Chapter 2

An hour later, with bands playing and people cheering, they wheeled out of barracks, brown and businesslike. Jane was in the front somewhere, waving her handkerchief--not such a silly Jane, after all. And at the back, very proud for her, Celia and I stood silent, with a something in the throat that had come there suddenly....

And this morning the cup was upside-down again. Well, well, if she likes it that way, that way let it be.

But take warning, O Jane! When your man--here's luck to him!--comes back, then I shall assert myself once more. My cup, "Long Jump, 1739. First Prize," shall stand the right way up; either that or you leave my service. I am determined about this....

Meanwhile we can share the daily paper.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

"Dear _Mr. Punch_,--You may remember that QUEEN VICTORIA recorded in her _Journal in the Highlands_ that 'Vicky sat down on a wasps' nest.' 'VICKY,' of course, was destined later to be the mother of WILHELM II. Can we not see in the present situation rather a remarkable example of heredity?--Yours, etc., MEDICO."

* * * * *

From a _Daily Chronicle_ special correspondent--

"A little meat and plenty of vegetables take one a long way--lettuce, soup, eggs, en surprise, peas, dessert, voila--even the very poor can afford such a dinner in Brussels."

A seven-course dinner is certainly more than we can afford in England.

* * * * *

Illustration: "IT'S AN ILL WIND ..."

_Old Cock Grouse._ "I SEE THEY'VE ALL GONE SHOOTING EAGLES."

* * * * *

THE PRIVATE VIEW.

I take train home every evening from one of our best stations. Crowned heads fairly tumble over one another there in their anxiety to get a first glimpse of London. Personages are matters of daily arrival.

The other night I reached my station just as a Personage was due. A drive led from his platform to the outside world. On one side of it were lined up the public six deep. On the other side of it was the left luggage office. Four policemen saw to it that no person crossed to the other side except on business.

I began crossing.

"Not that side," said Robert, "unless you want the left luggage."

"The left luggage," I explained, "is my one desire."

I crossed.

The clerk was unusually prompt.

"What's yours?" he said.

"Since you ask," I replied, "I could do with a small stout; or, alternatively, a sherry and bitters."

He kept silence, but with a touch of urgency in it. It is hard to temporize when confronted with a businesslike silence. Yet my view of the drive was worth fighting for.

"I might leave my watch," I continued after a brief hesitation, "but the fact is I left it last week with my only godson. Have you a godson? You know what they are--always wanting something."

"Come along, now," said the official brusquely. Robert, too, was becoming restive.

"Very well; I will deposit my hat. You will be careful with it, won't you?"

He accepted my hat untenderly.

"What name?"

"George," I said; "but they call me 'Winkles' at home."

He was a man not easily moved. He wrote down "George" without hesitation on a bit of pink paper and asked for twopence as he gave it to me.

Just then, to my great relief, the Boat Express arrived. I searched in all my pockets and at last found half-a-sovereign.

I told you he was a man not easily moved. He gave me nine-and-tenpence without a word, but with more halfpennies than was quite nice.

There was a stir in the crowd. I must hang on yet a little, or give it up, or stand six deep. I cannot stand standing six deep. But it is the duty of every citizen to welcome Personages.

Then I bethought me of my pink paper.

I summoned the man who was not easily moved and presented it. "The deposit," I explained, "was a hat--a felt hat--I cannot be sure of the size, but at a guess I should put it somewhere between 7 and 8."

But he had already retrieved it.

I took it and replaced it on my head as I turned in the nick of time to take it off to the Personage. He gave me a very sweet smile, the memory of which I cherish so fondly that I am loth to attribute it to the fashionable dent I subsequently discovered in my bowler.

* * * * *

In the present restriction of Sport we sympathize with that section of the Press which makes it a speciality. However, there are outlets; and one of our Sporting contemporaries has burst forth into history, as follows:--

"Once again England is faced with a crisis. There has been nothing like it since Alexander the Great burned his boats and crossed the Rubicon."

An Infant Prodigy.

"Although only in his 41st year Mr. F. E. Smith is a Master of Arts ..."

_Pall Mall Gazette._

* * * * *

Illustration: _Medical Officer._ "SORRY I MUST REJECT YOU ON ACCOUNT OF YOUR TEETH."

_Would-be Recruit._ "MAN, YE'RE MAKING A GRAN' MISTAKE. I'M NO WANTING TO BITE THE GERMANS, I'M WANTING TO SHOOT 'EM."

* * * * *

A FIRST CHARGE.

_Mr. Punch's_ appeal is once more for the children. Most earnestly, and with great confidence, he begs his readers to care for those little ones whose fathers and brothers are serving under the Flag for our country's honour and the defence of our homes, or may suffer through loss of work. All gifts to the National Relief Fund should be addressed to H.R.H. The Prince of Wales, at Buckingham Palace.

* * * * *

A PLEA FOR PEGASUS.

Ye mobilisers of that other arm Whose might is famed superior to the sabre's, Who furnish forth the wherewithal to charm The Special Correspondent to his labours, And by whose enterprise we're daily fed on Reports of Armageddon.

List to my plaint. It is not that I tire Of those despatches--picturesque effusions-- Which by the witness of a later wire Are proved to rank among the Great Illusions; Though much to be deplored, such news, I'm willing Freely to own, is thrilling.

But when your pages, shrunken through the scare Of that worst blow of all, a paper famine, Dispense exclusively Bellona's fare, And, failing battle tales, you simply cram in Facts about spies, commodities and prices, I writhe beneath this crisis.

I can support the other pains of war: Transport disorganised and credit shaken, The fear of hunger knocking at the door, And threepence extra on a pound of bacon; In fact, I'd be the most resigned of creatures If you'd compose your "features."

Could you not lift a corner of the mask That makes these solemn days so much more solemn? A very little ray is all I ask To light the utter darkness--say a column Of "stories" which your slang describes as "snappy;" With these I could be happy;

With these my topic Muse I might entice; But war has left her mute, and me despairing. They call for horses; must I sacrifice The steed with whom I've taken many an airing? Poor Pegasus--and none too well-conditioned! Must _he_ be requisitioned?

* * * * *

From parallel columns in The Evening News:---

"Haelen is forty-five miles northwest | "The centre of the battle was of Liége; it is fifty miles | at Haelen (thirty miles east of Brussels." | northwest of Liége | and thirty miles | from Brussels)."

This is simply to deceive the Germans.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE WORLD'S ENEMY.

THE KAISER. "WHO GOES THERE?"

SPIRIT OF CARNAGE. "A FRIEND--YOUR ONLY ONE."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Fond Mother_ (_full of war news_). "DON'T GO TOO FAR OUT, GIRLS. YOU CAN'T BE TOO CAREFUL WITH ALL THIS FIGHTING GOING ON."

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S HOLIDAY STORIES.

II.--THE ISLAND CUP RACE.

Cowes week was drawing near to its brilliant climax. Through the blue waters of the Solent a swarm of palatial steam yachts, saucy outriggers, graceful cutters and wasp-like motor boats jostled one another in their efforts to gain safe anchorage after the strenuous excitement of the day's racing. Everywhere could be heard the clank of mooring chains, mingled with the full-flavoured oaths of sailor men.

Gradually silence fell upon the scene, broken only by the melodious murmur of numberless gramophones and the soft strains of the band of the Royal Yacht Squadron.

As the sun descended lower beneath the horizon the dusk deepened, and presently thousands of Chinese lanterns twinkled through the gloom from mast and yard-arm. Lady Margaret Tamerton, leaning idly against the barnacle of her brother's yacht, the _Seamaid_, drank in the beauty of the night with deep inhalations.

The voice of young Lord Tamerton at her side at last broke the spell of silence.

"Madge," he said softly, "Wonderson has not yet arrived. If he doesn't come, our chances of winning the Island Cup to-morrow are practically hopeless."

"Don't worry, Fred," replied Lady Margaret. "Ralph never fails.... Listen, he is coming now."

And, indeed, the muffled beat of oars was heard approaching from the darkness. Soon a slim white boat came gliding up to the prow of the _Seamaid_. Ralph Wonderson, a tall athletic figure in his immaculate flannels and straw boater, poised himself on the gunwale, gathered himself for a spring, and leaped with the agility of a cat to the bowsprit of the yacht. Sliding rapidly down this, he nodded easily to Lord Tamerton and clasped the beautiful figure of Lady Margaret in his arms.

"S-sh!" he whispered warningly, laying his fingers on her lips, as she would have spoken. "Nobody must know I am here till to-morrow. That is why I came aboard like that. Listen. Your cousin, Sir Ernest Scrivener, _alias_ Marmaduke Moorsdyke, is here, and is plotting to kidnap you. There is a traitor somewhere on this yacht who supplies him with all information. The attempt is to be made to-night."

"To-night!" murmured Lady Margaret in horror. "What am I to do? His ingenuity is dev--er--fiendish."

"It shall be baffled," replied Ralph reassuringly. "I have thought it all out. It would be dangerous for you to leave the yacht because, in view of to-morrow's race, neither your brother nor I could accompany you. There is only one place on board where you can pass the night in assured safety--the crow's-nest."

"The crow's-nest," repeated Lady Margaret, clapping her hands. "What fun! I shall be rocked to sleep beautifully, and of _course_ they will never think of looking for me there."

"Come," said Ralph, taking her hand. "There is no time to lose, and none of the crew must be allowed to see you. We don't know whom we can trust."

Snatching her in his arms, he carried her easily up the frail rigging, his mountain training showing in every step he took. Five minutes later he returned alone and dropped noiselessly to the deck. He looked round cautiously; there was nobody in view except Lord Tamerton.

"It's all right, Fred," he whispered. "Let us turn in."

They descended the broad staircase arm-in-arm. No sooner had they disappeared than a dark figure crept with a low chuckle from underneath a coil of rope and dropped silently over the yacht's counter.

A phosphorescent gleam disturbed the darkness of the water.

***

Early next morning Ralph Wonderson ran nimbly up the rigging of the _Seamaid_, carrying a tray loaded with toast, eggs, tea and marmalade. He tapped at the door of the crow's-nest. There was no response. After a pause he tapped again and cautiously pushed open the door. The crow's-nest was empty!

"Betrayed," cried Ralph, clapping his hand to his forehead. A moment later two soft-boiled eggs devastated the snowy whiteness of the _Seamaid's_ deck.

Despite their precautions, Lady Margaret had been spirited away during the night. As soon as he had recovered from the shock of the discovery, Ralph ran to Lord Tamerton and acquainted him with the terrible news. There was a period of agonised and fruitless discussion.

"Wait! I have an idea," exclaimed Ralph presently. He pressed an electric bell, and a steward appeared almost simultaneously.

"Jenkins, fetch me a race card," said Ralph.

"Yes, Sir," replied the steward. "I anticipated your request and have it here."

Ralph and Lord Tamerton bent their heads over the card.

"See," said the former. "It is as I hoped. Among the entries for the Island Cup we have the _Watersnake_, owner Sir Ernest Scrivener. He will sail her himself, that is certain. It is equally certain that he has Madge on board. If I know anything of him he will not let her out of his sight. Fred, by yonder centreboard I swear that before the race is over we will win her back."

_Bang!_ It was the signal for the competitors to line up for the great race for the world-famous Island Cup.

***

Of all the thousands who pressed themselves against the straining booms none realised that the race was for a prize far more precious than a mere cup of gold valued at two thousand guineas.

The _Watersnake_ was in front, a clear hundred yards separating her from the pursuing _Seamaid_. All the other yachts lagged hopelessly in the rear.

Scattering the foam at their bows, the two boats rushed along the blue lane of clear water which lay between the booms. Ralph, at the wheel of the _Seamaid_, gazed anxiously forward. Could they do it?

"Let loose the spinnaker," he commanded gruffly. "Haul on the signal halyard. Lower the keelson."

The orders were swiftly executed, and the _Seamaid_ leaped forward with a bound. The distance between the two vessels rapidly lessened.

"Fred," said Ralph, "you must take the wheel for a time. I'm going forward to board the _Watersnake_."

Lord Tamerton obediently grasped the wheel, while Ralph ran forward and crept along the bowsprit. The intervening space was now very small. Bracing himself for the effort, he shot through the air and landed upon the deck of the _Watersnake_. The first object which met his gaze was Lady Margaret, her wrists bound, lying beside the barnacle.

Sir Ernest Scrivener uttered a horrible oath as he recognised the features of his successful rival. For an instant he loosened his grasp on the wheel. The vessel yawed in her course and he was compelled to seize the spokes again.

***

Before Scrivener could command his wits sufficiently to shout an order to his crew, Ralph had caught up Lady Margaret in his arms and dashed to the side of the vessel. Deprived of his skilled command, the _Seamaid_ had dropped behind; it was impossible to leap back to her decks.

Without hesitation, Ralph dived into the water, and still supporting the now unconscious form of Lady Margaret, swam rapidly towards the yacht. Two minutes later he was gripping the wheel and concentrating all his immense will power upon the task of winning the race.

Inch by inch the _Seamaid_ crept up to her rival. Despite all Scrivener's efforts, the gap grew less and less.

And now the winning post was close at hand. Could it be done? Could it be done? The frantic spectators behind the boom shouted themselves hoarse. Lord Tamerton bit his thumbs till the blood ran.

Nearer drew the _Seamaid_. Nearer and nearer. Nearer still. At the critical moment, Ralph, with a mighty effort, pushed down the wheel.

A bare three inches parted the _Watersnake_ from the winning post when the slight shudder ran through her which told that the prow of the _Seamaid_ had touched her stern. The bump had been made; the race was won.

***

Ralph Wonderson stood with the magnificent Island Cup in his hand, filled to the brim with bubbling champagne.

"To the restoration of the fortunes of the house of Tamerton," he said as he raised it to his lips.

* * * * *

Illustration: _The Turkey Buzzard_ (_to the Sea Eagle_). "You may call yourself a Turkey Buzzard if you like, but they'll still know you by your white feather."

* * * * *

THE VIKING SPIRIT.

["The week-end was dull and much rain fell, but this did not spoil the visitors' pleasure. The sight of the sea in a turbulent mood was a great attraction."--_Seaside note in daily paper._]

It has rained for a week down at Shrimpton; 'Tis zero or less in the shade; You can paddle your feet in the principal street And bathe on the stony parade; But still on our holiday pleasures No thoughts of discomfort intrude, As we whisper, "This sight is a bit of all right," For the sea's in a turbulent mood.

There's nobody harks to the pierrots; For music we don't care a straw; And the "comic" in vain chants the usual strain Concerning his mother-in-law. Unbought are the beach's bananas; Our souls are all far above food; Not a man of us dreams of consuming ice-creams When the sea's in a turbulent mood.

You may prate of the fervour of Phoebus Of days that are calm and serene, When a tint as of teak is imposed on the cheek That is commonly pallid (when clean); But _we_ have a taste that's æsthetic; Mere sunshine seems vulgar and crude, As we gather to gaze with artistic amaze On the sea in a turbulent mood.

* * * * *

_The Beekeepers' Record_, referring to the photograph of a group of prominent beekeepers, says:--"Mr. Dadant's well-known features are easily spotted." We are sorry, but a little cold cream will sometimes do wonders.

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

"FOR NUTS."--The origin of this curious phrase to indicate incompetence in any pursuit or pastime--_e.g._, "He can't play for nuts," etc.--is obscure; but its antiquity is incontestable. Thus one of the fragments of ENNIUS runs: "_Nucibus non ludere possum_." Perhaps the most plausible theory is that which views the phrase as a heritage from our simian ancestors, among whom nuts were the common medium of exchange. On this assumption a monkey--whether gorilla, chimpanzee, baboon or orangutan--who was described as unable to do anything "for nuts," _i.e._, for pecuniary remuneration, was obviously inefficient. Another explanation, which we believe is supported by Mr. EUSTACE MILES, scouts the notion of an ancient origin of the phrase and fixes the _terminus a quo_ by the recent introduction of vegetarian diet. Nuts being a prime staple of the votaries of this cult, a person who cannot do anything "for nuts" means, by implication, a carnivorous savage who is incapable of progress. Lastly, there remains the ingenious solution that the phrase as commonly employed involves a misspelling. It ought to be "four nuts," and playing four nuts was an ancient but simple game, which may be connected with the cognate phrase about knowing or not knowing "how many beans make five."

* * * * *

POLLY PERKINS: WAS SHE A REAL PERSON?--A careful search in the registers of Paddington in the early and mid-Victorian period reveals so many Mary Perkinses as to render the task of identification peculiarly difficult. It will be remembered, however, that the heroine of the famous ballad is described as not only "little," but "pretty;" indeed, she is spoken of as being "as beautiful as a butterfly and as proud as a queen." So far, however, these clues to her appearance have yielded no solid results. The representatives of the famous family of brewers have been unable to throw any light on the subject, and an application to the managing director of the London and General Omnibus Company has also proved unproductive. (Polly Perkins "married the conductor of a twopenny 'bus.") Her brilliant appearance suggests a possible relationship with Dr. PERKINS, the famous pioneer of the aniline dye industry; but this, as well as the theory that she was a descendant of PERKIN WARBECK, is mere surmise.

* * * * *

THE FIRST MAN WHO ATE AN OYSTER.--The most widely circulated account of this feat is that which ascribes it to the notorious Roman epicure Publius Esurius Gulo, who was nicknamed Bellipotens from the rotundity of his figure. According to the account given in the _Gastronomica_ of Voracius Bulbo (ii. 18) Gulo was always making daring experiments, and, when bathing at Baiae on a very hot day, and seeing a bivalve which had rashly opened its jaws in the sun, he dexterously inserted a stone and conveyed the contents to his mouth on the point of the pin of his _fibula_. He was subsequently created a proconsul by NERO. The only drawback connected with this account is the fact that oysters were recognised as delicacies in Rome at least a hundred years before NERO. It is right to add that the genuineness of Bulbo's _Gastronomica_ has been seriously impugned, the best authorities (including FRANCATELLI) being convinced that the treatise was the work of a sixteenth-century _farceur_ who belonged to the royal house of Paphlagonia.

* * * * *

PARLOUR PATHOS, SPECIMENS OF.--The best specimens of this interesting emotional product are to be found in the words of Royalty Ballads. A good instance is to be found in the following choice quatrain:--

Nature cares not whence or how, Nature asks not why; 'Tis enough that thou art thou, And that I am I.

* * * * *

COMPARATIVE COUPLETS.--The correct form of this literary disease is as follows:--

A chair without a leg Is like a hen without an egg.

But it is emphatically not to be encouraged, as excessive indulgence in the habit has been known to lead to the break-up of happy homes.

* * * * *

NAMES OF GOLF CLUBS.--The latest addition to the list is, so far as we are aware, the "Sammy," but efforts are being made to induce the St. Andrews authorities to sanction the "Biffy," a combination of the jigger and the baffy, and the "Duncher," a powerful weapon for extricating the ball out of rushes, tar and other viscous lies.

* * * * *

THE JUGGINS FAMILY.--This family claims descent from Joskin ap Gwyggan, the last native prince who ruled in Dwffryn. The earlier lines in the descent are doubtful. The various families claiming to spring from Joskin adopted different patronymics in the fifteenth and succeeding centuries, amongst which may be noted Joskins, Gherkin, Guggenheimer, and Gaga.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE OLD REFRAIN.

_First Old Lady._ "MY DEAR, WHAT _DO_ YOU THINK OF THIS WAR? ISN'T IT TERRIBLE?"

_Second Old Lady._ "AWFUL! BUT IT CAN'T LAST LONG; _THE POWERS WILL SURELY INTERVENE_."

* * * * *

Illustration: _The Patriot._ "HOARD MY GOLD! I'D STARVE FIRST!"

* * * * *

MIDDLECOMBE _v_. PADDLEWICK.

I.

_Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe._ Room 99, X.Y.Z. Offices, Whitehall, _8th August, 1914._

DEAR CHARLIE,--Can you possibly turn out for us on Thursday next _v_. Paddlewick? We lost to them rather heavily in May last and are anxious to give them a sound beating. Their fast bowler is playing for them again, I hear, and we absolutely rely on your help. Can you get off for the day?

Yours ever, P. R.

II.

_Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick._ Room 83, P.Q.R. Offices, Lombard Street, _9th August, 1914._

MY DEAR PHIL,--Thanks for yours. Will try to manage it next Thursday, but am doubtful. My chief, though a capable official, is no sport, and I anticipate difficulties. I had a day off only two weeks ago for cricket. Will do my best.

Thine, C. H.

III.

_Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick._ P.Q.R. _10th August, 1914._

MY DEAR PHIL,--Awfully sorry; no luck _re_ Thursday. Boss hopeless. I broached the matter this morning (without actually asking for permission), but I fear the worst. You had better get another man for the Paddlewick match. So sorry.

Yours ever, CHARLIE HOLCOMBE.

IV.

_Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe._ X.Y.Z. _10th August, 1914._