Chapter 3

DEAR SIR,--I trust you will pardon the liberty I am taking in writing to you, but a friend of mine and I have made a small bet on a question which, as it happens, no one but you is in a position to decide. Passing your gate the other day, we were both struck by the beauty of the gilt stencilling on the column on either side, more especially by the chaste idea followed out in the ornamentation of the initial letters--the "H's." They are, as I am convinced you are aware, suggestive of the letter "M," and this it is that has led to the little difference between my friend and myself. I hold the opinion that this suggestion is intentional, and that in giving your instructions to the decorator's artist you had in mind the celebrated Mouse of Mydra. My friend, whose strong point, I regret to say, is not history, confessed, ignorance of this famous animal, and I had to enlighten him there and then by telling him how the sagacious little creature saved the life of the King of Mydra by nibbling at his ear while he slept one night, all unconscious of an outbreak of fire in the palace, thereby rousing him in time to enable him to make his escape. And how, in gratitude, the King decreed that every family in his realm should on every 1st of April--the date of the fire--receive three barley loaves, a Dutch cheese, and a stoop of ale; and every child be given a pink sugar-mouse. My friend, however, holds to the opinion that the resemblance of the "H" to an "M" is merely accidental. As we have both backed our fancy, as the saying is, to the extent of five shillings, we shall be grateful if you will settle the little dispute for us.

Yours faithfully,

F. MELRUSH.

We had no fear that Sploshington would know that Mydra and its king and its mouse were as apocryphal as _Mrs. Harris_; but his reply exceeded our wildest expectations. This is it:--

DEAR SIR,--I am obliged by your letter, and am pleased to inform you that you have won your bet. The resemblance of the "H" to an "M" is not accidental, as I had the incident of the Mydra Mouse in my mind when giving my directions to the artist. It may perhaps be of further interest to you to know that on every 1st of April it is my intention to present every working-class family in this parish with three four-pound loaves, a Dutch cheese, and a gallon of six ale; and every child with a pink sugar-mouse.

Faithfully yours,

WALFORD SPLOSHINGTON.

* * * * *

Illustration: TO BRIGHTEN UP THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Little Girl (in disgrace, to Mother as she enters nursery.)_ "DO YOU LOVE ME, MUMMY?"

_Mother._ "YES, DARLING."

_Little Girl._ "DO YOU LOVE ME _VERY_ MUCH?"

_Mother._ "OF COURSE, DARLING."

_Little Girl._ "WELL, I'VE FROWN MY PUDDEN UNDER THE TABLE."

* * * * *

NOT A LINE.

DEAR SIR, I shall not write a line to-day, Though many subjects merit my attention. To take one instance only, there is May (The month) at present in her last declension. Lord, what a dance she leads us on her May-toes, And spoils the beans and ruins the potatoes.

The gloomy gardener stands and counts the cost, His once proud thoughts to sheer depression turning. Darkly he marks the intempestive frost, Though the laburnum still keeps on laburning, And though the rose renews her ancient story And bursts her bonds and blazes in her glory.

No, Sir, I shall not write a single line, Not though the Tories storm with angry lips which Salute the serried ranks of the combine With shouts of "'journ, 'journ, 'journ" or howls for Ipswich. These do not stir me, and I see, unheeding, The Home Rule Bill receive its hundredth reading.

As for my dogs, at any other time-- One is a massive hound and three are particles-- They might provoke a stave or two of rhyme, Or shine in prose and be described in articles. But, if I owned the swift melodious Meynell, To-day I would not write about my kennel.

The woes of butlers and the ways of cooks, The contumely of wives, the scorn of daughters; Golf, too, and tennis, or reviews of books; Breezes and bees and trees and rippling waters, All these are writable, but I, Sir, shun them-- Take thirty lines: I've been and gone and done them!

R. C. L.

* * * * *

ALL SQUARE.

"A BANKER'S business," the cashier explained, "is to borrow money from one customer and lend it to another."

I smiled an innocent smile.

"To me, for instance," I suggested.

"No, not to you. The general state of your account does not warrant an overdraft."

I bowed respectfully and promised to be careful.

As a matter of fact it has been extremely difficult. They keep a little book which tells them exactly how much I have got left. At the end of last year it was 2_s._6_d._ Until the beginning of this month I let it stand at that; then I grew restive and ordered a new cheque-book. The cashier's eyes glistened as he handed it over. "Thirty, I suppose," he said sarcastically. I thanked him and withdrew. Half-a-crown aside; balance nothing.

Yesterday I went in and wrote out a cheque. Meanwhile the cashier disappeared into the back regions. Perhaps he went to make sure how I stood, but I am certain he knew all the time. On his return the cheque was ready.

"I'm just off for a tour round the world," I said. "You might take care of this till I come back," and I handed him the cheque-book. Then I drew out two shillings and fivepence.

* * * * *

ANOTHER INFORMATION BUREAU.

TO-DAY'S PROBLEMS AND THE REPLIES TO THEM.

THE COST OF ENNOBLEMENT.--A LOVER OF ART.--A VERY NATURAL INQUIRY.--THE OAKS.--A REMARKABLE OLD MASTER.--A DELICATE TRIAL OF TACT.--OLD BOOKS.--MR. KIPLING.

THE COST OF ENNOBLEMENT.

_Can you tell me what I should have to pay to become a marquis? My wife has a great desire to be a marchioness before she dies. Is there the title of marchioness in any other country besides England? I mean, do you think I could get it done in, say, Turkey or some place in need of money? Not America, I suppose? Anything you can tell me about it will be useful and will earn our gratitude.--H. F. G. (Bedford Park)._

The market price of a marquisate at this moment is £150,000. A few questions are asked. It is not usual to make a commoner a marquis at one step. There are no Turkish marquisates, nor any yet in Albania, but as one never knows what that country may bring forth perhaps it would be wise to wait a little. America confers no titles of such importance as marquis, but a dental degree is not difficult to obtain at, say, Milwaukee. Tammany has its bosses, but that title carries with it no distinction for the wife.

A LOVER OF ART.

_Can you tell me where the best choppers are to be obtained and what are the most valuable pictures in the Tate Gallery?--F. W. M. (Chelsea)._

There are excellent chopper shops near Smithfield. Opinions differ as to the best pictures in the Tate Gallery, individual taste being a powerful factor in the making of a choice.

A VERY NATURAL ENQUIRY.

_Can you tell me where I can procure a book which instructs one how to write a successful revue? I have quite a lot of spare time just now and wish to add to my income.--K. M. (Homerton)._

We do not know that one has yet been published, but doubtless many are in preparation. We advise you to write to the Revue King, Mr. MAX PEMBERTON, who is always delighted to answer letters and is the soul of courtesy; or to Mr. ALFRED BUTT, who has plenty of time on his hands.

THE OAKS.

_Will you kindly give me some facts about the race called the Oaks? It is to settle a bet. I have always understood that the Oaks is a race run two days after the Derby as a kind of consolation for those horses which were unplaced in the Derby; but a friend says that he believes I am mistaken and that the Oaks is for three-year-old fillies.--M. S. (Hartlepool)._

Your friend, I am told, is right. You must have been confusing oaks with acorns.

A REMARKABLE OLD MASTER.

_I have a picture which my friends tell me is either by LEONARDO DA VINCI or REMBRANDT. May I send it to you for your opinion, and if so, what guarantee have I that I shall see it again?--W. F. G. (Woolwich)._

From your description of your picture we imagine it to be one of those on which these two clever artists collaborated. It would, however, be wiser to take it to one of the experts than to bring it to a noisy and restless newspaper office. We recommend either Sir SIDNEY COLVIN, Sir CHARLES HOLROYD or Sir CLAUDE PHILLIPS. As a precaution against the negligible risk mentioned in the second part of your query we advise you, when submitting the picture to these gentlemen, to have it chained to your body.

A DELICATE TRIAL OF TACT.

_The other day I had lunch with an uncle with whom I wish to be on the best of terms. I should say that he fancies himself as a judge of wine. We went to a restaurant and he ordered champagne, which came, already opened, in an ice-basket. When the wine was poured out he tasted it, smacked his lips and said, "That's perfect! What a bouquet! What an aroma!" I sipped and found it most vilely corked. I also noticed that the waiter was grinning, and I then realized that he knew it too, and that we had been given a bottle which someone else had rejected. What was I to do? If I told my uncle that the wine was corked he would be furious to have been detected in an error of judgment. If I did not drink it he would be furious too. If I did drink it I should be sick, and I should also be a fool in the eyes of the waiter. If nothing was said the restaurant people would profit by their low trick. Meanwhile uncle was sipping and beaming.--P. E. L. (Norbiton)._

Your problem is a very interesting one and we should find it easier to answer if you had told us what you actually did. To rise suddenly, apparently for the purpose of flinging your arms round your uncle's neck in a spasm of affection, and at the same time to sweep from the table the bottle and both glasses seems to us the course which possesses most elements of tact. The circumstance that you were inspired by admiration and love would mitigate your uncle's wrath, and a new and sound bottle could quickly be obtained. We admit that the restaurant would remain unpunished; but then that is a restaurant's _métier_.

OLD BOOKS.

_I have recently turned up in a loft the following books: "Complete Farrier," LAW'S "Serious Call," "Robinson Crusoe," WESLEY'S "Hymns," "The Shipwreck," by FALCONER, two odd volumes of "The Spectator," and PRENDERGAST'S "Sermons." All are very old, dirty and worm-eaten, and I feel sure must therefore be very valuable. Can you say what I am likely to get for them from a good dealer?--E. G. (Croydon)._

Fourpence for the lot.

MR. KIPLING.

_Kindly tell me if the Mr. KIPLING who has been making such a splendid speech about the Cabinet and their mercenariness and the treacherous nature of the Irish is the same Mr. KIPLING who wrote "The Recessional" and "Without Benefit of Clergy"? Some one here says that he is, but I doubt it.--A. L. D. (Swindon)._

We are making enquiries.

* * * * *

HULLO, BEDROOM SCENE!

When Elizabeth presented me with my first safety razor we were both extremely hopeful about the future. She, fresh from the influence of a chemist's assistant, was convinced that breakfast would receive my attentions at more nearly its official hour; while I, reading folded eulogies that had nestled mid the dismembered parts of the razor itself, was looking forward to quite ten minutes extra in bed each morning.

Incidentally we were both disappointed.

For some time everything went well. And then the disused razor blades began to collect!

Now, one of the duties of our seventh housemaid (the seventh this year) was to light gas and things in the bedrooms when it became dark. And one evening, when she was groping about with her hands and snatching at things on the dressing-table in the hope of finding matches, she clutched a group of discarded razor-blades by mistake, strewed them and her blood over Elizabeth's best blue carpet, and gave notice the next morning.

"_Now_, what is to be done?" said Elizabeth next day as she sat on the floor and massaged the blue Axminster. "No housemaid, and a bedroom carpet disguised as a third-rate murder clue."

"Either get a red carpet, or apply for your next housemaid to a Society for Destitute Aristocrats, blue blood guaranteed," I suggested.

Elizabeth left off massaging and gazed searchingly at the murder clue.

"All because you didn't throw away those wretched razor blades," she said. "Hughie, I hate you! Throw them away at once!"

"Unhate me first," I stipulated.

Elizabeth unhated me, ruffling my newly-made hair in the process.

It took but two strides to reach the dressing-table; it was the work of hardly one minute to collect that ever-growing herd of assertive "has beens," and then ... I began to wonder where I was going to throw them.

Where did one generally throw away things? Out of the window?

I turned my head away in horror. Who was I that I should shower razor blades on that passing archdeacon?

The waste-paper basket?

My housemaid's life was too valuable.

The dust-bin?

But there again the dustman might delve; the Employers' Liability Act is a tricky business and I am only insured against my own death--which always seems to me silly.

"Look here," I said, "it's not so easy to throw these things away as you appear to think. Where am I to throw them?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth to suggest places. Then she shut it again without speaking and became thoughtful.

"Yes," she admitted at length, "it is a little difficult. One can't even bury them in the garden in case they should damage the potatoes."

"There," I cried triumphantly--"they've floored you too!"

Elizabeth gathered together her pails and sponges and held out a hand to be helped up.

"Not at all," she said. "All you've got to do is to put them in a cardboard box and make them into a nice parcel, and I'll write a label."

"Now," she said, when she had finished attaching it, "let's take the dogs for a walk, just to the end of the road. This parcel contains things that are dangerous to the public welfare, doesn't it? Very well, then, I shall make sure that it's taken into safe custody by the nearest policeman."

"Look here, Elizabeth," I said firmly, "I'll have nothing to do with your silly ass tricks. If we draw blood from the police----"

"Oh, that'll be all right," she remarked cheerfully as we reached the end of the road. "We shan't wait to explain. Quick! There _is_ a policeman coming! Here's the parcel. Put it down just at the bottom of the letter-box."

As I stooped with it, "He won't get hurt," said Elizabeth. "He'll open it too gingerly to cut himself. He'll think it's a bomb."

"Why?" said I.

And then first I saw the writing on the label. It said, VOTES FOR WOMEN.

* * * * *

Illustration: "OLE BILL YONDER'S GOT A JOB. THINKS HE'S GOIN' TO SET THE THAMES ON FIRE."

"NOT 'IM; 'E TAKES 'ARF A BOX O' MATCHES TO LIGHT A WOODBINE."

* * * * *

"IPSWICH ELECTION RESULT.

WORDS AND MUSIC OF 'DON'T YOU MIND IT, HONEY.'"

_"Reynolds" poster._

This has cheered Mr. MASTERMAN up a good deal.

* * * * *

"He left to his eldest son to devolve as an heirloom his picture by Velasquez of a girl with a bird on her finger and a boy and a basket of limes and £500 to the Foundling Hospital."--_Times._

No doubt the Hospital will be grateful for its three legacies.

* * * * *

A GREAT OCCASION.

As was anticipated by the promoters of the tercentenary celebration of the discovery of Logarithms, to be held next July, the application for tickets has been overwhelming. The Albert Hall, Olympia, and the White City, each of which in turn was selected for the place of meeting, have been successively abandoned as inadequate, and it has now been decided to roof in the whole of Hyde Park. Even with the huge amount of accommodation thus available it is feared that many millions will have to be turned away.

Excursion trains will be run from all parts, and the advanced bookings are already said to have eclipsed the record for the Cup Final.

The whole period of the celebration will be regarded as a public holiday, and the Stock Exchange will be closed.

Some idea of the entertaining character of the festival will be gathered from the following abstracts from the preliminary programme, a copy of which we have had the privilege of inspecting.

The ceremony will open to the strains of Sir EDWIN ELGAR'S _Logarithmic Symphony_, composed specially for the occasion.

Among the papers to be read in the course of the proceedings we note:

"State-aided Logarithms," by Mr. LLOYD GEORGE.

"SHAKSPEARE'S indebtedness to the Logarithm," by Sir SIDNEY LEE.

"The Logarithm in relation to Federal Home Rule," by Mr. F. S. OLIVER.

"My Favourite Logarithm," by Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR.

"Logs I have Rolled," by Mr. C. K. SHORTER.

"The Logarithm at the Olympic Games," by Mr. THEODORE ANDREA COOK.

"The Logarithm in the Home," by Mr. GORDON SELFRIDGE.

"The Logarithm in the Nursery," by "Aunt Louisa" (of _Tips for Tots_).

"Logs and the Higher Criticism," by Sir Oliver Log.

"Logarithms and the Hire System," by Lord Catesby of Droll.

"The Paradox of Logarithms," by Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON.

"Logarithms and the Animal World," by the Editor of _The Spectator_.

Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD will recite a poem, entitled "The Log of the Widow's Cruise."

An interesting contrast to the flood of eulogy will be supplied by Sir ALMROTH WRIGHT, who, taking the view that the simplicity with which logarithms can be handled is leading the nation inevitably towards mental atrophy, will introduce the question, "The Logarithm: is it a Public Menace?"

The programme will conclude with a costume ball, at which everybody present will be disguised as a different logarithm.

* * * * *

THE WAY OUT.

I carefully searched through all my pockets for the third time.

"Smithers," I said, "I have lost my railway ticket."

"Not really?" replied Smithers, scarcely looking up from his newspaper. "Have another look."

I had another look. I looked in my hat-band, in the turned-up bottoms of my trousers, and in the hole in my handkerchief. "No," I said firmly, "it's gone!"

"Extraordinary thing!"

"I have no doubt," I continued, "that the railway company are in some way to blame for it, but for the moment I cannot quite fix the responsibility. Let us view the matter bravely. We are now within a few miles of our destination; in a short time we shall be asked to produce our tickets; what are we to do?"

"I shall give mine up."

"Smithers," I said; "there is a selfish callousness about your reply which I do not like. A crisis in the life of another evidently does not move you."

"You can, I presume, pay again?"

"No," I said, "I have an absurd prejudice against paying twice for the same thing; I inherit it from a great-aunt on my mother's side."

"Then you'd better explain to the ticket-collector."

"Explanations are a sign of mental and moral weakness."

"Well, I've nothing more to suggest. You'll have to pay again."

"I shall not pay again," I replied, taking the paper gently from him. "I am a man and an Englishman; and Englishmen are not to be intimidated."

"Do you think," I continued, "that you could hold the collector in conversation while I glide imperceptibly from the precincts of the station?"

"I'm perfectly sure I couldn't."

"I was afraid not," I said sadly; "that would require imagination, tact, pluck, adroitness, in all of which commodities, my dear Smithers---- Well, no doubt it's a good thing nature doesn't mould us all alike."

"No doubt, else your handicap would not be 16, while mine is scratch."

"Golf is not life," I answered. "But I will tax your genius a little less. Could you for a few moments look like a director of the line, or a foreman shunter, or something of that sort?"

"I could try."

"Then," I said cheerfully, "we will bluff the collector--bluff him into believing we are that which we are not. Many people go through life like that. It is quite simple. All we have to do is to stroll up the station looking as much like commercial or mechanical despots as possible; give a kindly smile of condescension to the ticket-collector, make a casual remark about the working of the coupling rods, and pass out of the station."

"Yes," said Smithers.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes," said Smithers.

"I see how it is," I said, taking my golf clubs out of the rack as the train pulled up. "You have no stomach for it; the spice of adventure it contains does not appeal to you. Well, so much for modern civilisation. I will go through alone with it; pray, if you wish, detach yourself from me until we are out of the station."

I sprang out and hurried up the platform; a servant of the company was in waiting.

"Tickets, please," he said coldly--unnecessarily coldly, I thought.

I smiled. "I am glad to see," I observed genially, "that on my line at any rate even the commander-in-chief cannot pass the sentries unchallenged. Your sense of duty shall not go unrewarded; let me have your card."

He stared at me stonily.

"Don't you recognise me?" I asked.

"Tickets, please," he repeated.

I have never seen a face so lacking in that gracious trustfulness which is at once the pride and the adornment of the normal ticket-collector. I think in his youth he must have committed a murder or robbed an orchard, for the shadow of a crime seemed to hang over him. I felt instinctively that he was not fit to play the part I had allotted to him.

I looked back. Smithers was pluckily doing up his bootlace several yards away; a tactless grin seemed to desolate his features. The grin decided me.

"Smithers," I called, "hurry up with the tickets; the inspector is waiting for them. Good day, inspector."

And I walked briskly from the station.

* * * * *

"One hundred and seventy started out, the number including the best of the English players and the entire American continent."

_Montreal Gazette._

If this is so America was hardly worth discovering.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Long-suffering Vegetarian Lodger._ "DON'T TROUBLE TO COOK THE CATERPILLARS IN FUTURE, MR. GEDGE. I _NEVER_ EAT THEM."

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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