Chapter 3

In the vaulted hall where we have the dances There are suits of armour and swords and lances, Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders, All of them used by real crusaders; Corslets, helmets and shields and things Fit to be worn by warrior-kings, Glittering rows of them-- Think of the blows of them, Lopping, Chopping, Smashing And slashing The Paynim armies at Ascalon.... But, bother the boy, here comes our John Munching a piece of currant cake, Who says the lance is a broken rake, And the sword with its keen Toledo blade Is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade, Bent and useless and rusty-red, In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.

And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon With a great magnificent tea-time moon, Through the nursery-window I peep and see My palace lit for a revelry; And I think I shall try to go there instead Of going to sleep in my dull small bed. But who are these In the shade of the trees That creep so slow In a stealthy row? They are Indian braves, a terrible band, Each with a tomahawk in his hand, And each has a knife _without a sheath_ Fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth.

Are the dragons awake? Are the dragons sleepers? Will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers? What ho! ... But John, who has sorely tried me, Trots up and flattens his nose beside me; Against the window he flattens it And says he can see As well as me, But never an Indian--not a bit; Not even the top of a feathered head, But only a wall and the lean-to shed.

R. C. L.

* * * * *

IN EXTREMIS.

A Nut lay dying. He was twenty-five. He had had a good time--too good--and the end was near.

There was no hope, but alleviation was possible. "Is there anything," he was asked, "that you would like?"

He was plucky and prepared for the worst.

"Yes," he said, "I'd like to know what I've spent since I was twenty. Could that be arranged?"

"Easily," they said.

"Good," he replied. "Then tell me what I've spent on my bally old stomach--on food."

"On food," they replied. "We find that you have spent on yourself an average of a pound a day for food. For five years that is, roughly, £1825."

"Roughly?" said the Nut.

"Yes. Counting one leap year, it would be £1826. But then you have entertained with some freedom, bringing the total to £3075."

"Yes," said the Nut. "And what about drinks?"

"We find," was the reply, "that on drinks your average has been eighteen shillings a day, or £1643 8s. 0d. in all."

"Good heavens!" said the Nut. "What a noble thirst! And clothes?"

"The item of clothes comes to £940," they said.

"Only three figures!" said the Nut. "How did I come to save that odd £60, I wonder?"

"Not by any idea of economy," they replied. "Merely a want of time."

"And let's see," said the Nut, "what else does one spend money on? Oh, yes, taxis. How much for taxis?"

"Your taxis," they said, "work out at seven shillings a day, or £639 2s. 0d."

"And tips?" the Nut inquired.

"Tips," they said, "come to £456."

The Nut lay back exhausted and oxygen was administered. He was very near the end.

"One thing more," he managed to ask. "What have I paid in cloak-room fees for my hat and stick?"

"Only £150," they said.

But it was enough: he fell back dead.

* * * * *

"An extremely able statement of the case for Federation is made up in a little book by Mr. Murray Macdonald and Lord Charnwood, which is just published (T. Fisher Unwin, 22s. 6d.)"--_Daily News._

Look out for a really big book by the same authors, at £22.

* * * * *

We have long waited for a good definition of "tact," and here it is in _The Transvaal Leader_:--

"The police handled the large crowds who assembled at the station with considerable tact. One obstreperous fellow who appeared to be the worse for liquor got the butt-end of a rifle in his jaw after grossly insulting a constable, and he was then chased off by the crowd, who appeared to appreciate the tact of the police."

* * * * *

A chance for Mr. LLOYD GEORGE:--The Deforestation of Bootle.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"FOR PROFESSIONAL SERVICES."

"You know this sort of thing isn't good enough," said I, returning the document to Minerva.

"His charges are certainly high," observed the lady of the house; "but I don't think, Jack, we could get as good a doctor anywhere for less money."

"I don't complain about the charges; I suppose they are all right. What I object to is this pompous way of telling me I am in his debt: '_Mr. John Spratt to Dr. Thom. For Professional Services to date, Ten Guineas_.'"

"But, my dear, they all do it like that."

"Then they shouldn't. Tradesmen give full particulars of all charges made for their services: why not doctors?"

"Oh, they would never agree to _that_, Jack!" said Minerva in surprise. "It isn't etiquette. After all, a doctor is a doctor!"

"Let us hope so. At times I doubt it. But that is not the story. How do you suppose I am to check this account without the necessary details?"

"My dear," exclaimed Minerva, "how positively quaint you are! One never dreams of checking a doctor's account; one simply pays. Imagine asking a doctor for an invoice! The idea!"

"And a jolly good idea too," I said. "Then we should know where we were. Would you pass your butcher's bills if they merely said, '_For Commercial Services to date_'?"

"That is quite a different matter. Doctors are not butchers."

"Sometimes surgeons are, so it comes to much the same. Anyhow, I object to paying money without knowing what for. Let's apply for an invoice, if only for the principle of the thing."

"We'll do nothing of the sort," said Minerva rather sharply. "It sounds so mean, Jack, to ask a doctor for a detailed account--almost as if we didn't trust him."

"I shall mention that to the butcher next time I see him, and to the other tradesmen. It will save you a lot of trouble about the domestic accounts."

"Don't be absurd. If you're so anxious to have those petty details I think I can remember all the doctor's visits for you, without worrying him."

I drew out a sheet of account-paper.

"The first time he came this year," she began, "was to attend Tommy. You remember--after that New Year party. He called twice--no, three times to see him."

"'_Item_ 1,' I wrote. '_To overhauling and repairing Tommy's tummy, time and material, say 15s_.' When Tommy next overeats himself I shall attend to his little business myself. Yes?"

"Then there was Aunt Maria who was staying with us and imagined she had appendicitis, poor old thing! You remember the specialist, Jack?"

"I remember the specialist's fee--three guineas for absolute tomfoolery! '_Item 2. To diagnosing Aunt Maria and failing to find anything wrong and recommending appendicitis_.... ' Shall we say a guinea for Aunt Maria's put-up job? I ought to get my money back since nothing was found in Aunt Maria. There should be at least a discount on false alarms."

"Then there was Baby," continued Minerva. "We didn't know what was wrong with him--and really I don't think now there was very much the matter, although I felt so anxious at the time. But the doctor never would explain fully."

"Of course not; that would be giving the game away. '_Item 3. To baby to rights, 2s. 11d_.'"

"Two-and-elevenpence for baby!" protested Minerva. "If Aunt Maria was worth a guinea--"

"She was not. I said so at the time."

"--Baby is certainly worth more than two-and-elevenpence."

"Well, make it two pounds eleven. I don't care either way. What I want is an approximate idea of the way this fellow makes up his total."

"If he's charging two pounds eleven for all the little he did to Baby, he's certainly charging too much, Jack; and you ought to see him about it at once."

"Well, what next?"

"That was all, I think.... Oh, no. There was the time about Maudie's cold."

"Oh, those kids' colds!"

"Well, my dear, I have spoken to the children about it until I am tired. Do be reasonable."

"'_Item 4. To thawing Maudie's chest, lubricating throat, and taking hard edge off voice, time and expenses._' ... How much?"

"He was only twice at Maudie, three times at Tommy. What did you put down for Tommy?"

"Fifteen bob; but Maudie is bigger than Tommy."

"She is big for her age," reflected Minerva. "I remember asking the doctor if he thought she was growing too fast."

"He'd call that a consultation."

"'_Item 5. To advising on rate of speed recommended for Maudie's growth, one guinea._'"

"I might have saved that charge," sighed Minerva. "But that was all. How much does it come to?"

"Allowing two visits to Maudie to be equal to three visits to Tommy, the total bill amounts to six pounds three shillings."

"But that's four pounds seven less than he charges."

"And observe I am allowing two pounds eleven for Baby's fidgets--or rather for your fidgets about baby--on the basis of Aunt Maria being worth a guinea a whim."

"Two pounds eleven for looking at Baby's tongue every other day when there was nothing really the matter with him at all! It's preposterous, Jack. There must be something wrong. You must see Dr. Thom at once about that account. Call to-morrow, dear, on your way to town."

* * * * *

I called. After all there is, as Minerva says, something inexpressibly mean in asking a doctor for a detailed account. This thought occurred to me as Dr. Thom shook hands, beaming as usual with that genial heart-warming smile of his.

"Ah--er--Doctor--my wife would like to see you first time you're passing," I managed to say.

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Nothing much. A little matter of detail--that is--I mean Maudie's chest--or rather Tommy's stomach."

"Oh, we'll soon put that right, bless you. Don't you worry yourself about that, Mr. Spratt. Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

* * * * *

A little rough on Tommy, perhaps, but rougher on me.

* * * * *

THE AMERICA CUP.

* * * * *

THE WARRANT.

Our village cobbler, Roberts, has reduced the principle, "Put not thy trust in any child of man," to its very lowest and worst. He regards himself as simply born to be robbed and oppressed. Yet is he so mild and uncomplaining and unassuming about it all that no one, even the most persistent robber and oppressor, could ever find it in his heart to do him down. But even so his pessimism and readiness to be done are such that he must make it very hard for people to spare him sometimes. I have this story from our local banker, who was called upon by the Income Producer Company, Limited (of some obscure address in the City of London) to put the matter right.

It appears that Roberts had, after many years of economy, amassed some savings, which from the first he regarded as bound to land him in trouble. He indulged in twenty £1 shares in the I. P. Co., Ltd., only because he had to do something with the twenty pounds. He told everybody that he neither expected to see his capital again nor even to get any interest on it. He hinted darkly at worse things to come from the transaction, though what these might be he didn't pretend to know.

I have no inside knowledge of the I. P. Company, except that its stock doesn't appear among the use of Trustee Securities. But whatever trustees may think of it, it did declare at the end of 1913 (after a somewhat prolonged silence) a decent dividend on its ordinary shares. Maybe this was by reason of its innate honesty; maybe it was simply because it hadn't the heart to deny his rights to such a man as Roberts. Anyhow it declared its dividend, and, what is more, proceeded to pay it in the manner usual to limited companies.

And so in due course Roberts received a formidable-looking piece of paper, with the title, in very impressive lettering, "DIVIDEND WARRANT," and below the figures £1 8s. 3d.

There must be many, among the uninstructed classes, who have no idea what a dividend warrant may be, but few would, I think, at once take the dismal view of the thing that Roberts took.

By return of post the Secretary of the Income Producer Company, Limited, received an envelope addressed in a shaky hand and enclosing a postal order for a pound, together with a letter from Roberts, in which he prayed for a few days of grace, in which a poor but honest old man might raise the further 8s. 3d. thus demanded of him by legal process.

* * * * *

"The bride will be supported by five piers."

_Evening Standard._

Read this aloud to your wife and see if she isn't jealous. And then try her with this from _The Greater Britain Messenger_:--

"Big Dams and what they mean to the Church."

She ought to be shocked.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

MR. CHARLES INGE has brought to the shaping of _Square Pegs_ (METHUEN) some good and healthy thoughts about life and love and the waste of both, so that you get a wholesome impression of soundness and sincerity. And there's a dedication which makes one think the author is writing of realities which have been seen at close quarters. _Bernard Farquharson_, the big-hearted colonial, returning to England and seeing the waste of potentially good men in preposterous casual jobs which cannot lead anywhere, longs to give them the chances of the big spaces in South Africa (where, of course, there are no Labour troubles and a man's a man for a' that!). He ventures his capital in _The Dictator_, a Fleet Street derelict, in order to promote his emigration scheme, and his capital departs before either his public or the big-wigs are convinced. I can't think that _Bernard_ had really thought out his scheme. And I wonder what he would have done if the little band of square pegs he got together in desperation hadn't had the sense to refuse his offer to ship them over to South Africa with his few remaining sovereigns. They would certainly have been in a fine round hole at the other side. But _Bernard_ did a better thing. The only emigrant in his party was _Leonora_, and I like to think they lived happily ever after on his little orange-farm. I can only hope that his rival, _Pike-Sarpe_, a horrible little unctuous cad of a solicitor, will shortly do something to attract the official attention of the Law Society.

* * * * *

There will, I have no doubt, be joy in many a gentle heart over the glad news that Mrs. GEORGE WEMYSS, whose _Professional Aunt_ made for her so many friends, has created yet another charming relation. _Grannie for Granted_ (CONSTABLE) is the story of a delightful old lady who from her country home takes a placid and grandmaternal interest in the affairs of her descendants--their love affairs mostly, of course, or the engaging chatter of the smaller third generation. Some of the sayings of the latter are worthy examples of the "good enough for _Punch_" variety, which, as most persons with married friends know too well, is a phrase covering a wide range of quality. Most of them, however, are excellent and ring true. Of the love-affairs I feel myself a less competent judge, but I should fancy their appeal will be compelling to the expert. It is perhaps impossible for a book of this type wholly to avoid the charge of being sugary or pretty-pretty, but with my hand on my heart I can declare that Mrs. WEMYSS has done less to deserve it than most other writers would. I shudder, for example, to imagine what certain Transatlantic novelists would have done with the same material. In fine, here is as pleasant and likeable a treatise on _l'art d'être Grand'-mère_ as anyone need wish to read. I am uncertain as to the precise significance of the title, which may refer to the fact that you have only to ask a grannie and get what you want, or to the equal truism that grandmotherly devotion is often accepted as a matter of course. However it doesn't really matter. The important thing is that the public have asked Mrs. WEMYSS for "another of the same," and the request has been appropriately "granted."

* * * * *

I happen to have incontrovertible proof (of the external kind) that the one and only Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON is the author of _The Flying Inn_ (METHUEN). Otherwise I should have judged, by internal evidence, that it was the work of an inferior writer of the same name as himself, and, curiously enough, the same initials. Though hesitating to encourage litigation I should have been inclined to recommend Mr. CHESTERTON to apply as soon as possible for an injunction to restrain this person from doing anything further to damage the real G. K. C.'s reputation. I should have hinted that every now and then I had come upon a passage which might well be the work of the author of _Heretics and Tremendous Trifles_, and that only the intolerable dulness of the book as a whole persuaded me that it had been written by another hand. It deals with the adventures of _Lord Ivywood_ and _Captain Dalroy_, men of opposite views on the subject of temperance. _Lord Ivywood_, having by some mysterious means (not explained) acquired despotic power in England, issued an edict that all inns should be abolished. At the same time he decreed that alcoholic liquor might be sold wherever an inn-sign stood. _Captain Dalroy_ accordingly stole the sign of "The Old Ship," and carried it about with him, setting it up wherever his fancy dictated. And that, on my honour as a Learned Clerk, is the whole plot of a fat, closely-printed book of more than three hundred pages. I hope I have a fairly catholic appreciation of humour; certainly, I can enjoy most things, from MEREDITH to the American coloured comic supplement; but _The Flying Inn_ was too much for me. It cannot have been easy to write, even given useful characters like _Lord Ivywood_ and _Captain Dalroy_, whose remarks can be made to run into three or four pages; but it is considerably harder to read. There are good things in it, just as there is gold (I understand) in sea-water, but the process of extraction is tedious.

* * * * *

Miss UNA SILBERRAD's novels are invariably good, and _Cuddy Yarborough's Daughter_ (CONSTABLE), is among the best of them. _Cuddy_ himself is delightfully irresponsible, and I felt a pang of disappointment when he disappeared from the scene, although, considering that he became increasingly lazy and comatose as he grew older, his decease, perhaps, was not premature. Apart from his affability, _Cuddy's_ only claim to distinction lay in the fact that he was the father of his daughter. _Violet's_ lot fell in rather stony places; as a child she was practically the guardian of her own father, and after his death she was governess to the child of a woman as irresponsible as _Cuddy_, but not half so comfortable to live with. Men swarmed round this _Lady Lassiter_, and she loved most of them. Under the circumstances it was fortunate that she had a most unsuspicious and tolerant husband. With no hesitation I recommend the tale of _Cuddy_ and his daughter to the notice of all except the ultra-moderns. But, lest I should fail as a critic if I did no carping, I will say that, though I do not belong to any Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Infinitives, I should like Miss SILBERRAD to look at page 94, where she will find one that is not only split but split to smithereens.

* * * * *

On the paper wrapper of _Sarah Eden_ (MILLS AND BOON) the publishers themselves call it "a novel of great distinction." Filled as I am with the natural lust of the reviewer to contradict a publisher about his own wares, I am bound to admit that I can find no phrase more apt for the impression this book has made upon me. There is exceptional distinction in the scheme of Miss E. S. STEVENS' story, and there is even more in the grave charm and dignity of its telling. It is the record of the development of a singular and beautiful character; "a spiritual adventure" might have been its sub-title, for the events in _Sarah Eden's_ life were those of mind rather than body. There are two main divisions of the story: in the first we watch _Sarah_ from her beginnings as a quiet introspective child in her Devon home, and through the short course of her unsatisfactory married life. With considerable skill the author has here shown the various forces that were at work building up the heroine's character, and that strange blending of a practical and commanding efficiency with the idealism of a dreamer that exactly fitted her for the part she plays in the second half of her story. The change comes with the sudden death of her husband, and the first of the ecstatic visions that compelled _Sarah Eden_ to leave her native country and prepare a place for her Divine Master in the home of His first coming. Thenceforward the scene is in Jerusalem, where _Sarah_ establishes herself at the head of her strange little company of fanatics. You can see how large is the plan of such a tale; it is one of which you could not reasonably expect a wholly satisfactory ending, and to my mind the latter portion is the weaker. But there are some delightful scenes of life in modern Jerusalem. And _Sarah Eden_ herself remains always a profoundly moving personality. For her alone the book deserves to be called "a novel of great distinction."

* * * * *

BEHIND THE SCENES IN THE PUBLIC SERVICE.

* * * * *

A CRY FOR GUIDANCE.

(_In a weekly paper, a correspondent--presumably in the first raptures--recommends falling in love as a cure for all worries._)

It is all very well to go talking like that, But tell me, pray, how does one do it? How feel at the sight of a hobble or hat A passionate impulse to woo it? I'm eager enough of my woes to be rid, But Cupid needs help in the placing Of shafts in a heart that's apparently hid 'Neath a tough pachydermatous casing.

I have mingled with maidens--the tender, the hard, The coy and the clinging--in legions; But none has contrived to inflict on the bard A jolt in the cardiac regions; Must I turn for assistance to science or art, Or put my predicament meekly To "Mona" who handles affairs of the heart In _Sensitive Simperings_ (weekly)?

Your wonderful cure, my beneficent lad, For me, who am ready to try it, Is robbed of its worth by your failure to add A hint as to how they supply it. So nice a prescription I'm anxious to trust; 'Tis milder than pills or emulsion; But I can't _fall_ in love; I require to be thrust, And you ought to supply the propulsion.