as we loosed our pencil in its patent sheath, and entered the office of the two brothers who directed the destinies of the company.

They were at tea! A fat, perspiring waiter--why do waiters always perspire?--had just carried in from a neighboring cafe a large tray bearing a tea-pot, a jug of hot water, plate of sandwiches, ditto of cute little cakes, and all the various accessories of tea-making and drinking. Our heart sank. We felt that this particular company was doomed. It wouldn't have been a greater shock to us if we had discovered them playing marbles--in fact, we would have been more likely to regard marbles as an amiable eccentricity.

They hospitably insisted that we should join them, but we declined with decision. We felt as if we had been invited to take out our sewing and while away a pleasant hour with the rest of the girls doing embroidery and eating marshmallows. But our contempt for these particular gentlemen was slightly modified by their producing cigarettes--very good cigarettes, too--after tea and lighting up. Naturally we joined in that. And our feelings were changed to something like genuine respect when we discovered what rattling good "copy" they could talk. Oh, they weathered the financial gale all right, in spite of the tea. And the experience made us more tolerant of the vice.

As for the ordinary sort of pink tea--you know the kind of thing where the dear boys in morning-coats pass the vittles to the dear girls in feathers and a string of beads--we are a hardened and weary veteran. We used to be one of the best young amateur waiters you ever saw, and could juggle a "curate" with a grace and efficiency that would have been the despair of Beau Brummel, if he had survived to witness it. But never again!

Incidentally, why are those three-storey arrangements called "curates?" Is it because they are always planted among the girls? Or because social events are not really respectable without one around? Or is it simply because they can hold so much cake?

Whatever the reason for the name, we became an out-and-out expert at wielding the things. Handing cups of tea with the right hand, and with the left dealing from the top or bottom deck of the "curate" with equal ease, we must have been a genteelly inspiring sight. But we have no joy of the recollection. Think of a healthy man spending his time like that!

Of course, we still go to teas occasionally--even the most fertile and mendacious excuser is sometimes caught without an alibi. Not that these social evasions are lies exactly, but you know the way one says: "Next Thursday did you say, my dear? So good of you, and I would just love to, but I'm all filled up for next Thursday," etc., etc. And being "all filled up," naturally one cannot be expected to fill up any more. But sometimes it is not so easy to get out of it, and we are occasionally caught by a sudden flank attack. But we are never a willing prisoner--we go down fighting desperately to the last.

As a matter of fact, teas long ago ceased to hold any delight for us. Like Martha we chose the worser part; but this was back in the wicked days before Prohibition descended on us all like a bomb from a Zeppelin. Every now and then--not every day, for we were not unabashed in our delinquency--a friend or two would drop in about five. We would discuss the weather in a dispassionate and scientific manner, as well as the Mexican situation--it was the only war on at the time--and the prospects for the baseball or hockey championship, according to the time of year. We talked of many things, but all in the same cool and detached way, as of men whose minds were elsewhere and busy with more vital matters. Then suddenly we would all rise up as one man and go silently away to a place we wotted of, where the clerk knew us by name, and asked us if we were having "the same old poison." Or better still, he would nod in a friendly way and without waiting to ask would set out the materials on the ba--no, no, counter!--with calm assurance bred of an intimate knowledge of our preferences.

It is a curious trait in human nature but the average man used to take much joy and pride out of having a refreshment-clerk--and when we say "refreshment" we use the word in its most dynamic significance--call him by name and hand him out his favorite brand without asking. It did him more good than if the president of the bank he made his over-draughts on had picked him up in the presidential limousine as he was walking down to the office of a morning.

Perhaps we should not speak about these things now that they are over and done with and everyone is reformed and uncomfortable; but how is the coming generation to know anything about the habits of us their ancestors, unless someone tells them the thirsty truth? As a matter of fact, it is more than likely that the reader of fifty years from now, coming on this book among some empty bottles in a dark corner of the attic, won't know what the dickens we are talking about. Poor old John Barleycorn may have ceased to be even a memory, and--but then again perhaps he won't. Very hardy old chap, John!

We do not wish, however, to close this veracious and useful disquisition on what might be called the Bacchic note--though Bacchic in the most gentlemanly and respectable sense, of course. Besides, all this talk of teas has reminded us of one which we like best--though it is a wistful pleasure--to remember. You see, it was quite a long time ago, and--but let us get on with the story.

To begin with, we had telephoned to the house--Heaven only knows about what! Any old excuse was a good excuse in those days. And she said, after a certain amount of persiflage and badinage--you know the sort of thing people talk over the 'phone in the spring--she said to come up and have a cup of tea with her.

It was right in office hours and we had a lot of work to do. But did we go? Yes, Friend Reader, we did. We rushed out clutching our hat in our hand, nearly broke a leg catching a car, and every time it stopped to let anyone on or off, we indulged in a line of mental profanity which must have created a faint blue aureole around our head like a mediaeval saint.

They were all out--the family, that is--even to the servant-girl. But we didn't mind. In fact, our relief was such that we realized at once it would be unseemly to show it. Our recollection is that we expressed a certain mild regret for their absence--Lord, what a liar a man can make of himself at times! Then having behaved like a really nice boy, we had an apron tied on us, for we had to help make the sandwiches. A pair of very pretty arms reached round us from behind and hung a silly little arrangement of linen and frills upon our manly waist, after a great deal of tugging and squeezing, which was rather complicated by our irresistible inclination to twist around and watch the strings being tied in the middle of our back--obviously a difficult feat of an acrobatic nature.

The sandwiches were finally made--we remember we were told we had spread the butter too thick. Then we carried the tray in beside a grate-fire, just an ordinary gas-grate, but if it had been the fires of the eternal dawn it couldn't have seemed any more cheering. Sunlight streamed in through the window on a big bowl of daffodils, themselves like a great splash of sunshine. Outside in the street youngsters were at play. We never even yet eat a certain kind of sandwich that we don't remember....

But, oh, pshaw, what's the use? What's the use? Besides, think how much freer and more solvent we are in our present celibate condition. But there are times and moods, mere trifles like a glimpse of flowers in the spring or a robin's song or the odor of wet lawns, which bring her back to us again and make us wince once more as we recall that her name is now Mrs. Spoffkins.

*Manners for the Masses*

"Manners Makyth Man."

How often in our eager youth was that hoary old maxim quoted to us with stern insistence, what time we had seized the last piece of cake on the plate, or were absorbing our soup with a noise like that of a punctured vacuum cleaner. Manners makyth man, perhaps; but in those days manners made us tired.

Now that we have attained manhood's estate, however, and grey hair and a nice discrimination in Scotch, when there is any to practice on, we realize the need of more manners--manners for the masses. People in general are not so polite as they used to be and ought to be. Street-car conductors, for instance, do not treat us at all times with the consideration we feel to be our due.

We do not object so bitterly to being told to "step lively there," or having the conductor jab the end of the fare-box into our diaphragm. Such little crudities of manner are perhaps inseparable from his rather trying profession. But the other day we handed a conductor by mistake a quarter of suspicious antecedents--metallurgically speaking, of course. Money we can't pass is the only sort of tainted money we recognize. We fear this particular coin contained more than the usual amount of alloy. As a matter of fact, we hadn't intended giving it to him at all. We had laid it aside for a church collection, or a tag-day, or the first pretty Salvation Army lass we should see with a "self-denial-week" box at a street corner. But it got into the wrong pocket.

We handed it to the conductor and said, "Blue, please!"--alluding to the cerulean hue of the tickets. He turned it over two or three times in his hand, glared at us, walked down to the rear platform to see it in the better light there, asked two or three men what they thought of it, and then carried it back to us between the thumb and index finger of the right hand as though he were holding something dead by the tail. The whole car watched him drop it with a thud into our grey-suede palm.

"The Company don't let us take nothin' but silver quarters," he remarked in a loud voice and with quite undue emphasis on the "silver."