Chapter 3

"Well, here you are then. It's as easy as falling off a ladder. Only a little industry required;" and he threw a paper on to my table.

I spread it out and saw: "One Thousand Cash Prizes amounting to L1,000. First Prize L200. All you have to do is to make as many words as you can out of 'JENKINS' GLORIOUS GUM.'"

"Thanks," I said; "this isn't intended for really thoughtful people."

At this, however, he merely sniffed and pulled a fountain-pen from his pocket.

"I'll make a start," he said; "'gin' one; 'niggle'--that's rather good--two; 'mug' three." But after that his mind seemed to wander, and he added rather feebly, "and so on. It's ridiculously easy when you have a dictionary. Will you try?"

"No," I replied, and a fierce argument followed.

But just as he was getting really angry my eye fell upon a condition that I had overlooked. "Ten pounds," I saw, "will be awarded to the competitor whose envelope is opened first."

"I'll go in," I said, and Herbert replied, "Good egg, I'll bet you win. Don't forget 'mug.'"

"No, I won't forget 'mug'," I assured him as he left, for his last word had given me an idea.

Solemnly I sat down in front of "JENKINS' GLORIOUS GUM" and saw at once that my word would do. In two minutes "Juggins" had been put into a very large envelope all by himself, and I was out of work again.

But the part that you won't believe has to come.

I won the L10--I did really. Among the multitude of fat envelopes bulging with words, my thin "Juggins" simply insisted upon being opened first. The thousands of chartered accountants assembled for the counting almost fought for him, he was nearly torn in two in their desire to begin with what looked like an easy one--or so I like to imagine the scene. But Herbert is insufferably proud of himself.

* * * * *

THE SPECTRUM.

According to the Ladies' Press, Who would be really smart must dress

In crimson puce or purple hair: My Phyllis doesn't leave it there,

But less than ever doth she seem Content with Nature's colour-scheme.

Her brow is scarlet; week by week New tints bedeck her maiden cheek.

(To-day they wear the pleasing hue Which Fashion calls "electric" blue,

And, when their owner's startled, show A healthy blush of indigo.)

Her sense of artistry appears In what she does about her ears;

With colours of the naval sort She marks the starboard from the port.

Her lips are lemon; underneath Appear her willow-pattern teeth.

* * * * *

But when, to serve another end, She threatened to adopt a blend

Of tints with which I cannot cope-- The green and white and heliotrope,

"You know," said I, "your business best; Myself, I lose all interest.

In other words, it may be said, My love for you is frankly dead."

"Alas," she answered, "and alack!" ... Her nose is now in mourning (black).

* * * * *

* * * * *

NEW FEUILLETON. BEGIN IT TO-DAY.

JOSEPH LATE-USHER.

By CLEVER MAURICE.

CHARACTERS IN THE STORY.

THE DUCHESS OF KIMBERLEY (Ruby), a svelte aquiline-nosed woman of some forty summers, with green hair and two aigrettes. She has been a widow for a lonely decade.

THE EARL OF JOBURG, her son Guy, aged thirteen, who is about to go to a public school, where he will be kidnapped for ransom.

LORD ARTHUR BOOBITRAPP, his uncle, who discusses the question of the school with the Duchess. Lord Arthur is in favour of Eton, as he wishes Guy to be a wet Bob and captain the cricket eleven; whereas the Duchess, having a penchant for yellow stockings, favours Christ's Hospital. In the end they compromise, and the boy is sent to a small private school in Bermondsey, where the chief usher is

JOSEPH LATE, a superb creature with a wonderful personality. Joseph not only ushes the school but loves the Duchess with a consuming love, and a year after Guy has been at the school and defied all efforts to kidnap him he tells the Duchess of the inflamed state of his cardiac penumbra. No sooner has he done this than he trembles all over at the presumption of a poor usher thus daring to address a Duchess; but the Duchess falls in his arms, for beneath her aigrettes she is woman too.

MR. VERTIGO applies for the post of science master at the school, and, having seen Late kill a man many years before and escape punishment, gets it. Every time you see Vertigo's name you may expect trouble.

DICK BOOBITRAPP is a kidnapper and a confederate of Vertigo.

DR. SAUNDERSON is a kidnapper under the guise of a writer of prescriptions.

In spite of all precautions, such as employing only detectives as servants of the school, Guy is kidnapped. The Duchess and Joseph Late hurry to Spain to seek him, not because they know him to be there, but because Spain is a likely romantic country.

* * * * *

CHAPTER CCCXLVIII.

"Tell me the worst," said the Duchess in strong ringing tones, all the mother coming out in her anguish.

But the reply came in unfamiliar tones.

Looking up, she observed that her usher had disappeared, and in his place was the detested Vertigo.

_To be continued--but not here._]

* * * * *

AT THE GATES OF THE WEST.

SCENE--_The New York landing pier of the Ocean Palace Line, crowded with passengers and their luggage from the R.M.S. "Gargantuan."_

TIME--_About five and a-half hours earlier than ours._

_Mr. Horace Rutherford Penfold (the last thing in novelists, surrounded by New York pressmen)_: "Glad to see you, boys! Delighted to see you! _What!_ Was I hiding from you behind my luggage? What an absolutely absurd idea! The whole way across I've been eagerly looking forward to meeting you gentlemen of the most go-ahead, most enlightened Press on earth! Yes, it's my first visit to your great country. The dream of my life is now realised. Yes, of course I'm rejoiced that my novel, _The Love of a Hop-Picker_, has taken its place among the 'best sellers' on this side. Yes, people are good enough to say I've broken quite new ground in making the hop-fields the scene of a novel; the critics say my word-pictures of the hop-poles are 'absolutely luscious'; and they pronounce _Ozias_, the hop-picker, 'a giant of artistic creation.' Yes, my novel is one of the twenty which in the last six months have been called 'epoch-making' and have been said to 'stand quite alone in modern fiction.' No doubt the hop-field will now be exploited by other writers, until in time it will become as hackneyed as the desert.

"Yes, this is my first visit to your wonderful country. I am here to superintend the rehearsals of the dramatised form of _The Love of a Hop-Picker._ Naturally I am a little nervous, for to please a New York audience is the playwright's dream of heaven. And then, of course, _The Love of a Hop-Picker_ is not only utterly English in atmosphere, but also peculiarly _Kentish_. Still, with such a brilliantly intelligent, marvellously sympathetic public as yours, I don't despair of bringing the hop-poles over the footlights, so to say.

"Yes, gentlemen, I have a wife, and I've not forgotten to bring her sworn affidavit that my coming without her is quite regular and in order, because, though Ellis Island's a delightful place, no doubt, still, I want to go into your great Empire city 'right away,' as you say. Here it is: 'I declare that I, Agatha Mary Rutherford Penfold, and my dear husband, Horace Rutherford Penfold, are a perfectly united and affectionate couple; that his journey to the United States is taken with my entire approval, and that I should have accompanied him but for being an extremely bad sailor and afraid of storms at sea. (Signed) AGATHA MARY RUTHERFORD PENFOLD. Sworn to in the presence of--' and so forth. Yes, certainly, gentlemen, copy it by all means.

"No, I never heard of any literary talent showing itself in our family before. My father was interested in the retail meat industry; _his_ father was interested in the retail bread industry; and _his_ father turned his attention to the making of candlesticks.

"My impressions as I crossed? Well, I couldn't help remarking, ill as I felt, that, as we neared the shores of the New World, the waves took on better and more imposing shapes, the wind blew more smartly, and at night the stars seemed brighter and more numerous, and the clouds appeared to form themselves into stripes! Yes, this is my first experience of a zero temperature. The air is deliciously fresh: one seems to breathe in freedom with it. Well, perhaps I am a little cold, but that is because I have been waiting an hour and a-half _en queue_ for a permit allowing me to have my luggage examined; and then, you see, gentlemen, I haven't the fur coat I bought specially for this visit; the Customs people have taken it away, and also the evening clothes I had made by Pond just before I left; so that I'm afraid I shan't be able to accept the very kind invitations I received by wireless to dine with the Brainy Broadway Boys to-night, and to-morrow night with the Chocktaw Club.

"What do I think of feminine New York? Why, of course, I think her the prettiest, cleverest, best-dressed portion of feminine humanity, and with an added charm--a New Yorkiness which is absolutely indescribable. No, I haven't met any of her yet, my knowledge of New York being at present limited to this wonderful landing pier, your greatly gifted Customs officials, and the brilliantly intelligent subordinates of your world-renowned Express Company.

"What do I think of Mexican affairs? Well, gentlemen, it seems to me that only _Mexicans_ can make themselves really at home in Mexico, and that other people had better not try to live there--if living is their object.

"Yes, here is my photo and my wife's photo; my father's photo; my grandfather's daguerreotype; a black profile of my great-grandfather--certainly, gentlemen, I shall be only too pleased and proud to have them all reproduced in your scintillating, pulsating journals. So long, boys! Delighted to have met you."

* * * * *

* * * * *

A Mirdite Melody.

[The Mirdite Chief Prenk Bib Doda has joined the first Albanian Cabinet.]

Great is the Gaeckwar of BARODA; Great too was MARCHAND at Fashoda; Great is good brandy blent with soda; But, as a culminating _coda_, Greater by far is PRENK BIB DODA.

* * * * *

From a list of work for Trials at Eton:--

"Acts xxi--xxvii (_not_ Ch. xxviii)."

So Smith _mi._ had already guessed, but none the less the prohibition came as a great disappointment to him.

* * * * *

"The country between the Gamana and Katsena Rivers was inhabited by Zumperi pagans, who were cannibals and lived on hill tops."--_Times._

Thus differing from some of the inhabitants of Golders Green, who are vegetarians and live on turnip-tops.

* * * * *

ONCE ONE.

["Caroline Cloan clawed suddenly at Slew's eyes. But for a quick movement on his part it might have been very serious. He had only one eye, and could not afford to lose the sight of it."--"_Daily Mirror" Serial._]

Keen are the claws of _Carrie Cloan_, Rampant her mood. The eye of _Slew_ Is one in number; she alone, Blinded by passion, makes it two.

She's out for eyes, and cannot tarry To ponder arithmetic laws. And what is the result? Miss _Carrie_ Claws _Slew_; _Slew_ slews; Miss _Carrie's_ claws

Miscarry, and the eye is his. Rough on poor _Caroline_, no doubt; But there--the moral of it is, First count your eye, then have it out.

* * * * *

* * * * *

LONDON'S LINKS WITH THE PAST.

When I was a child I had the signal honour of being seated upon the knee of an old lady whose great-great-great-great-uncle once shook hands with a man whose grandfather remembered seeing green fields at the spot which is now covered by Carmelite House. How short is the history of the Metropolis!

Everybody, of course, is aware that Professor Joff committed one of his notorious "howlers" when he derived "Carmelite"--in the street name--from "Cromwell's Heights." The latter, needless to say, must have been a deal nearer the South Kensington Museum than Whitefriars, famed for its sanctuary. CROMWELL _may_ have wandered in the meadows (if they still existed in his day) where the 6.30 _News_ now leaps from its machines every afternoon about half-past five; he may even (as Plip and Johnstone surmise, in their ponderous tomes, _Odd Corners in London_ and _More and Odder Corners in London_) have supped at the Pig and Mortarboard, which stood on what is now the site of the Ludgate Hill station booking-office (Plip, by-the-by, wrongly says not the booking-office, but the "book_stall_," an amazing error in one usually so careful). But whatever else CROMWELL did or did not do, he certainly never gave his name to any district further east than Knightsbridge.

I flatter myself that Professor Joff's preposterous surmises were finally silenced by my monograph, _A Hundred Queer Things about Bouverie Street._ Curiously enough I wrote this with a pencil borrowed from a friend whose aunt once caught sight, as a girl, of a prisoner being taken to the Old Bailey to be tried for murder. That prisoner was the notorious Budgingham. And now comes the interesting part of the story. Budgingham, as transpired at the trial, had bigamously married the step-daughter of a man whose godfather's mother's cousin's great-grandmother remembered hearing the bells of Bow Church tolling on the day when Henri de Bouverie landed in England to attend the funeral of his niece, the beautiful Mrs. Coop.

London's history is indeed crowded, though (to the antiquarian) oddly short in its perspective. Next week, having sketched the romantic career of Henri de Bouverie (concerning whom Professor Joff has made several incredible mistakes), I shall give a still more startling example of the links which lead us so abruptly to the antechambers of what we might have supposed to be the dim and distant past. The Metropolis, to anyone who appreciates historical research and can write as easily as I can, is a gold-mine; fortunately few pressmen realise its possibilities, and that of an _Index Rerum_, as I do. If, as I anticipate, this article is printed and paid for with the usual eagerness and a series ordered, nothing can stop me---- [Wait and see.--ED.]

* * * * *

Our Gallery of Happy Phrases. I.

"Mr. Tooth, whose name was in everybody's mouth a generation or so ago."

_Dublin Daily Express._

* * * * *

POINTS OF VIEW.

If you are the sort of person who likes detail and accuracy, who can always tell where the north is even in a strange house (there _are_ people like this; I met one the other day), and--this generally goes with it--are good at geography, you had better skip this article. It might annoy you. But if you like DEBUSSY, and like watching the sun shine through a mist, and have no bump of locality, and hate being shown over ruins, you are the sort of person I am, and you will sympathise with me.

My trouble is this. Whenever I go to stay in the country I am always sooner or later taken a walk, generally a long one, to the highest hill they happen to have, and there I am shown a view. Not that I would mind if they left it at that, but they don't. One's host generally seems to have an absurd pride in some distant church, or gap in a hill "through which on fine days you can see the sea"; but even if he hasn't he will _always_--if you happen to be in the south of England--point out a patch of trees like a small piece of black sticking-plaster and tell you that that is Chanctonbury Ring. I never escape Chanctonbury Ring, though I have often gone far, even refused invitations, to avoid it. Once in Yorkshire--but nobody ever will believe that story, though I never pretended it was the same Ring. What I said was that there may be two of the same name, or even more: like Richmond, for instance.

"Do you see that hill over there?" he begins. I look where he is pointing and see three. "No, not that one," and he comes behind me and points over my shoulder. "Follow my finger," he says, and I follow it and see a perfectly flat field. But he has to be humoured, and anyhow there is lunch to be thought of.

"Yes, yes, _I_ see," I reply hastily, with a touch of "How stupid of me!" in my voice.

"Well, carry your eye along the valley on its left, over the white house"--this is the only place where there is no white house for miles--"and along the strip of road. See the strip of road?" ("See the strip of road!" I've been lost in a bog for ages.) "Well, right up as far as you can see, following that road and a little to the right, do you see a patch of trees?"

When he says "patch of trees," I know.

"Chanctonbury Ring," I say brightly. At any rate, _that's_ finished.

"Yes; how did you know?" he asks disappointedly.

Brute that I am! Why didn't I let him say it?

Only once, as far as I can remember, was I wrong. It was in the Cotswolds and we were in a garden, on the side of a hill. From the terrace outside the house was a magnificent view. My host strolled up. "Pity it's so misty," he said. (I had just been thinking how lovely it looked.) "On a fine day, you know, we can see----"

"_Not_ Chanctonbury Ring?" I said pleadingly.

He looked puzzled.

"Tewkesbury,", he said rather coldly, and soon afterwards strolled away again.

There are only a very few people whose sympathy one feels sure of when one confides troubles to them such as this Ring-finding one of mine. Of the very few I feel surest of my Uncle Edward, so I thought I would tell him about it when I went to stay with him a little while ago.

"By the by," I said, as we laboured breathlessly up a hill--he lives in Surrey--"have you ever noticed ... when you're staying with people anywhere in the South of England ... and they take you for a walk ... they always, sooner or later----"

"Just wait a minute," he said as we reached the top. "Ah yes, I thought you could"--he was smiling happily at something. "I wanted to show you before we went on--just over there----" I waited. Somehow the words seemed familiar. "See that dark patch right over there, on the furthest hill? Well, that's Chanctonbury Ring."

"Yes, you can only see it on a fine day," I replied bitterly.

* * * * *

TIME'S REVENGE.

["Professor Karl Pearson delivered a public Galton Memorial Lecture at the Francis Galton Laboratory for National Eugenics, University College, on "The Handicapping of the First-born." There was, he showed, a tendency for the first-born child to be lighter and smaller than later-born children. On the whole there was a very sensible bias against the first-born."--_Morning Post._]

Pearson I sing of, eugenic and brainy, Iconoclastic and fearless to dare. Once I thought "eugenist" = "zany," Now I know better and raise high in air Bumpers Falernian, "Looking towards you." Great be the glory the future awards you, You that have given the first-born a cropper, Bay-leaves immortal encircle your topper; Though you're a scientist, you are no dry ass-- I take off my hat to you, KARL, for I share Your "very sensible bias."

Long were we "minors" oppressed by our "major" All our lives through since we started at school; His was the limelight on every stage, or His was the fire side and ours was the cool; He got the ease of our ancestors' acres, We had to haggle with butchers and bakers, We had their bills to pay--his all the money; Ours was but gall to drink--his tipple honey; He was the "Purbeck" and we were the "Lias." So we against Primogeniture's rule Held very sensible bias.

Fallen the idol, destroyed the oppressor! Always we felt we were good as the rest, Now from the mouth of K. PEARSON, Professor, Hear we the truth that the younger are best. Vanished the halo that shone round the first-born Now that Eugenics proclaim him the worst born. Praise, Younger Sons, our great KARL, who, new seas Voyaging, found, like the old Portuguese, Capes of Good Hope--our BARTHOLOMEW DIAZ. Shout till the whole world hears clearly expressed _Our_ very sensible bias.

* * * * *

More Commercial Candour.

From an advertisement in _The Writers' and Artists' Year Book_, 1914, announcing a forthcoming publication:--

"PHOTOGRAPHS FOR THE PAPERS HOW TO TAKE AND PLACE THEM

BY JOHN EVERARD

ROBABLE PRICE 1s. NET."

* * * * *

"As he spoke the Congress hushed its breathing, growing so still that the flutter of a paper interrupted harshly."--_The Daily News._

But this of course could not go on for long, and you should have heard it when it unhushed its breathing.

* * * * *

"O'Gara proved the saviour of Widnes, for, gathering the ball, he kicked at least half a dozen players before he booted the ball."

_Liverpool Echo._

The bidding for O'GARA by the clubs of the English League, when this news gets about, should be sensational.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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