Part 5

_T. J._ Sure, it’s the grand position you have entirely now, and every man and woman in the whole country-side scheming and scraping to give a few pennies to the collection for the statue, and the Lord-Lieutenant himself coming down for the unveiling--and it’s difficult it would be to find a man that was fine enough to marry you at all--but--but (_looking round_) don’t I know the very man for you?

_Mrs. J._ And who might that be, for goodness sake?

_T. J._ (_confidentially_). Come within now and I’ll tell you. I’d be fearful here that one of the lads would maybe hear me.

(_They go into the house._)

(_A man strolls along the road, looking about him with keen interest; he is wild and mysterious of aspect, with shaggy hair and travel-stained, untidy clothes. He stops with a start in front of the statue and gazes at it with amazement; then he slowly reads the inscription._)

_Mr. J._ “Michael Flannigan Joner, who gave his life for his fellow-travellers.” (_In stupefaction._) Glory be to God! (_Turning to the house._) Bridget Ellen--are you within there? (_He turns and gazes at the statue again._)

(_There is a sound of laughter in the house. Mrs. J. and Timothy J. come out, arm-in-arm and affectionate; they see the man and stop dead in the doorway._)

_T. J._ Glory be to God!

_Mrs. J._ The Saints preserve us!

_T. J._ If it isn’t Michael Joner himself!

_Mr. J._ It is so (_pointing indignantly_). And what call had you to make a graven image of him in the public street the like of the Kings of England or Parnell himself?

_Mrs. J._ And what call had you to come back from the dead without a word of warning and I after promising myself to a better man?

_Mr. J._ (_still full of statue_). “Gave his life for his fellow-trav----” And is it mad you all are?

_Mrs. J._ Then you did not do so? (_To T. J._) Wasn’t I telling you?

_Mr. J._ I did not indeed. And why would I--the low heathen--and I that had my fare paid to Tarshish?

_Mrs. J._ and _T. J. raise their eyebrows at this suspicious utterance._

_Mrs. J._ Tarshish! Sure it’s drunk he is!... Then how came you lepping into the water like a young dog or a boy that does be diving in the hot weather, and you with----

_Mr. J._ It was not lepping I was nor diving neither, but it’s thrown in I was by a lot of heathen sailors because I was after prophesying the wrath of the Lord upon them----

_Mrs. J._ Didn’t I tell you now that no good would come of the prophesying, and you that was brought up a decent lad by your own father in Kilbay?

_T. J._ And what happened to you when you were thrown in at all?

_Mr. J._ Sure, I was swallowed by a great whale, and the Lord said to the whale----

_T. J._ Holy Mother! It’s mad he is and not drunk at all!

_Mr. J._ It is not mad I am nor drunk either. Wasn’t I three days and three nights in the belly of the whale, and the sea roaring without, the same as a man would lie in his warm bed and it raining----

_Mrs. J._ Three days and three nights!--and isn’t it nine months since you lepped out of the ship? Will you tell me now where you have been in the meanwhile and what you were doing at all?

_Mr. J._ Sure the Lord spoke to the whale, and the whale threw me up on the dry land----

_Mrs. J._ (_suspicious soul_). And where would that be now?

_Mr. J._ Sure I don’t know now----

_Mrs. J._ I should think not indeed----

_Mr. J._ --but it was a small little island and devil a ship came there at all to take me away----

_Mrs. J._ (_to T. J., lifting her hands_). Did you ever hear the like of that? And were there any fine young ladies or mermaids maybe on that same small little island?

_Mr. J._ There were not then--nor statues either.

_T. J._ (_humouring him_). And what might ye be doing while you were in the belly of the whale, Michael Flannigan?

_Mr. J._ And why wouldn’t I be prophesying and praying unto the Lord, the way he would calm the whale, and it roaring and lepping in the sea like a trout that has the hook swallowed, and it tickling...?

_Mrs. J._ It’s well you might be praying unto the Lord, Michael Flannigan, for it’s a queer thing entirely if a lone widow woman can no more be left in peace without her man coming back from the dead to frighten her out of her wits with whales and the like, the way she would be the laughing stock of the whole country-side! And it’s devil a penny will I have from the Government now seeing you are alive again and not dead at all.

_T. J._ It’s a true word, Michael Flannigan, and it’s queer uneasy I am myself that had set my heart on marrying your own wife.

_Mrs. J._ And will you tell me now what will we be after doing with the grand statue we have put up on you, Michael Flannigan, and it’s myself that has the flesh worn from my fingers with working to put a few shillings together to pay for it?

_Mr. J._ (_infuriated_). Is it I that was asking for a statue at all? (_He regards it._) But sure it is a fine thing entirely--and why would it not stay where it is?

_Mrs. J._ And the whole world coming here by the train to make a mock of me, the way they would be seeing the statue of the man who “gave his life for his fellow-travellers,” and him sleeping in his own bed all the time like a common man!

_Mr. J._ Common, is it? Is it _every_ day you have a man coming from the dead that was three days and three nights in the belly of a whale?

_Mrs. J._ It is not--thanks be to God!

_T. J._ What ails you now, Bridget Ellen! Why wouldn’t we be altering the writing that is below the statue and write down this story about the whale, or any other fairy-story that he might be thinking of in the night and him lying awake--for sure it is a grand story and I wouldn’t wonder would the folk be travelling out from the big towns to see the man that was in the belly of a whale, when they wouldn’t walk across the road to see a man that gave his life for his fellow-travellers, and they English as like as not.

_Mrs. J._ It’s little the money I’ll be getting out of that, I’m thinking.

_T. J._ And why will you not? It could be that them music-halls in the big towns and the theayters themselves would pay money to Michael Flannigan for no more than walking on the stage and telling the people what went on while he was in the whale--the same as they would for a cow that has five legs or the smallest woman in the world. Sure, didn’t they give Peter O’Flaherty three pounds for the loan of his duck that had no legs at all?

_Mrs. J._ It could be that they might, Timothy James.

_Mr. J._ There is money in them whales, ’tis true, and they full of whalebone, the same as the fine ladies do use in Dublin for their dress and all. And when I was smoking my tobacco-pipe in the whale, the oil did be running down the inside of the creature the way I was afeered he would take fire and the two of us be destroyed altogether.

_T. J._ (_admiringly_). Did you ever hear the like of that? There’s them at the theayters that would pay you a mint of money for that same story, Michael Flannigan!

_Mr. J._ They might so.

_T. J._ But tell me now, Michael Flannigan, is it the truth or no that them whales have the queer small throats on them, the way they couldn’t swallow a little whiting, let alone a big man? It could be that one of them writing fellows would rise up in the theayter and say there was no man yet was swallowed by a whale, nor will be neither, because of the queer small throat they have on them! How would it be if you were to give it out that you were swallowed by a _big fish_, the way the ignorant folk would guess it was a whale and the people that do understand whales wouldn’t be able to say you were telling a lie?

_Mr. J._ ’Tis a great head you have on you, Timothy James, and it’s sorry I am it was myself was in the whale and not you.

_T. J._ Faith, ’tis glad I am I was never in a whale, for they do say they belong to the English King, the creatures, and God knows what may come of the like of that!

_Mr. J._ Is it the King of England’s they are? Then, Glory be to God, I’ll have no more to do with them!

_T. J._ Sure, and there’s nothing wrong with the King’s money, is there? And it’s plenty of that there will be, I’m thinking. I tell you, it’s the grand story they’ll make in the history-books till the world’s end of Michael Flannigan Joner that was ate by a whale!

_Mrs. J._ And devil a word will they say of Bridget Ellen, his wife, that was married to a mad fellow.

_T. J._ Let you not be vexing yourself now. I wouldn’t wonder would one of them writing fellows be writing a book about you, or maybe a play, and it’s the grand talk there will be of Joner’s wife at the latter end.

_Mrs. J._ It might.

(CURTAIN)

The Mystery of the Apple-pie Beds

(LEAVES FROM A HOLIDAY DIARY)

I

An outrage has occurred in the hotel. Late on Monday night ten innocent visitors discovered themselves the possessors of apple-pie beds. The beds were not of the offensive hair-brush variety, but they were very cleverly constructed, the under-sheet being pulled up in the good old way and turned over at the top as if it were the top-sheet.

I had one myself. The lights go out at eleven and I got into bed in the dark. When one is very old and has not been to school for a long time or had an apple-pie bed for longer still, there is something very uncanny in the sensation, especially if it is dark. I did not like it at all. My young brother-in-law, Denys, laughed immoderately in the other bed at my flounderings and imprecations. He did not have one. I suspect him....

II

Naturally the hotel is very much excited. It is the most thrilling event since the mixed foursomes. Nothing else has been discussed since breakfast. Ten people had beds and about ten people are suspected. The really extraordinary thing is that numbers of people seem to suspect _me_! That is the worst of being a professional humorist; everything is put down to you. When I was accompanying Mrs. F. to-day she suddenly stopped fiddling and said hotly that someone had been tampering with her violin. I know she suspected me. Fortunately, however, I have a very good answer to this apple-pie bed charge. Eric says that his bed must have been done after dinner, and I was to be seen at the dance in the lounge all the evening. I have an alibi.

Besides, I had a bed myself; surely they don’t believe that even a professional humorist could be so bursting with humour as to make himself an apple-pie bed and not make one for his brother-in-law in the same room! It would be too much like overtime.

But they say that only shows my cleverness....

III

Then there is the question of the Barkers. Most of the Victims were young people, who could not possibly mind. But the Barkers had two, and the Barkers are a respected middle-aged couple, and nobody could possibly make them apple-pie beds who did not know them very well. That shows you it can’t have been me--I--me--that shows you I couldn’t have done it. I have only spoken to them once.

They say Mr. Barker was rather annoyed. He has rheumatism and went to bed early. Mrs. Barker discovered about her bed before she got in, but she didn’t let on. She put out the candle, and allowed her lord to get into his apple-pie in the dark. I think I shall like her.

They couldn’t find the matches. I believe he was quite angry....

IV

I suspect Denys and Joan. They are engaged, and people in that state are capable of anything. Neither of them had one, and they were seen slipping upstairs during the dance. They say they went out on the balcony--a pretty story....

V

I suspect the Barkers. You know, that story about Mrs. B. letting Mr. B. get into his without warning him was pretty thin. Can you imagine an English wife doing a thing of that kind? If you can it ought to be a ground for divorce under the new Bill. But you can’t.

Then all that stuff about the rheumatism--clever but unconvincing. Mr. Barker stayed in his room all the next morning _when the awkward questions were being asked_. Not well; oh, no! But he was down for lunch and conducting for a glee-party in the drawing-room afterwards, as perky and active as a professional. Besides, the really unanswerable problem is, who could have _dared_ to make the Barkers’ apple-pie beds? And the answer is, nobody--except the Barkers.

And there must have been a lady in it, it was so neatly done. Everybody says no _man_ could have done it. So that shows you it couldn’t have been me--I....

VI

I suspect Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Winthrop is fifty-three. He has been in the hotel since this time last year, and he makes accurate forecasts of the weather. My experience is that a man who makes accurate forecasts of the weather may get up to any deviltry. And he protests too much. He keeps coming up to me and making long speeches to prove that he didn’t do it. But I never said he did. Somebody else started that rumour, but of course he thinks that I did. That comes of being a professional humorist.

But I do believe he did it. You see he is fifty-three and doesn’t dance, so he had the whole evening to do it in.

To-night we are going to have a Court of Inquiry....

VII

We have had the Inquiry. I was judge. I started with Denys and Joan in the dock, as I thought we must have somebody there and it would look better if it was somebody in the family. The first witness was Mrs. Barker. Her evidence was so unsatisfactory that I had to have her put in the dock too. So was Mr. Barker’s. I was sorry to put him in the dock, as he still had rheumatics. But he had to go.

So did Mr. Winthrop. I had no qualms about him. For a man of his age to do a thing like that seems to me really deplorable. And the barefaced evasiveness of his evidence! He simply could not account for his movements during the evening at all. When I asked him what he had been doing at 9.21, and where, he actually said he _didn’t know_.

Rather curious--very few people _can_ account for their movements, or anyone else’s. In most criminal trials the witnesses remember to a minute, years after the event, exactly what time they went upstairs and when they passed the prisoner in the lounge, but nobody seems to remember anything in this affair. No doubt it will come in time.

The trial was very realistic. I was able to make one or two excellent judicial jokes. Right at the beginning I said to the prosecuting counsel, “What _is_ an apple-pie bed?” and when he had explained I said with a meaning look, “You mean that the bed was not in _apple-pie order_?” Ha, ha! Everybody laughed heartily....

VIII

In my address to the jury of matrons I was able to show pretty clearly that the crime was the work of a gang. I proved that Denys and Joan must have done the bulk of the dirty work, under the tactical direction of the Barkers, who did the rest; while in the background was the sinister figure of Mr. Winthrop, the strategical genius, the lurking Macchiavelli of the gang.

The jury were not long in considering their verdict. They said: “We find, your Lordship, that you did it yourself, with some lady or ladies unknown.”

That comes of being a professional humorist....

IX

I ignored the verdict. I addressed the prisoners very severely and sentenced them to do the Chasm hole from 6.0 a.m. to 6.0 p.m. every day for a week, to take out cards and play out every stroke. “You, Winthrop,” I said, “with your gentlemanly cunning, your subtle pretensions of righteousness----” But there is no space for that....

X

As a matter of fact the jury were quite right. In company with a lady who shall be nameless I did do it. At least, at one time I thought I did. Only we have proved so often that somebody else did it, we have shown so conclusively that we can’t have done it, that we find ourselves wondering if we really did.

Perhaps we didn’t.

If we did we apologize to all concerned--except, of course, to Mr. Winthrop. I suspect him.

The Grasshopper

The Animal Kingdom may be divided into creatures which one can feed and creatures which one cannot feed. Animals which one cannot feed are nearly always unsatisfactory; and the grasshopper is no exception. Anyone who has tried feeding a grasshopper will agree with me.

Yet he is one of the most interesting of British creatures. The _Encyclopædia Britannica_ is as terse and simple as ever about him. “Grasshoppers,” it says, “are specially remarkable for their saltatory powers, due to the great development of the hind legs; and also for their stridulation, which is not always an attribute of the male only.” To translate, grasshoppers have a habit of hopping (“saltatory powers”) and chirping (“stridulation”).

It is commonly supposed that the grasshopper stridulates by rubbing his back legs together; but this is not the case. For one thing I have tried it myself and failed to make any kind of noise; and for another, after exhaustive observations, I have established the fact that, though he does move his back legs every time he stridulates, _his back legs do not touch each other_. Now it is a law of friction that you cannot have friction between two back legs if the back legs are not touching; in other words, the grasshopper does not rub his legs together to produce stridulation, or, to put it quite shortly, he does not rub his back legs together _at all_. I hope I have made this point quite clear. If not, a more detailed treatment will be found in the Paper which I read to the Royal Society in 1912.

Nevertheless I have always felt that there was something fishy about the grasshopper’s back legs. I mean, why _should_ he wave his legs about when he is stridulating? My own theory is that it is purely due to the nervous excitement produced by the act of singing. The same phenomena can be observed in many singers and public speakers. I do not think myself that we need seek for a more elaborate hypothesis. The _Encyclopædia Britannica_, of course, says that “the stridulation or song in the _Acridiidæ_ is produced by friction of the hind legs against portions of the wings or wing-covers,” but that is just the sort of statement which the scientific man thinks he can pass off on the public with impunity. Considering that stridulation takes place about every ten seconds, I calculate that the grasshopper must require a new set of wings every ten days. It would be more in keeping with the traditions of our public life if the scientific man simply confessed that he was baffled by this problem of the grasshopper’s back legs. Yet, as I have said, if a public speaker may fidget with his back legs while he is stridulating, why not a public grasshopper? The more I see of science the more it strikes me as one large mystification.

But I ought to have mentioned that “the _Acridiidæ_ have the auditory organs on the first abdominal segment,” while “the _Locustidæ_ have the auditory organ on the _tibia_ of the first leg.” In other words, one kind of grasshopper hears with its stomach and the other kind listens with its leg. When a scientific man has committed himself to that kind of statement he would hardly have qualms about a little invention like the back-legs legend.

With this scientific preliminary we now come to the really intriguing part of our subject, and that is the place of the grasshopper in modern politics. And the first question is, Why did Mr. Lloyd George call Lord Northcliffe a grasshopper? I think it was in a speech about Russia that Mr. Lloyd George said, in terms, that Lord Northcliffe was a grasshopper. And he didn’t leave it at that. He said that Lord Northcliffe was not only a grasshopper but a something something grasshopper, grasshopping here and grasshopping there--you know the sort of thing. There was nothing much in the accusation, of course, and Lord Northcliffe made no reply at the time; in fact, so far as I know, he has never publicly stated that he is _not_ a grasshopper; for all we know it may be true. But I know a man whose wife’s sister was in service at a place where there was a kitchen-maid whose young man was once a gardener at Lord Northcliffe’s, and this man told me--the first man, I mean--that Lord Northcliffe took it to heart terribly. No grasshoppers were allowed in the garden from that day forth; no green that was at all like grasshopper-green was tolerated in the house, and the gardener used to come upon his Lordship muttering in the West Walk: “A grasshopper! He called me a grasshopper--ME--A GRASSHOPPER!” The gardener said that his Lordship used to finish up with, “_I_’ll teach him”; but that is hardly the kind of thing a lord would say, and I don’t believe it. In fact, I don’t believe any of it. It is a stupid story.

But this crisis we keep having with France owing to Mr. Lloyd George’s infamous conduct does make the story interesting. The suggestion is, you see, that Lord Northcliffe lay low for a long time, till everybody had forgotten about the grasshopper and Mr. Lloyd George thought that Lord Northcliffe had forgotten about the grasshopper, and then, when Mr. Lloyd George was in a hole, Lord Northcliffe said, “_Now_ we’ll see if I am a grasshopper or not,” and started stridulating at high speed about Mr. Lloyd George. A crude suggestion. But if it were true it would mean that the grasshopper had become a figure of national and international importance. It is wonderful to think that we might stop being friends with France just because of a grasshopper; and, if Lord Northcliffe arranged for a new Government to come in, it might very well be called “The Grasshopper Government.” That would look fine in the margins of the history books.

Yes, it is all very “dramatic.” It is exciting to think of an English lord nursing a grievance about a grasshopper for months and months, seeing grasshoppers in every corner, dreaming about grasshoppers.... But we must not waste time over the fantastic tale. We have not yet solved our principal problem. Why did Mr. Lloyd George call him a grasshopper--a modest, friendly little grasshopper? Did he mean to suggest that Lord Northcliffe hears with his stomach or stridulates with his back legs?

Why not an earwig, or a black-beetle, or a wood-louse, or a centipede? There are lots of insects more offensive than the grasshopper, and personally I would much rather be called a grasshopper than an earwig, which gets into people’s sponges and frightens them to death.

Perhaps he had been reading that nice passage in the Prophet Nahum: “Thy captains are as the great grasshoppers, which camp in the hedges in the cold day, but when the sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is not known where they are,” or the one in Ecclesiastes: “And the grasshopper shall be a burden.” I do not know. On the other hand, the _Encyclopædia_ has a suggestive sentence: “All grasshoppers are vegetable feeders and have an incomplete metamorphosis, so that _their destructive powers are continuous from the moment of emergence from the egg until death_.”

Little Bits of London

I

THE SUPREME COURT

Among those curious corners of London life which anyone may go to see but nobody does, one of the most curious, and (for about five minutes) interesting, is the House of Lords sitting as the Supreme Court of Appeal. It is one of the ordinary things which go on and on unnoticed for a lifetime because they have gone on so long, till one day one begins to think about them and realizes suddenly that they were really extraordinary all the time--just as one pronounces sometimes with a startling sense of its absurdity some common English word. But no sight-seer, no student of our institutions, and particularly no one who is interested in the ways and customs of individual trades, should fail to visit the Supreme Appellate Tribunal of this great country.