Chapter 3

Now, all you jolly rangers, When nesting-time is on, Don't go to follow strangers, Nut-brown nor white as swan; Beware of 'em, be wise of 'em, For sooth it is that's said: When stars get in the eyes of 'em The moon gets in your head.

* * * * *

THE FUSER.

In a moment of expansion, Sheila Armitage confided in me that she has worked it out, and that we are third cousins twice removed. I accept her word for this, because I have to work at other things, getting a living and so forth, while her sole occupation is to acquire a _flair_ as a hostess, week-ends being her speciality.

I hope that I am not unkind to Sheila when I say that she seems to me more attractive when she is either in trouble or ill-health; in her more joyous moods I simply do not belong--and do not want to belong--to her life. A friend of mine once called her a social pirate, and there is no doubt that her method of collecting the people whom she wants is to besiege them until they eventually surrender. Why, however, Bobbie Outram is always asked to her smartest week-ends was a conundrum to me until I met her magnificently convalescing after influenza at Folkestone. For I know Bobbie, and I would run a mile or two any day to avoid him.

Sheila was in a bath-chair, but looked radiantly well, and at once gave me a list of her latest victims.

"They sound all right," I said. "But will Bobbie Outram like them?"

At this she gave a little gurgling laugh and put two fingers on my arm.

"Of course you know Bobbie. I forgot."

"I kicked him at school, I loathed him at Cambridge, and let him know it, and he is still all over me. He brags about you whenever he sees me before I see him."

"He is the greatest success I have ever had," she declared.

"Then Heaven help you," I replied.

"You don't understand; you think it's quite easy to collect----"

"People tell me you tried to found a _salon_, but only got as far as a Zoo," I interrupted.

For an instant she frowned, then she gurgled again.

"Brenda Thornton told you that," she protested. "It's just her jealousy. As a fact I'm quite good at getting only the right people. Fliers have rather had their day, though they are still useful, and I like an explorer or two for week-ends, though the best kind seems to be always exploring. But Brenda was getting ahead of me--I don't mind confessing that to you--until I thought of Bobbie Outram. He's my one stroke of genius; even David admits that."

"I never thought much of your husband's taste," I said brutally, and then, "in men," I added gently, as she was recovering from influenza.

She smiled again and continued:

"There is one thing that is indispensable to a successful week-end."

"It can't be Bobby Outram," I declared.

"It is, or somebody like him; but he is easily the best. Bobbie is my point of contact."

"He used often to be my boot's," I growled.

"The more you can fuse your guests the better," she went on, as if she were giving a lecture. "Everyone knows that; it's the A B C of entertaining; but they must have something to agree about--a sort of rallying point. And I was the first hostess to discover that no party is complete unless you have someone in it whom all the others can most cordially abuse."

"So that is Bobbie's _métier_?" I said.

"The help that man has been to me on wet Sundays is beyond belief," she replied ecstatically; "and Brenda Thornton is absolutely furious."

"I never expected to be sorry for Outram, but----"

"My dear Jack, you needn't worry about Bobbie. He knows all right. I told him, and he enjoys it. He's really rather a dear."

But at this my gorge rose. "At any rate," I said, "he's going to Mrs. Thornton's from next Friday to Tuesday; he told me so yesterday."

"The little worm," said Sheila.

"'Worm' is the word," I said; and as we remained to abuse Bobbie for another ten minutes with much mutual goodwill I suppose he had once more justified his existence by a successful feat of "fusing."

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"The Clever Ones."

I do wish I had been one of the clever ones, for they seemed to be in Mr. Sutro's confidence and able to penetrate the obscurity of his motives. At first even I could understand something of the scheme, which ran (as I thought) like this:--_Wilfrid Callender_, a rich bachelor of Harrow and Oxford, has a socialist friend, _David Effick_, at whose meetings he happens to have encountered a Girton girl, _Doris Marrable_ (pretty daughter of a hop-merchant in affluent circumstances), who affects revolutionary ideals. In order to win the approval of this lady he represents himself as an anarchist plumber, earning five pounds a week; and to the horror of her family they become affianced. Having no sort of intention of keeping up the imposture, even if he could, and being fearful lest the exposure of his wealth and education would, in her present state, alienate her affections, he proposes by practical demonstration to disgust her with the mode of life which she designs to lead. In collusion with _Effick_ he arranges that he shall invite _Doris_ to take tea at his friend's attic in Bethnal Green, and reveal to her the sordid conditions of existence in that quarter.

So far good, and the delightful first Act was rich in promise. Then came the complexities. There was another girl, _Rose Effick_ (a rich relation of the socialist), to whom _Callender_ should have been engaged but for a misunderstanding. It is her business to divert him back to his old love. You would naturally say that, if it is _Callender's_ object to disgust _Doris_ with the life of the people, so that she may change her mind and take him for what he actually is, it will be _Rose's_ object, since her aim is the frustration of this design, to make Bethnal Green as attractive as possible, so that _Doris_ will refuse to sacrifice her ideals when she learns the truth about _Callender_. Yet it looks as if _Rose_ is playing _Callender's_ game and not her own. At first, it is true, she tries to make the attic more supportable; imparts a pleasant flavour to the meal; dismisses the hurdy-gurdies that _Callender_ has chartered from the Universal Provider. But subsequently she goes slumming with _Doris_ to such good purpose that the latter turns sick of the whole thing. Now, you will say, _Callender's_ way is clear; he will reveal his identity and _Doris_ will be prepared to tolerate his wealth. On the contrary, Mr. Sutko is not to be defeated by his own machinations; he means to bring _Callender_ and _Rose_ together; so he just takes and throws them into one another's arms and consigns _Doris_ to an old admirer whom we have never so much as set eyes on.

I hope I am more lucid than I seem to myself to be--more lucid, anyhow, than Mr. Sutro, who has threatened to damage an excellent scheme by defiance of the first law of drama, even of farce, namely, that the audience should be permitted to know what the author is after. Nor, again--though of course he was not asking to be taken seriously--was he very particular about the probability of some of his characters. _Doris_, for instance, was required to be too many things at once. A bluestocking and a _sansculotte_ (not a very usual combination), she was also a woman of the very latest cry in frocks. Miss Nina Sevening looked pretty and wore them well, but beyond this she gave us very little help. _Rose_, too (charmingly played by Miss Marie Löhr), who disguised herself as a dweller in Bethnal Green by the simple expedient of a duster pinned over her shoulders--how could Mr. Sutro expect her dainty skirt and smart white shoes to escape the eye of this "clever" female, her rival?

All the same, he gave us much matter for mirth, though the Second Act, which promised so well, was dragged out by interminable trivialities over the preparations for tea. I wish that authors and actors would understand how depressing it often is when people on the stage will insist on keeping things bright and brisk with domestic details.

As for the wit of "the clever ones"--_Doris_ and her mother and her aunt--I don't know how the first-nighters took it, but when I was there a great deal of it (when audible) was over the heads of the audience. They understood all right the humour of things when somebody (not a clever one) said "Damn," but I wonder how many of them appreciated the symbolic force of the term _épicier_, or grasped the purport of _Quem deus vult perdere prius dementat_.

Mr. Sutro owed much to the excellence of his cast. Mr. Gerald du Maurier was, of course, inimitable; but there were also Miss Florence Haydon, Miss Mary Brough and Mr. Edmund Gwenn, all delightful in their own specialised veins of humour--the plaintive, the rich, the uproarious. But Mr. Holman Clark had not enough scope for his unique qualities.

I hear rumours of a revision, and hope that this means that I shall receive an invitation to renew a most delightful evening. For my only real criticism is that Mr. Sutro thought me more intelligent than I actually am--an error that I always encourage.

* * * * *

"Dusk."

_Account Rendered_, a comedy of some promise, but produced with an extraordinary inadequacy in the matter of what the programme called "the decors," has been very quickly withdrawn from the Little Theatre. But its curtain-raiser, _Dusk_, is to be retained for the revival of _Magic_.

That is nearly all that I have to say about Mr. Vansittart's "Oriental Fantasy." It deals with a youthful bride who has just been attached to a Persian hareem. In the garden at dusk she finds a young English traveller (who has just told us what a _penchant_ he has for "women, women, women"--he is very insistent about this), and being caught in conversation with him is placed by her lord in a sack and consigned to the deep; but not before she has explained in fluent verse that in the circumstances this abrupt end to her young career has no terrors for her. But for this courageous attitude on her part I should have experienced greater relief when the hero appeared next morning in his pyjamas and indicated that the regrettable incident was a figment of his sleeping brain.

I thought I detected some good lines among the Englishman's remarks (though I did not like his voice), but I prefer to study poetical drama at leisure before attempting to pass any comment on it. I may add that I don't suppose that that engaging actor, Mr. Fred Lewis, has ever previously played the part of a Persian slave with a taste for philosophic recitation; and I hope he never will again, for, frankly, it is not his _métier_.

O. S.

* * * * *

The cashier at our Goldstead branch has the misfortune to drop his scoop accidentally when cashing a cheque for his worthy mayor of our select suburb.]

* * * * *

A SPORTING CHANCE.

It is generally in the spring that I begin to notice how big my accounts are growing. I don't know why this should be, unless it is because I haven't paid any during the previous year. At any rate you must take my word for it. I have the accounts here.

Then, again, it is a most remarkable fact that whenever one has bills to pay one finds there are other things to be bought.

A few days ago I discovered that my tailor wanted thirty pounds. I also discovered that I wanted a lighter overcoat and a raincoat. It was a nice problem.

On occasions of great difficulty like this I always consult Edith. Edith might have married me if it hadn't been for Henry. Had she accepted me I should probably have gone in for something. As it is I just go on existing.

The really sad part of the whole affair is that she seems to be very fond of me. Poor girl! We all make mistakes. Anyhow, apart from her momentary mad infatuation for her husband, she is very sensible and I always like to consult her. Married women are so different from single girls; I don't know why, unless it is that they have husbands.

Edith being married, therefore, I rang her up.

"I want," I said, "to consult you financially."

"Certainly," she replied. "What is it?"

"Private. I will come round to tea."

I rang off. I made a little parcel of my accounts and then telephoned for a taxi. In due course I found Edith in the drawing-room.

"Hello," she said. "Is it very bad trouble?"

"We are," I replied, "in deep water. Life is very shallow." Edith laughed; she appreciates wit.

"Well, let me see if I can help."

I sat down. "I want two new coats," I explained. "My tailor is clamouring for thirty pounds, balance of account owing, and," I added significantly, "there are others. It is going to be a big smash."

"Poor boy!"

I sighed heavily as I opened the accounts.

"Here we are," I said. "Tailor, thirty pounds."

I paused and again sighed.

"Hatter, three pounds."

"Three pounds?" Edith looked amazed.

"That's your fault. I bought a new hat for your wedding. Not only was I best, but best-dressed man. I wore beautiful clothes to hide a breaking heart."

Edith smiled. "A beautiful hat was perhaps superfluous," she suggested. "They are worn so little in church. Are there any more?"

"Plenty. Hatter, three pounds; Glover, one pound----"

"What for?"

"Gloves. Need I go through the sad list?"

Edith shook her head. "What's the total?"

"Fifty-four pounds, thirteen and fourpence. I'm hoping to avoid the fourpence in discounts. Total spare cash, twenty pounds, and nearly three months to go before I touch any more."

"Poor boy, have you really only twenty pounds?"

"To throw about in bills, certainly. I shall want all my other money for rent and food and cash payments."

"And are they all clamouring for their money?"

"Yes, the sharks."

Edith lay back in her chair and thought. Suddenly she sat up.

"It can't be helped," she said. "Some of them will have to wait. We'll put their names in a hat and the first three we draw out get paid."

"Yes," I objected, "but what about my overcoats?"

"You must wait."

"No," I said, "I have a better idea." I paused impressively. "I think that we can fairly assume that my creditors are sportsmen. At any rate, they must have the benefit of the doubt. That being so, I put my own name in the hat and draw against them. If I'm in the first three I get my new coats."

"But----"

"Not a word." I slipped noiselessly out of the room and came back with Henry's Homburg. In less than five minutes everything was prepared.

"Now," said Edith, and she put her hand in the hat. There was a tense silence. "(1) Glover, (2) Tobacconist, (3) Tailor. Bad luck!"

I suppressed a groan. Had I not been sitting down, I should probably have reeled. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together and smiled.

"Well, that's all right," I said.

"All right?"

"Certainly," I said; "I can pay off the first two."

"But what about the tailor?"

"I have thought of that," said I. "I shall make a distinction in his favour. I shall give him an order for two coats. Surely that means more to him than a mere settlement."

"Yes," said Edith doubtfully. "But of course you'll pay him the money?"

I laughed amazedly. "My dear girl! Either I pay his account just like the other two, or I distinguish him by ordering the new coats. He can't have it both ways. And I couldn't very well pay for the new coats, if that's what you mean, before the old account is settled. You see that?"

"Yes, but still it doesn't seem----"

"Ah, perhaps not," I said, "perhaps not, at first sight. I hardly saw it myself at first. It was really a clever idea of yours."

Edith brightened visibly. "Yes, wasn't it?" she said.

* * * * *

AN EPIC FROM THE PROVINCES.

My dear Charles,--I know that from your superior standpoint as a Londoner you are disposed to regard us as dwellers in a quiet backwater, unswayed by the currents of political strife, but you must not imagine that the stirring events of the past few weeks have failed to leave their mark on the life of our little town. A study of the Press--that faithful mirror of our time--would quickly convince you to the contrary.

The Press, as you know, is here represented by _The Signal_, a fine old weekly journal of inflexible Unionist views. Well, last week, rising on a wave of enthusiasm, _The Signal_ burst into poetry.

_The Gun Runners_, it is called, by "Cecilia Merrifield."

The air is still, the night is dark; Along the harbour side There stands a silent, waiting park Of motors, full inside.

That is the opening stanza. You may possibly take exception to the French rhyme, but you cannot fail, Charles, to appreciate the fine spirit of it.

What are they full of? Not of man, But rifles, neatly packed, Taken from out the good ship _Fan_, Now in the harbour backed.

Strictly speaking, I believe it was not the _Fan_ at all, but that is a small matter.

Brave men have toiled across the sea To bring those rifles in, With helm held stoutly hard-a-lee Amid the breakers' din.

I am not at all certain of the accuracy of the term "hard-a-lee" in this connection, but what a fine sense of stedfast heroism that run of aspirates awakened. "With helm held stoutly hard-a-lee."

Amid the breakers' strident cry They kept their courage cool, For thus, they said, Home Rule must die, We will not have Home Rule!

They 'scaped the vessels of the Fleet By lavish use of paint; The warships had to own defeat With loud and long complaint.

But I cannot give you more than a selection from these noble verses. They continue in the same lofty strain until the good ship is warped safely in port. Then comes another dramatic change of tense. We are again on the quayside.

The night grows darker. All at once An order sharp we hear-- The order waited for for months; The motors come in gear.

Yes, I admit that this stanza is open to criticism on more than one count, but I would not have it changed. It bears the impress of red-hot inspiration.

Criticism must always be silent when confronted with that.

The joy of having to obey Lights up each driver's face, And so the motors move away Each to its destined place.

You must not suppose, however, that there was no show of opposition. As you have observed, our poetess believes, on the whole, in sticking closely to historical truth.

The minions of the Government, A weak and craven breed, Stand by, quite helpless to prevent This great heroic deed.

I cannot say I altogether like the tone of the second line, but the fury of enthusiasm, shackled by the exigencies of rhyme, must be forgiven much. Let us continue.

Across the night the motors throb Without the slightest hitch, For this is quite a business job, Though in romance so rich.

Indeed, the whole stupendous plot Is cleverly arranged; Even the motor-cars have got Their number plates all changed.

And so they speed by tortuous ways With Freedom in the van, And patriotism sets ablaze The face of every man.

And so on. Then we come from the general to the particular, and follow the fortunes of a single consignment of arms until it reaches its destination.

And into cellar, pantry, shed, In kitchen, bedroom, loft, The rifles go. Home Rule is dead! The words are uttered oft.

The ammunition, too, is hid In many a secret hole, Each bearer doing as he's bid, Intent upon the goal.

The goal being, I take it, the final death of Home Rule. And now comes the wonderful peroration, in which the whole great adventure is brought to its dignified and eloquent climax. It runs into twenty-three stanzas, of which I will give you the last two without comment--

Freedom is what we labour for, Freedom, it is our right; We have no wish for bloody war, But, if we must, we'll fight.

This is our message sent to him, The dark Dictator's tool-- Whatever happens, sink or swim, We Will Not Have Home Rule!

There, Charles! I challenge you to produce anything approaching that from all your boasted London dailies.

Yours,

Robert.

* * * * *

"A villager will always tell the difference between a good coin and a bad one, but he cannot tell the difference between a bad coin and a good one."--_Pioneer._

He must try to enlarge his mind.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Doubtless you will think, as I did at first, that the title of _The Priceless Thing_ (Stanley Paul) has reference to love or something intense like that. Far from it. Not in fifty guesses would you be likely to discover that its real meaning is an autograph of the late William Shakspeare. One knew already that Mrs. Maud Stepney Rawson could write a vigorous and bustling tale. If I have a complaint to make against _The Priceless Thing_ it is indeed that it suffers from some superfluity of plot, and what approaches a plethora of villains, real or supposed. For this reason it is a story more than usually hard to condense fairly into a paragraph. Briefly, however, the P. T., which was the peculiar treasure of the noble line of _Annerslie_, lived in a case in the library of their ancestral home. The heroine, _Anstice_, a relation of the Family, was employed by My Lord as librarian. When I tell you, moreover, that _Anstice_ had run away from her own father on finding that he was an expert manufacturer of literary forgeries, and that her circle of friends included an American blackmailer, a curiosity dealer and a mad Italian who was even better at the forgery business than her own father, you will perceive that the poor girl was likely to find her situation "some job." I could not begin to tell you what really happened. Towards the end there had been so much mystery, and the story had become such a palimpsest of forged signatures, that I myself knew no more than _Lord Annerslie_ in which to believe. But I think we both had the upholding conviction that an affair of this kind was bound to come out all right in the end. Which indeed it did; leaving all the virtuous characters abundantly satisfied, a feeling that will, I am sure, be shared by Mrs. Rawson's maze-loving public.

* * * * *