Chapter 2

I called him. "Look here, old man," I said, "you might get me a paper at the station before going to school. I want to see about Italy joining Austria. It's awful."

"You don't need a paper," said Peter; "look on the map and you'll see that Italy joins Austria," and he fled. It was well for him that he fled.

"Any more of that macaroni cheese left?" I said, rushing into the dining room. "I've just swallowed the oldest joke in the world and I want to take away the taste of it."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Village Worthy (discussing possibilities of invasion)._ "WULL, THERE CAN'T BE NO BATTLE IN THESE PARTS, JARGE, FOR THERE BAIN'T NO FIELD SUITABLE, AS YOU MAY SAY; AN' SQUIRE 'E WON'T LEND 'EM THE USE OF 'IS PARK."

* * * * *

"During 1912 we imported 2,290,206,240 foreign eggs. It is estimated that over 60% of these are no longer available."--_Advt._

Heaven preserve us from the other 40%.

* * * * *

THE LAST LINE.

V.

At last! We are "recognised" by the War Office! Our months of toil are not to go unrewarded. Two hours every evening at the end of an ordinary civilian day's work, all Saturday afternoon and the whole of Sunday, we have given these up cheerfully, supported by the hope of ultimate recognition. And now it is come!

The terms of the War Office are generous. They are these. Provided that we buy our own rifles and equipment and continue to pay our own training expenses; provided that we use no military terms and make no attempt to wear any clothing which may look to the Germans at all like a soldier's uniform; provided that the War Office is at perfect liberty to employ upon those of us within the age limits a conscription for whole-time service which it has no intention of employing upon the more patriotic man who spends his week-ends playing golf; these provisions complied with, we--_are allowed to go on living!_

That startles you? I thought it would. You looked down upon us. Recognition, you told yourself, would only mean that we were immediately to be employed as waterproof sheeting for the new huts or concrete foundations for the new guns. Aha! Now you wish you had joined us. We are allowed to go on living!

But I was forgetting. The War Office is being even more generous than that. In return for our not bothering them any more, it will allow us to wear (and pay for) a small red armlet with "G.R." on it; the red colour, I suppose, informing the Germans that we have just been vaccinated, and the "G.R." ("got rash") warning them that the left arm is irritable.

James is annoyed about it. This is silly of him. As I point out, our soldiers have already earned a reputation abroad for gaiety and high spirits, and it is all to the good that the War Office should show that it has a sense of humour equally keen. When the invasion comes, and music-halls, cinemas and football matches are closed down, the amusement of the country (as the War Office has foreseen) will depend entirely upon _us_. Let us, then, obey rigidly the seven commandments of "recognition" and see how funny we can be.

For instance:--

AT HEADQUARTERS.

[_The Brigadier and the Adjutant--I beg pardon (don't shoot)--Father and Father's Help are discovered in conversation._]

_Father (explaining orders)._ The Battalion will advance to-morrow towards Harwich, where the enemy----

_Father's Help._ Excuse me, Sir, but isn't that _rather_ too military? How would this do?--"The brethren will walk out towards Harwich to-morrow, where the Band of Hope from another parish has already assembled."

IN THE FIELD.

_Churchwarden Jones._ Advance in half-pew rushes from the right!

_Sidesman Tomkins._ No. 1 half-pew, advance.... At the congregation in front at a thousand yards.

_Parishioner Brown (to his neighbour)._ I say, how many bullets have you brought with you?

_Parishioner Smith._ Fifteen. Fact is, I'm jolly hard up just now. Emily's been ill again, and one thing and another.... I did have twenty, but the baby swallowed two.... You might lend me some, old man. I promise to pay you back at the end of the month.

_Parishioner Brown._ I'll lend you a couple, but that's really all I can spare.... Look at Boko swanking away like a bally millionaire. That's his tenth shot this afternoon. Fairly chucking his money about.

_Parishioner Robinson._ I'll give you a hundred cartridges in exchange for your bayonet if you like. Sickening the Germans coming just now; it's my birthday next week and I'd been practically promised one by Aunt Sarah.

IN ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

_Elder Perks, C.B. (that is to say, "completely bald")._ What the blank blanket do those blanks think they're doing?

_Lay-Helper Snooks._ I beg your pardon, Sir, for reminding you, but _military_ terms are not allowed to be used.

_Elder Perks._ Quite right, Snooks; I forgot myself. Kindly request the organist to sound the Assemble. Those naughty lads are running in the wrong direction.

AT THE GERMAN HEADQUARTERS.

_German Officer (to prisoner)._ You are a civilian and you are caught bearing arms. Have you anything to offer in your defence?

_Prisoner._ Civilian be blowed! I'm recognised by the War Office. Look at my---- Oh lor, it's come off again!

_German Officer._ Well?

_Prisoner._ I know appearances are against me, but----

_German Officer._ What is your rank?

_Prisoner._ Er--Chairman of the Committee.

_German Officer._ I thought so. (_To Sergeant_) Take him away and shoot him. (_To Prisoner_) Any last message you wish to leave will be delivered.

_Prisoner (drawing himself up nobly)._ Tell my wife not to mourn me. Tell her that I die happy (_his voice breaks for a moment_) knowing that my death (_with deep emotion_) is--technically--(_a happy smile illuminates his face_) an illegal one.

* * *

And so I tell James not to worry. If the worst befalls him--and all the time when I was writing "prisoner" above I seemed to see James in that position--if the worst befalls him, his partner will at least be able to bring an action against somebody. For we are not "civilians." We are--well, I don't quite know _what_ we are.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

OUR MIGHTY PENMEN.

(_In acknowledgment of the services of some of the gifted representatives of "The Daily Mail" and "The Daily Chronicle."_)

_Correspondents, though banned at the Front, Are so manfully doing their "stunt" In searching for news That the Limerick Muse Thus honours their skill in the hunt._

The despatches of Mr. ELIAS Are so laudably free from all bias That their moderate strain Has given much pain To the shade of the late ANANIAS.

K. OF K., who by birth is a Kerry man, Much approves of the work of Z. FERRIMAN, For it holds the just mean That's betwixt and between The extremes of Cassandra and Merryman.

For news that is fresh from the spot Commend me to great ALAN BOTT; The stuff that he wires Stokes our patriot fires Without being ever too hot.

The despatches of good Mr. PERRIS Have the flavour of syrupy "sherris;" They enrapture the mind Of the sane and refined-- Especially ELLALINE TERRISS.

In Rotterdam city JAMES DUNN Keeps his vigilant eye on the Hun, And fires off despatches In generous batches, Like a humanized 15-inch gun.

It is futile to cavil or carp At Sir ALFRED, whose surname is SHARPE; For he soothes us or stings As the nightingale sings, Or as angels perform on the harp.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE MASTER WORD.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE ZEPPELIN MENACE.

A SMART LONDON CELLAR IN WAR-TIME. PICTURED BY A BERLIN ARTIST.

* * * * *

THE FOUR SEA LORDS.

(_For the information of an ever-thirsty public._)

FIRST SEA LORD.

This is the man whose work is War; He plans it out in a room on shore-- He and his Staff (all brainy chaps) With miniature flags and monster maps, And a crew whose tackle is Hydro-graphic, With charts for steering our ocean traffic. But the task that most engrosses him Is to keep his Fleet in fighting trim; To see that his airmen learn the knack Of plomping bombs on a Zeppelin's back; To make his sailors good at gunnery, And so to sink each floating hunnery.

SECOND SEA LORD.

Here is the man who mans the Fleet With jolly young tars that can't be beat; He has them trained and taught the rules; He looks to their hospitals, barracks, schools; He notes what rumorous Osborne's doing, And if it has mumps or measles brewing. He fills each officer's vacant billet (Provided the First Lord doesn't fill it); And he casts a fatherly eye, betweens, On that fine old corps, the Royal Marines. This is the job that once was JELLICOE'S, But now he has one a bit more bellicose.

THIRD SEA LORD.

Ships are the care of the Third Sea Lord, And all Material kept on board. 'Tis he must see that the big guns boom And the wheels go round in the engine-room; 'Tis he must find, for cloudy forays, Aeroplanes and Astra Torres; And, long ere anything's sent to sea, Tot up a bill for you and me.

FOURTH SEA LORD.

The Fourth Sea Lord has a deal to plan, For he's, chief of all, the Transport man. He finds the Fleet in coal and victuals (Supplying the beer--if not the skittles); He sees to the bad'uns that get imprisoned, And settles what uniform's worn (or isn't).... Even the stubbornest own the sway Of the Lord of Food and the Lord of Pay!

* * * * *

SEARCHLIGHTS ON THE MERSEY.

A long lean bar of silver spans The ebon-rippled water-way, And like a lost moon's errant ray Strikes on the passing caravans--

Ghost-ships that from the desert seas Loom silent through the steady beams, Pale phantoms of elusive dreams Cargoed with ancient memories.

Through the long night across the cool Black waters to their shrouded berth, Bearing the treasures of the earth, Glide the fair ships to Liverpool.

* * * * *

"Londoner" in _The Evening News_:--

"Long live King Leopold, a faithful prince if ever there was one, as loyal to his brave Belgians as they, gallant souls that they are, are loyal to him. Does he, I wonder, ever take a look at his family pedigree?"

Because, if so, he would discover that his name was really Albert.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE KING AT THE FRONT.

"TOMMY", (_having learned the language_). "VIVE LE ROI!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Michael (gloomily)_. "MUMMY, I DO HOPE I SHAN'T DIE SOON."

_Mummy_. "DARLING! SO DO I--BUT WHY?"

_Michael_. "IT WOULD BE _TOO_ AWFUL TO DIE A CIVILIAN."

* * * * *

THE ENTENTE IN BEING.

We were sitting in a little restaurant in the gay city--which is not a gay city any more, but a city of dejection, a city that knows there is a war going on and not so long since could hear the guns. There are, however, corners where, for the moment, contentment or, at any rate, visitations of mirth are possible, and this little restaurant is one of them. Well, we were sitting there waiting for coffee, the room (for it was late) now empty save for the table behind me, where two elderly French bourgeois and a middle-aged woman were seated, when suddenly the occupant of the chair which backed into mine and had been backing into it so often during the evening that I had punctuated my eating with comments on other people's clumsy bulkiness; suddenly, as I say, this occupant, turning completely round, forced his face against mine and, cigarette in hand, asked me for a light. I could see nothing but face--a waste of plump ruddy face set deep between vast shoulders, a face garnished with grey beard and moustache, and sparkling moist eyes behind highly magnifying spectacles. Very few teeth and no hair. But the countenance as a whole radiated benignance and enthusiasm; and one thing, at any rate, was clear, and that was that none of my resentment as to the restlessness of the chair had been telepathed.

Would I do him the honour of giving him a light? he asked, the face so close to mine that we were practically touching. I reached out for a match. Oh, no, he said, not at all; he desired the privilege of taking the light from my cigarette, because I was an Englishman and it was an honour to meet me, and--and----"_Vive l'Angleterre!_" This was all very strange and disturbing to me; but we live in stirring times, and nothing ever will be the same again. So I gave him the light quite calmly and with great presence of mind said, "_Vive la France!_" Then he grasped my hand and thanked me for the presence of the English army in his country, the credit for which I endeavoured fruitlessly to disclaim, and we all stood up and bowed to each other severally and collectively, and resumed our own lives again.

But the incident had been so unexpected that I, at any rate, could not be quite normal just yet, for I could not understand why, out of four of us, all English, and one a member of the other sex, so magnetic to Frenchmen, I should have been selected either as the most typical or the most likely to be cordial--I who only a week or so ago was told reflectively by a student of men, gazing steadfastly upon me, that my destiny must be to be more amused by other people than to amuse them. Especially, too, as earlier in the evening there had been two of our men--real men--in khaki in the room. Yet there it was: I, a dreary civilian, had been carefully selected as the truest representative of Angleterre and all its bravery and chivalry, even to the risk of dislocation of the perilously short neck of the speaker.

It was therefore my turn to behave, and I whispered to the waiter to fill three more glasses with his excellent _Fine de la maison_ (not the least remarkable in Paris) and place them on the next table, with our compliments. This he did, and the explosion of courtesy and felicitations that followed was terrific. It flung us all to our feet, bowing and smiling. We clinked glasses, each of us clinking six others; we said "_Vive la France!_" and "_Vive l'Angleterre_." We tried to assume expressions consonant with the finest types of our respective nations. I felt everything that was noblest in the English character rushing to my cheeks; everything that was most gallant and spirited in the French temperament suffused the face of my friend until I saw nothing for him but instant apoplexy. Meanwhile he grasped my hand in his, which was very puffy and warm, and again thanked me for all that _ces braves Anglais_ had done to save Paris and _la belle France_.

Down we all sat again, and I whispered to our party that perhaps this was enough and we had better creep away. But there was more in store. Before the bill could be made out--never a very swift matter at this house--I caught sight of a portent and knew the worst. I saw a waiter entering the room with a tray on which was a bottle of champagne and seven glasses. My heart sank, for if there is one thing I cannot do, it is to drink the sweet champagne so dear to the bourgeois palate. And after the old _fine_, not before it! To the French mind these irregularities are nothing; but to me, to us....

There however it was, and, in a moment, the genial enthusiast was again on his feet. Would we not join them, he asked, in drinking to the good health and success of the Allies in a glass of champagne? Of course we would. We were all on our feet again, all clinking glasses again, all crying "_Vive la France!_" "_Vive l'Angleterre!_" to which we added, "_À bas les Allemands!_" all shaking hands and looking our best, exactly as before. But this time there was no following national segregation, but we sat down in three animated groups and talked as though a ban against social intercourse in operation for years had suddenly been lifted. The room buzzed. We were introduced one by one to Madame, who not only was my friend's wife, but, he told us proudly, helped in his business, whatever that might be; and Madame, on closer inspection, turned out to be one of the capable but somewhat hard French women of her class, with a suggestion somewhere about the mouth that she had doubts as to whether the champagne had been quite a necessary expense--whether things had not gone well enough without it, and my contribution of _fine_ the fitting conclusion. Still she made a brave show at cordiality. Then we were introduced to the other gentleman, who was Madame's cousin and had a son at the Front, and, on hearing this, we shook hands with him again, and so gradually we disentangled and at last got into our coats and made our adieux.

When I had shaken his feather-bed hand for the last time my new friend gave me his card. It lies before me now as I write and I do not mean to part with it:--

BAPTISTE GRIMAUD, DÉLÉGUÉ CANTONAL, 9A PLACE GAMBETTA.

_Pompes Funèbres._

Well, if ever I come to die in Paris I know who shall bury me. I would not let any one else do it for the world. Warm hearts are not so common as all that!

* * * * *

Illustration: FAITH.

* * * * *

A FOOTNOTE TO HERODOTUS.

It has been discovered by a Berlin research student that "Germany" is a mere corruption of "Cyrmania," and that the KAISER is descended from CYRUS, King of Persia.

We are inclined to agree as to the "mania" part, and we think the "corruption" must be that of the modern representatives of the ancient Orientals, whose education consisted in riding, shooting--and telling the truth.

The _Almanach de Bouverie Street_, however, informs us that the ever-frowning WAR LORD derives from the monarch of the rocky brow, who counted his men by nations at break of day, and when the sun set where were they? If the Hohenxerxes family are still on the look-out for places in the sun, they will find their ancestral homes for the most part unoccupied in the sufficiently arid regions around Ecbatana and Persepolis, now crying aloud for Kultur and Kraut.

We are still waiting to hear that VON HAFIZ and OMAR ZU KHAYYAM, as well as SHAKSPEARE, have been proved to be Germans, and that the Herr WOLFF of the Berlin Lie Bureau traces back to the foster-mother of ROMULUS--and Romance.

* * * * *

ULTIMATUM.

_Mr. Punch_ begs to remind the 1,793 correspondents who have lately sent him delightful plays upon the word "wet" [DE WET the man and "de wet" the rain (ha-ha)] that the same idea had already occurred to 15,825 correspondents during the Boer War. Time is a great healer, but twelve years is not long enough.

* * * * *

Mr. C. G. GREY writes in _The Daily Express_ on the Freidrichshafen air-raid:--

"The raid itself was one of those simple affairs which might have been done by any aviator possessing skill and pluck, only fortunately for these three officers nobody else did it."

And the disparaging comment was one of those simple affairs which might have been done by any journalist possessing ---- and ----, only fortunately nobody else did it.

* * * * *

THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS.

Waking at six, I lie and wait Until the papers come at eight. I skim them with an anxious eye Ere duly to my bath I hie, Postponing till I'm fully dressed My study of the daily pest. Then, seated at my frugal board, My rasher served, my tea outpoured, I disentangle news official From reams of comment unjudicial, Until at half-past nine I rise Bemused by all this "wild surmise," And for my daily treadmill bound Fare eastward on the underground. But, whether in the train or when I reach my dim official den, Placards designed to thrill and scare Affront my vision everywhere, And double windows can't keep out The newsboy's penetrating shout. For when the morning papers fail The evening press takes up the tale, And, fired by furious competition, Edition following on edition, The headline demons strain and strive Without a check from ten till five, Extracting from stale news some phrase To shock, to startle or amaze, Or found a daring innuendo-- All swelling in one long crescendo, Till, shortly after five o'clock, When business people homeward flock, From all superfluous verbiage freed Comes JOFFRE'S calm laconic screed, And all the bellowings of the town Quelled by the voice of Truth die down, Enabling you and me to win Twelve hours' release from Rumour's din.

* * * * *

Illustration: "RUN AVAY, YOU LEEDLE POYS; DON'T GOME HERE SHPYING ABOUT!"

* * * * *

A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR THE QUEEN.

A few days ago, when sitting in Committee on ways and means in the matter of Christmas presents, Joan and I made out that the extra taxes which we should be called upon to disgorge this year would amount to £3 16_s._ 1_d._

"That's curious!" Joan remarked, comparing our calculation with some figures on another slip of paper before her. "Isn't three pounds sixteen and a penny half of seven pounds twelve and twopence?"

"It is," I admitted. "But why?"

"Because last year," said Joan, "our Christmas presents cost us exactly seven pounds twelve and twopence. In other words it means that we can only afford--owing to the extra taxes--to spend half that sum on presents this year."

I nodded.

"Well," continued Joan, "I have a splendid idea. Our folk, I know, won't expect proper presents this year. How would it be if we----"

"I know what you mean," I chimed in. "Give them half-presents! Half a lace scarf to your mother, one fur glove only to your father, afternoon-tea saucers to Aunt Emma, a Keats Calendar for 182-1/2 days to Uncle Peter, kilt-lengths instead of dress-lengths to Cook and Phoebe, and so on, all with promissory notes for the balance attached."

"I don't mean anything of the sort," said Joan. "We shall give no half-presents. We shall give one whole present where it will be needed far more than by our relations. It will have a face-value of three pounds sixteen and a penny, but virtually it will represent a sum of seven pounds twelve and twopence."

I coughed a sceptic's cough.

"You don't believe me," said Joan. "Now, will you be content to give me, here and now, a cheque for three pounds sixteen and a penny, and credit your conscience with double that sum? Will you be willing to leave its disposal to me if I guarantee that that shall be the full extent of your liability?"

"Absolutely!" I replied with enthusiasm. "Can't you arrange to settle the rates, the electric-light bill and the coal bill on the same terms?"

"No," said Joan gravely, "my principle only applies to presents. Here's your cheque-book and here's my fountain-pen."

"What is your principle?" I asked as I meekly complied with her demand.

"What did Mr. ASQUITH say in 1912?" was all the answer Joan vouchsafed, so I decided to follow that eminent statesman's advice and wait and see.

* * *

When I came down to breakfast two days later Joan passed me _The Times_. "Read that," she said, indicating a paragraph in the "Personal" column marked in pencil.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer," I read out, "acknowledges the receipt of two pounds and three shillings conscience-money from----"

"Oh! I've marked the wrong paragraph," exclaimed Joan. "It's the one underneath." Then I saw--

"The Hon. Treasurer of the QUEEN'S 'Work for Women' Fund, 33, Portland Place, W., gratefully acknowledges the receipt of Treasury notes and postal orders to the value of £3 16_s._ 1_d._ forwarded by an anonymous donor."

When I looked up Joan was smiling significantly.

"Very nice," I commented, "but I see they've only acknowledged the original amount I gave you. I thought you were going to double it."

"And so I have," said Joan. "He (or she) gives twice who gives quickly."