Chapter 2

I never, never could admit The virtues of the bee; I thought she seemed a dreadful prig When I was small, and now I'm big I see she is a hypocrite, And so, of course, are we.

It's true she rushes to and fro With business promptitude, But what about the busy ant? Oh, let us clear our minds of cant-- Why _is_ it that we love her so? _She manufactures food._

But not for us. If it were shown She organised the feast For _us_ to eat, one might agree About her virtue; but, you see, She does it for herself alone, The greedy little beast!

So grasping is the little dear That every now and then She readjusts the ration scales By simply murdering the males, With many a base, malicious jeer At "idle gentlemen."

Nor does a man of us cry "Shame!" Though every man would own If there is one high hope for which He labours on at fever-pitch It is not honour, wealth or fame-- He wants to be a drone.

Why is it, then, we don't abhor This horrid little prude? Why don't we cast the foullest slur On such a Prussian character? Because, as I remarked before, _She manufactures food_.

The world is full of beasts, my son, And I know two or three That any parent might employ To be a model for their boy, But take my word, we've overdone The insufferable bee.

A. P. H.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE NEW POOR.

"I REMEMBER THE TIME--

--WHEN I THOUGHT--

--I NEVER SHOULD RIDE IN A BUS--

--AND NOW--

--I AM ALMOST CERTAIN--

--I NEVER SHALL."

* * * * *

Illustration: CURE FOR INSOMNIA. MESMERISE YOURSELF.

* * * * *

THE CONSPIRATORS

IV.

MY DEAR CHARLES,--The other evening I was sitting at an open-air cafe whose coffee is better than its social reputation. To be exact it is a low haunt. I always go there and have a cup of coffee in a glass when I am wondering what to do next and feeling it is about time something was happening. One of my acquaintances came and sat down at my table. To confess the truth he has once been a pickpocket, the sort of professional who followed the trade in the old dull days of peace for the excitement it furnished. He has since served in the Foreign Legion, and says that now he cannot bring himself to return to his normal work, since by contrast it is so very tame. For a time he was stranded, but now the international conspiracy business provides him with just the sport he was looking for.

After a little conversation about pocket-picking, as it used to be in the good old days, he asked me if I was interested in communist plots. I said I was interested in anything. He looked round the cafe to see that all was well, leant across the table and asked me if I was not _particularly_ interested in communist plots. "Yes," I whispered, "as long as it's a plot I'm interested in it, even though it is a communist one."

He grew suspicious; why was I so interested? There is always a lot of whispering and mutual suspicion about on these occasions. I told him of these letters I was writing to you on the subject. This made him more than suspicious; positively hostile. Who was this Charles? he wanted to know. I told him all about you; explained that you were a good friend of mine; quite all right--one of us.

He rather took to the description of you, dropped all signs of doubt or anxiety and wondered if we couldn't get hold of you to come and take coffee with us one evening? You may rest assured, Charles, that there is now one cafe in Central Europe where you are regarded as a first-class fellow, even though your acquaintance has yet to be made; _bon camarade_; not above picking a pocket or two yourself in a moment of enthusiasm. You must come here and show yourself one day. You need have no fear. We never pick each others' pockets; it isn't considered etiquette.

"I am now a Young Socialist," said my friend with great pride. The Young Socialists are the worst communists there are.

"Really?" said I; "the last time we had a chat you were an ardent German Monarchist."

He produced his Matriculation card; it wasn't in his proper name, but, as he explained, one name is as good as another and he has had so many from time to time that now he cannot rightly say which is his own. I asked him to elaborate the Young Socialists' programme of murder and sudden death, a subject which, as a proposed victim, had a morbid fascination for me. He said he knew nothing about that; their everlasting talk bored him and he never attended the public meetings. It was the committee work which interested him.

He told me about the first committee meeting he attended. He wasn't a member of the committee at the time, a fact which put difficulties in the way of his attending the meeting, as it was held behind closed doors. All the doors were closed and locked, including the cupboard door. He was in the cupboard. I wondered what they would have done to him if they had found him there. He told me he had had plenty of time to wonder that himself when he had once got himself locked in.

"Begin at the beginning," said I.

It was a question, first, of getting round the door-keeper. He made friends with that door-keeper, took him out to supper, gave him a kirsch with his coffee and a cigar with his kirsch. He told the door-keeper that he was the most distinguished door-keeper he had ever met. He encouraged him to go through his ailments and his grievances and was visibly distressed by the recital. He got in the habit of sitting with the door-keeper while he was keeping the door for the committee assembled inside. And, when he thought the friendship was sufficiently advanced, he poured forth his inmost heart to that door-keeper. He said that Young Socialism was to him the breath of life, and the tragedy was that he was always kept on the outskirts of it. He said he would give anything to take part in a committee meeting, or anyhow to hear the great ones at it; and, to make this sound plausible, he expounded a scheme of Young Socialism of his own, which was far more drastic and bloodthirsty than anything that had yet occurred to any committee.

The door-keeper didn't believe there could be anybody who really cared all that much for communism; for his part he kept the door because there was money to be made easily that way. At the next committee meeting he made more money and made it more easily, and my friend was safely locked up in the cupboard before the committee arrived. What with the heat inside, the thought that the door-keeper might be more cunning than had appeared and a persistent desire to sneeze, he questioned all the time whether he was the right man in the right place. The committee meanwhile did little more than vote its own salaries from the central fund and quarrel amongst itself who should be treasurer.

Later proceedings of the committee, as noted in the cupboard, were more interesting. When the question turned on finding someone trustworthy and competent to take secret instructions to comrades in France and England, my friend very nearly burst forth from his shelf to say to them, "I'm your man!" He restrained himself, however, and thought out a more elaborate scheme than that.

He secured a front seat at the next public meeting of the section, applauded vigorously when the President referred to the need of more briskness in France and England and asked for a private interview after the meeting was over. In a few well-chosen words he offered his services to run messages over the frontier. Off his platform the President was quite a practical man and, though he didn't use these words, he indicated to my friend as follows: "If you are a genuine blackguard the police won't let you go; if you are not a genuine blackguard you are not really one of us."

My friend said that that would be all right, and they agreed to meet later on. He then went to the police and explained that he was about to be entrusted with important letters to carry over the frontier, if they would afford the necessary facilities. The police also were practical and, without wishing in any way to hurt his feelings, raised the question of his being genuine. Genuine was, of course, the very last thing he was claiming to be, but he understood what they meant, said that that would be all right and arranged a later appointment. He then called on the President and found him duly suspicious.

"I've had a talk with the police," said my friend, "and I've told them all about you and your messages, and they are going to give me the facilities and I am going to give them the messages."

This was the first occasion on which the President had had to handle the plain truth, and he didn't know what to do or say next.

"Give me some dud messages, of course," said my friend, and the President, thinking what a bright young Socialist this was, complied.

He then went back to the police. "I've had a talk with the President," said he, "and I've told them all about you and your interest in the messages, and here the messages are; and you needn't worry to read them because they are dud."

The police had also got so unused to the truth from such quarters that they were taken aback when they met it.

"And now have I your full confidence?" said he, and they said that he might take it that he had. He then went back to the President.

"Good morning, Mr. President," said he. "I have given your messages to the police and told them they are dud messages, so that now I have their full confidence and can move about as I like. Give me the real messages and I'll be getting on with my journey."

Throwing precaution to the winds, the President wrote out the real messages in full and handed them to him.

"Come, come, come," said he, "you must be more careful than that," and he told him what he ought to do to make sure. He did it.

My friend then proceeded to the frontier, where, by arrangement, he was arrested. In the inside pocket of his inside coat a bundle of messages were found. The police nodded at him.

"Yes," they said, "here are the messages all right. We don't know that they help much, but we suppose that we mustn't blame you."

"Come, come, come," said my friend, "if you doubt me, search me." They did so, and, written on linen and sewn into the lining of his coat, they found some more messages, which really did help them. Yours ever, HENRY.

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

Illustration: _Profiteer Host._ "I'M AFRAID WE'LL HAVE TO DRINK THE FIZZ OUT OF PORT GLASSES."

_Profiteer Guest._ "OH, WE DON'T MIND ROUGHIN' IT; WE'RE ALL SPORTSMEN, I TAKE IT."

* * * * *

RELATIVES WITHOUT ANTECEDENTS.

"YOUTHFUL HOSTESSES.--A few years ago when a bachelor entertained he invited his aunt or his mother to act as hostess for him. Now he asks his grand-daughter."--_Daily Paper._

* * * * *

"Ostensibly Lit was a move to check the ever-rising cost of living, Land in a way not fully realised by the public Lit was a method of riveting control on the industry."

_Evening Paper._

With money flung about like this the cost of living is bound to go up again.

* * * * *

Illustration: SINISTER SIGNS FROM SOUTH KENSINGTON.

_Alarmed House Agent._ "MADAM, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY PARTNER?"

_Client._ "I was just giving particulars of my flat, which I am anxious to let, and when I said, 'No premium required,' he crumpled up as if he'd been shot."

* * * * *

_SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT._

[The taking of finger-prints of all new-born babies is advocated. These will be useful for identification at trials, inquests, etc., since the pattern of the print does not change from the cradle to the grave.]

With paternal pride I used to glow When the neighbours dropped their pleasant hints How like Daddy Reginald would grow, But to-day they took his finger-prints; Now I am convinced they spoke in haste-- Such expressions show a lack of taste.

Operator was a kindly man, Formerly a sergeant of police; Dipped our Reggie's digits in a pan Filled with printers' ink and oil and grease, Pressed them on a card and soothed his moans, Saying "Diddums" in official tones.

Mother stood and gazed upon the thing, Lovingly as doting mothers do; Asked, "Does Reggie's hieroglyphic bring Memories of famous men to you-- Men who, having made their lives sublime, Left their thumb-prints on the sands of time?

"Will it be his destiny to write Or to earn a living with his brains? Will he share a 'loop' with GRAHAME WHITE? Do his 'arches' pair with those of BAINES? Is there similarity between Reggie's 'whorls' and those of M. MASSINE?"

Operator coughed behind his hand, Moved his feet and shook his hoary head, Thrust his fingers in his bellyband, Then at last reluctantly he said, "I've encountered in the course of biz Many prints that much resembled his.

"One, I mind me, such impressions made; P'r'aps you never heard of Ginger Hicks, Him what done in uncle with a spade Down in Canning Town in ninety-six? Ginger was a wrong 'un from the fust; As a child he bellowed fit to bust.

"Then there was another, something like, Got a lifer seven years ago; Surely you remember Mealy Mike, Robbery with violence at Bow? Michael's thumb-print, though of larger size, Was the spit of Reggie's otherwise.

"Then again his lines could be compared--" Mother snatched her precious up and fled, Pausing once to ask him how he dared Put such notions in um's little head. Her departure mid a storm of kissing Put the lid on further reminiscing.

* * * * *

Illustration: ALADDIN AND THE MINER'S LAMP.

THE GENIE. "I AM THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. I THINK YOU SUMMONED ME."

MR. SMILLIE. "YES, I KNOW. BUT I DIDN'T REALISE YOU'D BE SO UGLY."

* * * * *

Illustration: "YES, A NICE LITTLE BUS. BUT I SAY, OLD TOP, THE FOOTBOARDS ARE DEUCEDLY LOW. IF YOU RAN OVER ANYONE YOU MIGHT BE CAPSIZED--WHAT?"

* * * * *

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY SHOCKER.

John Antony Grunch was one of the mildest, most innocent men I ever knew. He had a wife to whom he was devoted with a dog-like devotion; he went to church; he was shy and reserved, and he held a mediocre position in a firm of envelope-makers in the City. But he had a romantic soul, and whenever the public craving for envelopes fell off--and that is seldom--he used to allay his secret passion for danger, devilry and excitement by writing sensational novels. One of these was recently published, and John Antony is now dead. The novel did it.

Yet it was a very mild sort of "shocker," about a very ordinary murder. The villain simply slew one of his typists in the counting-house with a sword-umbrella and concealed his guilt by putting her in a pillar-box. But it had "power," and it was very favourably reviewed. One critic said that "the author, who was obviously a woman, had treated with singular delicacy and feeling the ever-urgent problem of female employment in our great industrial centres." Another said that the book was "a brilliant burlesque of the fashionable type of detective fiction." Another wrote that "it was a conscientious analysis of a perplexing phase of agricultural life." John thought that must refer to the page where he had described the allotments at Shepherd's Bush. But he was pleased and surprised by what they said.

What he did _not_ like was the interpretation offered by his family and his friends, who at once decided that the work was the autobiography of John Antony. You see, the scene was laid in London, and John lived in London; the murdered girl was a typist, and there were two typists in John's office; and, to crown all, the villain in the book had a boar-hound, and John himself had a Skye-terrier. The thing was as plain as could be. Men he met in the City said, "How's that boar-hound of yours?" or "I like that bit where you hit the policeman. When did you do that?" "_You_," mark you. Old friends took him aside and whispered, "Very sorry to hear you don't hit it off with Mrs. Grunch; I always thought you were such a happy couple." His wife's family said, "Poor Gladys! what a life she must have had!" His own family said, "Poor John! what a life she must have led him to make him go off with that adventuress!" Several people identified the adventuress as Miss Crook, the Secretary of the local Mothers' Welfare League, of which John was a vice-president.

The fog of suspicion swelled and spread and penetrated into every cranny and level of society. No servants would come near the house, or if they did they soon stumbled on a copy of the shocker while doing the drawing-room, read it voraciously and rushed screaming out of the front-door. When he took a parcel of washing to the post-office the officials refused to accept it until he had opened it and shown that there were no bodies in it.

The animal kingdom is very sensitive to the suspicion of guilt. John noticed that dogs avoided him, horses neighed at him, earwigs fled from him in horror, caterpillars madly spun themselves into cocoons as he approached, owls hooted, snakes hissed. Only Mrs. Grunch remained faithful.

But one morning at breakfast Mrs. Grunch said, "Pass the salt, please, John." John didn't hear. He was reading a letter. Mrs. Grunch said again, "Pass the salt, please, John." John was still engrossed. Mrs. Grunch wanted the salt pretty badly, so she got up and fetched it. As she did so she noticed that the handwriting of the letter was the handwriting of A Woman. Worse, it was written on the embossed paper of the Mothers' Welfare League. It must be from Miss Crook. _And it was._ It was about the annual outing. "Ah, ha!" said Mrs. Grunch. (I am afraid that "Ah, ha!" doesn't really convey to you the sort of sound she made, but you must just imagine.) "Ah, ha! So _that_'s why you couldn't pass the salt!"

Mad with rage, hatred, fear, chagrin, pique, jealousy and indigestion, John rushed out of the house and went to the office. At the door of the office he met one of the typists. He held the door open for her. She simpered and refused to go in front of him. Being still mad with rage, hatred, chagrin and all those other things, John made a cross gesture with his umbrella. With a shrill, shuddering shriek of "Murder!" the girl cantered violently down Ludgate Hill and was never seen again. Entering the office, John found two detectives waiting to ask him a few questions in connection with the Newcastle Pig-sty Murder, which had been done with some pointed instrument, probably an umbrella.

After that _The Daily Horror_ rang up and asked if he would contribute an article to their series on "Is Bigamy Worth While?"

Having had enough rushing for one day John walked slowly out into the street, trying to remember the various ways in which his characters had committed suicide. He threw himself over the Embankment wall into the river, but fell in a dinghy which he had not noticed; he bought some poison, but the chemist recognised his face from a photograph in the Literary Column of _The Druggist_ and gave him ipecacuanha (none of you can spell that); he thought of cutting his throat, but broke his thumb-nail trying to open the big blade, and gave it up. Desperate, he decided to go home. At Victoria he was hustled along the platform on the pretence that there is more room in the rear of trains. Finally he was hustled on to the line and electrocuted.

And everybody said, "So it _was_ true."

A. P. H.

* * * * *

Illustration: "THERE BE MRS. ROUSE'S, OVER AGIN THE CHURCH. I BELIEVE SHE DO PUT UP WITH LODGERS."

* * * * *

Commercial Candour.

From an Indian trade-circular:--

"We believe in making a Small Profit and selling Everybody rather than making a Big Profit and selling only a Few."

* * * * *

"Wanted for Tea Estate, Nilgiris, good climate Superintendent."--_Indian Paper._

We could do with one here, too.

* * * * *

"THE WANDERING JEW, E. TEMPLE THURSTON'S WANDERFUL PLAY."

_Advt. in Daily Paper._

And still the wander grew.

* * * * *

"When the Prime Minister, accompanied by Mr. Lloyd George, appeared a magnificent ovation was accorded them."--_Welsh Paper._

This tends to confirm the statements in the anti-Coalition Press that the PRIME MINISTER was beside himself.

* * * * *

From an examination-paper at a girls' school:--

_Question._ Why are the days in summer longer than those in winter?

_Answer._ Because they are warmer and therefore expand.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Visitor._ "LUCKY TO FIND A HAIRDRESSER IN A SMALL VILLAGE LIKE THIS."

_Native._ "WELL, BE RIGHTS IT'S MY SON'S BUSINESS AND 'E'S AWAY; BUT I'VE DONE A WUNNERFUL DEAL OF 'ORSE-CLIPPIN'."

* * * * *

ERNEST EXPERIMENTS.

There is no doubt that Ernest was to blame. I know, of course, that he meant well. But a passion for fresh air, unless it is checked in time, is bound to lead one into all sorts of trouble.

You see, Ernest suffers so from theories. He has theories about eating, sleeping and waking, talking and thinking; but those on fresh air are the worst (or perhaps I ought to say the best) of all. Not that we, who constitute his family, would object to his theories if he didn't get us involved in them as well; but that is exactly what does happen. There was, for example, the camping-out proposition.

It began with Mother sitting at a table one evening in the early autumn and jotting down figures. Her brow was troubled. "We really can't afford a holiday this year, girls," she said, "though I suppose we shall _have_ to. What with the price of everything just now and--" She then went on to speak with hostility of things like the Government and Sir ERIC GEDDES, though she is a peaceable woman as a rule.

Whereupon Ernest, who was at the open window engaged in a little quiet biceps-training (we won't allow him to do the more rowdy muscular exercises in the living-room), remarked, "But why should we be subjected to these eternal trammels of civilisation? Isn't the open country man's rightful heritage?"

"I see the prices have gone up at the select boarding-house where we stayed last year and met such nice people," went on Mother, ignoring Ernest. "It's five guineas a week each now."

"Monstrous," put in Ernest again. "Five guineas a week just to breathe the pure air of Heaven."

"Oh, they give you more than that," said Mother, "though I suspect the meat isn't English."

Ernest laughed sardonically. "Now let me tell you of my plan," he said, taking a newspaper cutting from his pocket. "Here is my solution to the holiday problem, and it certainly doesn't cost five guineas a week. Why not adopt it?"

"Why, it's an umbrella," commented Mother, feeling for her glasses. "But surely you don't expect it to rain all the time?"

"That is not an umbrella, it is an illustration of a portable tent," explained Ernest. "The canvas folds up and can be carried in the pocket, while the pole also folds and is convertible into a walking-stick by day. Thus you are able to camp where you will; throw off the shackles of convention----"

"It may be all right for throwing off the shackles of convention," remarked Mother, "but nothing would induce me to undress in a thing like that."

"But when it's erected it's perfectly solid----"