Chapter 3

Come, Nora, Nance and Nellie, Let us study BOTTICELLI When we feel the gnawing craving to be smart; If we want to be _de rigueur_ We must educate the figure To show the downward trend of "plastic art." The outline should be slack, Slippy-sloppy, front and back, Till bodice, skirt and tunic--every stitch-- Seems to call for the support Of the handy-man's resort-- That naval gesture termed the "double hitch." The shoulders must be drooping. The knees a trifle stooping, And the widest waist, remember, takes the prize; When motoring or shopping The _coatee_ must be flopping Through a belt that's sagging downward to the thighs. But the evening toilette scheme Shows the opposite extreme, And, when for dance or dinner you're equipped, A clinging "mermaid's tail" The nether limbs must veil, While the corsage is the only part that's slipped.

* * * * *

"At the close of the match, Mr. Burnett, Kenmay, announced the result and called for cheers for the winners. Mr. J. Fulton, President English Province R.C.C.C., responded."--_Field._

We are sorry that Mr. FULTON was the only one. After his opening "Hip--hip--hip" even the most timid or indifferent should have joined in.

* * * * *

"Tickets purchased before the date will admit holders at 2 p.m. to view the machine used when 'looping the loop,' and the passenger carrying machine."

_Advt. in "The Varsity."_

At the risk of embarrassing this anonymous Samson we shall go early and view him.

* * * * *

"Councillor Johnson said the Bye Laws wore not in a satisfactory state, and suggested that Councillor Bayman be added to the number."

_Mossel Bay Advertiser._

Henceforward the penalty for breaking Councillor BAYMAN is forty shillings.

* * * * *

Report received by a South African mine-manager:--

"The mule being experimented with by feeding on bad mealies is still being carried out, but up to date the animal seems to keep in normal condition."

They must carry him out again.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"THE TWO VIRTUES."

The news, which ran like wildfire through the town on Wednesday morning, that Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER had signed the Covenant, must have stirred many hearts; but those of us who saw him on the next night as the hero of Mr. ALFRED SUTRO'S comedy are hoping that, at any rate, there will be no fighting on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, and that sentry duty in the evenings may be performed by less valuable signatories. For in _Jeffery Panton_ he has really found a part to suit him, and a part which should keep him busy for some months. Comedy is certainly his medium.

It is not, alas, Miss MARTHA HEDMAN'S, nor is English her language. Her pretty foreign accent and tearful manner became her as a French girl in _The Attack_, but it won't do for every part she plays. It didn't do in the least for _Mrs. Guildford_. The difficulty of understanding what she said was made greater by a surprising catarrh amongst the first-night audience, so that her scenes had a way of going like this:--

_Jeffery Panton_ (_clearly_). But I must just talk to you a moment.

_Stall on left._ Honk--honk! Honk! H'r'r'm!

_Dress circle._ HONK! HONK!!

_Mrs. Guildford._ No, no, I must get on with my work.

_Stall just behind._ WHAT DID SHE SAY?

_Her neighbour._ Something about her work.

_Her other neighbour._ Honk--honk! H'r'm! Honk--honk!

_Gallery boy._ HONK--HONK--HONK!

_Several voices._ Sh'sh!

_Mrs. Guildford._ No ... I ... you ...

_Second gallery boy._ Stop that coughing there!

_Injured voice._ _I_ can't 'elp coughing!

_Several voices._ Sh'sh!

But I'm afraid the coughing was not always the fault of the microbes but sometimes of Mr. SUTRO, who seemed to be exploiting a wonderful talent for starting his Acts dully. The opening scene of the Second Act, between _Mrs. Guildford_ and _Alice Exern_, was particularly tiresome. It went on a long time, and seemed when audible to be only a recapitulation of Act I. We simply had to cough.

I have said nothing of the story, for the reason that a summary of it would hardly do it justice. It is slight, and yet just strong enough to carry two or three pleasant creations and much happy dialogue. The important thing is that Sir GEORGE is on the stage most of the time, has many delightful things to say, and says them delightfully. There are also Miss HENRIETTA WATSON, Miss ATHENE SEYLER, and Mr. HERBERT WARING, all excellent.

It remains to be said that the Two Virtues are Chastity and Charity; that _Mrs. Guildford_ lacked (I think--but they were coughing a good deal just then) the first virtue, and the other ladies the second; and that the reclining chair in Act I. was kindly lent by--but the name of the generous fellow will be revealed to you in your programme when you go.

M.

* * * * *

"'Paphnutius' was given its first public performance in London recently. Miss Ellen Terry appeared in it as an abbcess."

_Hong Kong Telegraph._

Our impersonation of a nasty sore throat "off" is still the talk of China.

* * * * *

ONE WAY WITH THEM.

Leeson is the best of living creatures (as so many of us are), but he has one detestable foible--he always wants to read something aloud. Now, reading aloud is a very special gift. Few men have it, and even of those few there are some who do not force it upon their friends; the rest have it not, and Leeson is of the rest.

In fact, it is really painful to listen to him, because he not only reads, but acts. If it is a woman speaking, he pipes a falsetto such as no woman outside a reciter's brain ever possessed. If it is a rustic, he affects a dialect from no known district. In emotional passages one does not dare to look at him at all, but we all cower with our heads in our hands, as though we were convicted but penitent criminals. So much for dramatic or dialogue pieces. When it comes to lyric poetry--his favourite form of literature--Leeson sings, or rather cantillates, swaying his body to the rhythm of the lines. If any of the poets could hear him they would become 'bus-conductors at once; it is as bad as that.

Otherwise Leeson is excellent company and one likes dining with him. But there's always hanging over one the dread that he may have alighted on something new and wonderful, and at any moment....

Directly I entered the house last week I was conscious that this had happened--Leeson had made another discovery. I had not been in the drawing-room for more than a minute, and had barely shaken hands with Mrs. Leeson, when he pulled from his pocket a thin book. I knew the worst at once: it had about it all the stigmata of new poetry. It was of the right deadly hue, the right deadly size, the right deadly roughness about the edges.

"I've got something here, my boy," he said. "The real stuff. Let me----"

Just at this moment the door opened and some guests entered.

"Never mind," he remarked to me, as he approached to welcome them; "later. It's wonderful--wonderful!"

Other guests arriving occupied him, and then a servant came in to say that he was wanted on the telephone.

He returned with the message that Captain Cathcart was sorry to say he could not possibly be there until a quarter-past eight. But please don't wait.

It was now five minutes past eight.

"What I suggest," said Leeson, "is that we do wait, and that we fill up the time by reading one or two poems by a new man that I've just discovered? They're simply wonderful!"

He drew out the book and we all composed ourselves to the ordeal; Mrs. Gaston, who is the insincerest creature on earth and has no thoughts beyond Auction Bridge, even going so far as to say, ecstatically, "A new poet! How heavenly!"

But Mrs. Leeson stopped it. "Oh, no," she said, "don't let us wait. Very likely Captain Cathcart will be later still." And with a sigh of relief that was almost audible we marched down to dinner.

I thought that Leeson cut the time over our cigars rather short, and we had no sooner returned to the drawing-room than he began again. "I won't keep you more than a few moments," he said, "but I very much want your opinion of a new poet I have discovered. I have his work here," and out came the deadly book, "and I want to read one or two brief things."

"Oh, George, dear," said Mrs. Leeson, "do you mind postponing that for a little? Miss Langton is very kindly going to sing for us, and she has to leave early."

Leeson accepted the situation with as much philosophy as he could muster.

As a rule I am bored by amateur, or indeed any, singing after dinner, but I looked at Miss Langton with an expression which a Society paper reporter might easily have misconstrued.

Long before she had finished we were all calling out, "Thank you! Thank you! Encore! Encore!"

Leeson alone was faint in his praises and his face fell to a lower depth when she began again.

No sooner had she finished and gone than he was planning another effort, but during the opportunity afforded by her departure we had, with great address, divided ourselves into such animated groups that Mrs. Leeson, like a tactful hostess, laid her hand on his arm and caused him again to postpone it.

He wandered forlornly from chair to chair, seeking an opening, and at last ventured to clear his throat and again ask if we would like to hear his new poet. "I assure you he's wonderful!"

But at this moment old Lady Thistlewood uttered a little cry and at once bells were rung for sal-volatile. Her ladyship, it seems, is subject to attacks of faintness.

When next Leeson made his proposal the Buntons rose and, expressing every variety of sorrow and regret, stated that they had no idea it was so late and they must really tear themselves away; Mrs. Bunton tactfully taking down the title of this dear new poet's book and its publisher.

This being the signal for the others to leave, I soon found myself alone.

"Now!" said Leeson with a triumphant expression. "Thank goodness they're out of the way and we're quiet and snug. Now you shall hear my poet." He felt for the book. "I tell you----" He stopped in dismay.

"I could have sworn it was in my pocket," he said, and began to hunt about the room.

"Where on earth can it be?" he said.

I helped him to look for it, but in vain.

"Perhaps Mrs. Bunton took it?" I suggested.

"I'm sure she didn't," he replied.

"Perhaps Mrs. Leeson has it?" I said.

But she had not. The last time she had seen it it was on the table after Mrs. Bunton copied the title.

Leeson was so utterly dejected that I felt almost sorry for him.

"Well," he said at last, "that's the strangest thing I ever heard of. What a disappointment! I did want you to hear it."

But it was precisely because I didn't that in my own pocket was the volume's present hiding-place. When the front door had closed behind me half-an-hour later, I slipped it into the letter-box.

* * * * *

THE FOX.

The birds see him first, jay and blackbird and thrush; They shriek at his coming and curse him, each one; With the clay of the vale on his pads and his brush, It's the Fallowfield fox and he's pretty near done; It's a couple of hours since a whip tally-ho'd him; Now the rookery's stooping to mob and to goad him; There's an earth on the hill, but he's cooked past believing, And his tongue's hanging out and his wet ribs are heaving. Here he comes up the field at a woebegone trot; He's stiff as a poker, he's done all he knows; Now the ploughmen'll view him as likely as not; There--they run to the paling and yell as he goes: Here's an end, if we live to be two minutes older; See, he turns a glazed eye o'er a mud-spattered shoulder; There's a hound through the hedgerow.... Game's up, and he's beaten, And he faces about with a snarl to be eaten.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE RING.

KEEKS _v._ COCKLES.

I.--OLD STYLE.

_By Tony Shovell._

The much-boomed fight between Nobby Keeks and Bill Cockles ended in something of a _fiasco_, the last named being knocked out with a terrific uppercut in the first round.

The men stripped well, and appeared in excellent fettle. The fight commenced precisely at 11.22, only fifty-two minutes after the advertised time.

_1st Round._--Both men opened warily, sparring for an opening. Presently Cockles stepped in and drove his left hard to the nose, drawing blood. Keeks drew back, and Cockles, following up his advantage, got in a nicely-judged left hook on the eye, which began to swell ominously. Though his supporters were obviously chagrined, Keeks kept his head admirably, and cleverly ducked under a right swing and clinched. At the breakaway Cockles got his left home on the ribs, but in doing so left himself open, and Keeks shook him up badly with a jab to the jaw. Cockles' hands dropped momentarily, and Keeks, whipping in a smashing right uppercut, had his man down and out.

A poor struggle, lost solely through carelessness.

II.--NEW STYLE.

_By Philip Keppermann._

At twenty-two and a-half minutes past eleven last night a man stood looking wistfully over a sea of faces looming whitely through a thin blue haze of tobacco smoke. At his feet lay stretched the limp body of his antagonist. The disappearance of one eye; under a large red swelling, combined with a patulous and rubescent nose, detracted to some extent from the dignity of his appearance. An ugly patch of crimson over his left ribs held the attention fantastically, morbidly. It was blood, human blood, his own blood. The thought fascinated me....

Somewhere a voice was counting slowly, steadily, unhesitatingly--_one_--_two_--_three_.... The voice had in it the inexorable quality of Fate; it brought tears to the eyes like the wail of the Chorus in some Greek drama.

I looked at the man by my side. His regard was fixed intently on the prostrate figure in the ring. His fingers played uneasily with his watch-chain. He wore evening dress, and I noticed that his tie was a little crooked.

Away outside we caught the distant hoot of a motorcar. A dog barked. Then a woman in the audience sneezed; it seemed unwarrantable, impertinent, almost a desecration....

The voice that was counting ceased. The limp figure did not move. The one wistful eye of the victor closed for a moment in relief. There was a sudden incursion of hurrying figures into the ring....

The great fight was over. Nobby Keeks had beaten Bill Cockles.

_By Theresa Chingles._

I was one of forty-four women who witnessed the great battle last night. There were, it was said, over three thousand men.

On my left sat a young girl in a rose-pink evening dress, with a dove-colour opera cloak covering her bare shoulders. Her eyes followed intently the struggling figures on the stage, and I observed that she wore an engagement ring with three diamonds.

A few seats away, surrounded by a swarm of men in evening dress, sat a grey-haired woman, watching the fight with interest through a gold-rimmed lorgnette. Her eyes twinkled as heavy blows were delivered, and when one of the men began to bleed copiously from the nose, she uttered an exclamation of delight. She wore black.

So far as I could observe, no woman present showed any sign of repulsion. It seemed to me significant of the times. I whispered to my neighbour, "_O tempora! O mores!_" but she replied coldly, "Not at all!" I checked my impulse to add "_Autres temps, autres moeurs!_"

Of the actual fight I am not competent to speak. I was most interested in the referee, whose strong mobile face reminded me occasionally of Lord BYRON, at other times of Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL.

_By the Rev. Robert Shackleberry._

I had never seen a boxing contest before I was invited by the enterprising editor of _The Daily Gong_ to witness the encounter last night between "Nobby" Keeks and William Cockles.

I found an excellent seat reserved for me. It was nearing midnight when the two men mounted the platform. Cockles came first, wearing a scarlet dressing-gown with yellow collar and cuffs. He seemed to me a bluff, hearty, good-tempered-looking man, though perhaps unduly prominent in the lower jaw. Keeks, who followed, wore a bright green dressing-gown with a pink sash, and shook hands with six or seven members of the audience. He was taller and heavier than his opponent, and his features, to my mind, more intelligent but less amiable.

There was a long delay, during which I was given to understand that the men's hands were being bandaged for some reason. At length the swarm of seconds and advisers disappeared to the sound of a gong, and the combatants stood up and advanced upon one another. I was embarrassed to observe that they were nearly nude, but my embarrassment did not seem to be shared by any of the ladies present, so perhaps I have no right to complain.

The actual boxing did not last nearly so long as the preliminaries. This was perhaps just as well, since Keeks, afterwards announced the victor, unfortunately sustained considerable damage to his right eye and was also losing blood from his nose--nasty injuries which, in my opinion, should have led to the competition being stopped while he received medical attention. No doubt the injuries were undesigned.

Cockles soon afterwards fell down, and refused to rise while some individual slowly counted ten. This, I was told, indicated that he was desirous of withdrawing from the contest before his antagonist sustained any further damage. In my judgment this generosity merited the award of victory; but no doubt the authorities know their business.

I was glad to have an opportunity of gaining a new experience, but on the whole I must say I prefer a quiet rubber of whist.

* * * * *

THE OPPORTUNIST.

The personal distinctions, experiences, successes, opinions, anecdotes and statistics of Dr. Peterson, F.R.C.S., M.R.C.P., are too many for me to mention here, but are never too many for him to mention anywhere. That was the difficulty with which the Governors of the St. Barnabas Throat and Ear Hospital were confronted from the beginning to the end of their business of administration. As member of their honorary staff he performed his fair share of successful operations, but when it came to speech-making he had no consideration either for his own throat or for anybody else's ears.

"It's my belief," said the Chairman, at the special meeting of the Board called to arrange the programme for the opening of the new wing, "that the whole of this project originated in Peterson's desire to make himself heard."

"I certainly remember his introducing the matter to the Board," said Thompson, "with a brief sketch of his own career."

"And if the foundation stone could only speak," said Vernon-White, "it probably wouldn't be able to recall the name of the man who laid it, but would repeat from memory the whole of Peterson's private history."

"Proposed, seconded and carried unanimously," reported the Secretary, "that at the opening of the new wing no speech be made by Dr. Peterson."

"So much for our resolution," said Bainbridge. "Nevertheless the company will have barely got seated before it hears Peterson wondering whether he may occupy a moment of their valuable time with a little experience which happened to him the other day."

"Even he will give way to Sir Thingummy," said Thompson, referring to the great man who had been invited to make the great speech.

Bainbridge was always a pessimist. "Whether," he said, "the context be the opening of the new wing or the duty of gratitude to the man that opened it, the one subject the meeting will hear all about will be the son of Peter."

"Proposed, seconded and carried unanimously," reported the Secretary, "that the vote of thanks to Sir Frederick Gorton be moved by the Chairman."

"I see myself," said the Chairman, "resuming my seat after a few moments of inaudible confusion, and I hear a ringing voice crying forth: 'In rising on behalf of the Medical and Surgical Staff to propose a vote of thanks to our dear Chairman, I may perhaps be permitted to remind you that I joined that staff in 1887, and that since I----?'"

"Who's the senior member of the staff?" asked the Chairman.

"Peterson," said Bainbridge.

"Who's the oldest in mere age?"

"Peterson."

The Chairman thought hard. "The event is fixed for April 29th," said he. "Whose week on duty is that?"

The Secretary looked up the books. His face fell. "Peterson's," he said.

"Proposed, seconded and carried unanimously," said the Chairman hurriedly, without troubling to take the vote, "that Dr. Wilkes be appointed tomorrow the vote of thanks to the Chairman, and that the Secretary be instructed to explain the matter, with due tact and circumspection, to Dr. Peterson."

"Dear Peterson," wrote the Secretary,--"At the ceremony of the opening of the new wing, my Board is particularly anxious that everything should go with a swing, and that there shall be no possibility of any hitch. I am instructed to ask you if you will be so good as to hold yourself in readiness to make the big technical speech of the day in the unhappy event of Sir Frederick Gorton failing to turn up. One is never safe with these London men, and it is for that reason that the Board hopes you will not mind putting yourself to trouble which may prove wasted. Some of the less eloquent members of the Staff can be got to make the short formal speeches."

Sir Frederick turned up all right, as the Secretary had taken care that he should, and declared the wing open, and thanked the Board for asking him. Thereupon the Board, by its Chairman, thanked him, and he rose again and very briefly thanked the Board for thanking him. Then Dr. Wilkes got up and thanked the Chairman even more briefly still, and the Chairman got up again and thanked Dr. Wilkes for thanking him. In fact, only one man didn't get his share of formal gratitude, for no one thanked Dr. Peterson for rising (if he might) to express a few words of thanks to Dr. Wilkes.

Anticipating this possibility, Dr. Peterson devoted the larger part of his speech to thanking himself.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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