Chapter 4

Noticing that my opponent was standing a long way back, I now made a display of hitting the ball hard and then dropped it just over the net. Mr. Crawl did not notice what was happening till too late, and I not only took the ace but had the satisfaction of noticing that my opponent was breathing hard after his fruitless effort to reach the ball. I had, so to speak, drawn first blood. I repeated the ruse with my next service. Mr. Crawl, being now on the alert, reached the ball, but was unable to stop himself, and charged into the net, and the score was called "thirty all." A third time I brought off a drop serve; the ball was returned and I then tossed it with an undercut stroke to the base line. Mr. Crawl ran back, but the ball bounding high and with a strong break he lost sight of it, and after some intricate manoeuvres, in which he had the advantage of advice from the crowd, it eventually fell on his head, and I scored the ace. I had now only to make one point to reach the game, and I effected this by a high-kicking service that left my opponent petrified.

During the set Mr. Crawl gradually got into his game, and, thanks to a strong instinct of self-preservation, he succeeded in returning, when up at the net, many of my drives at his chest and head which I had thought were sure of their mark. His play in the last rally, when the score stood at "5 games to 0 and 40 love" in my favour, called forth loud applause, and I had to do all I knew to prevent him winning an ace which might have resulted in his eventually capturing the game.

At this point an incident occurred which has been variously reported. The facts are that, before embarking on the second set, Mr. Gorman Crawl petitioned the referee that I should be required to remove my tie. The tie referred to is my well-known tennis tie. It is a Mascot, as I associate all my successes on the court during the past four years with this tie. It is a large scarlet bow with vivid green and white spots the size of halfpenny pieces, arranged astigmatically. Mr. Crawl said the cravat held his eye and put him off his game, and complained that there were so many spots in front of him that he did not know which was the ball. I am glad to be able to add the testimony of such a first string man as Mr. Gorman Crawl to the merits of the "Lowly Patent Tennis Tie" (Registered No. 273125/1911, price _2s. 9d._, of all Gunsmiths and Sports Outfitters). I explained to the referee that the tie was a well-known patent and that, if he ruled it out and disqualified the tie, a promising industry would be irretrievably ruined. The referee naturally declined to take such a responsibility and ordered the game to proceed, and we took our places on the course. When, however, I faced Mr. Crawl I found that he had pulled down the sleeve of his shirt over his hand and buttoned it round the handle of his racket. The effect was most disconcerting, for the racket appeared to be part of his body--as if, in fact, he had two elbow joints, and the face of the bat was the palm of his hand. Moreover it was impossible to anticipate the direction of his shots. When forty love had been scored against me I appealed to the referee. The result of that interview was that M. Gorman Crawl courteously unbuttoned his sleeve, and I with equal courtesy removed my tie. The episode was greeted with loud applause, and for my part I felt amply repaid for the sacrifice I had made by the gain in popularity.

I have already referred to the strenuous character of Mr. Gorman Crawl's efforts in this set. The following is the rally for the third ace in the fifth game, given in the notation invented by Mr. Wail, though not yet generally adopted. The diagram will be found in the third volume of Mr. Wail's book, _How to be always right_.

CRAWL. LOWLY.

1. RS to SL2. 1. BR1 to LK5. 2. LP3 to RT4. 2. KL to LK4. 3. PK4 to LK5. (Ch.) 4. K × R. 5. P × K. 5. B × P. 6. Resigns.

At the conclusion of the match I shook hands with Mr. Gorman Crawl across the net before he could leave the court, and loudly congratulated him on his brilliant struggle. I now have to meet Mr. "U. R. Beete" in the final round, and if successful my match for the Championship with Mr. "Y. R. U. Sadd" will be played, weather permitting, on Tuesday at 3 o'clock, and should be well worth seeing.

NOTES.

Mr. Gasp has exchanged the cheese scoop, which is identified with the championship of South Rutlandshire, for a fish-slice.

Mr. Bloshclick, who lately won the South-West Devon Singles Championship at Sidmouth, is not a native of Antananarivo, as has been stated, but is, we are informed, of Zulu origin.

We regret to report that Mr. Wail met with an unfortunate accident at Broadstairs ten days ago. As a spectator at the annual Lawn Tennis Tournament he was demonstrating to a group of experts the methods which Mr. Wilding ought properly to employ in making his lifting forehand drive, when he struck himself a violent blow on the head, partly severing the right ear. This is the second time Mr. Wail has met with the accident, but we are glad to hear that he is making a satisfactory recovery.

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Illustration: _Tramp_ (_suddenly appearing at riverside camping party_). "BEG YER PARDON, GUV'NOR, BUT COULD YER LEND ME A BATHIN' SUIT?"

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"Cigarette Makers (Female), round and flat."--_Advt. in "Daily Chronicle."_

Who makes round cigarettes (or flat) should herself be round (or flat) respectively.

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"WANTED.--Anything old to do with the Church or Church Services; preference given to examples with dates or inscriptions."

_Advt. in "The Challenge."_

We were just going to offer our Vicar, but he has no inscription on him.

* * * * *

PLATITUDES: THE NEW GAME.

It is based on "Bromides" and any one can play it. The least educated has a chance of winning and an Oxford degree is no bar to success--quite the reverse, in fact; indeed I have known dons....

This is how it is played. Two people are seated in easy-chairs, for it has been found that you cannot be too comfortable for this game; any discomfort is apt to excite the mind, to disturb the grey matter, to interfere with that complete repose which is so essential a feature of the contest. These two are the players. They indulge in small talk and the smaller talker wins. The object of each player is to make such inanely conventional remarks that his opponent is reduced to silence. For example you are sitting next to a bishop, and it falls to you to start the conversation. Of course you don't say anything like "How sad about this Kikuyu business." No, you open like this. "Are you fond of dancing?" you say. The bishop will reply coldly, "It is many years since I danced." You sigh and murmur, "Ah! the dear old days!" I cannot imagine what his lordship will say next.

Of course the conversation in Platitudes must be connected and coherent. There is no use repeating "Wollah wollah, gollah gollah, ASQUITH must go, We want eight," or things of that sort. And you must not make mere blank statements like "The number of cigars annually imported into the U.S.A. is 26,714,811," unless they can be introduced deftly into the conversation.

You must imagine yourself paying a call in a London drawing-room, and you must say nothing that would not be possible and indeed suitable in that _milieu_. To attempt to arouse any interest or show any intelligence is wrong, but then neither must you betray any sign of actual imbecility. Anything that approaches gibbering cannot be too strongly condemned.

The players speak in turn and quotations are not allowed (at least not from living writers). The question as to whose talk is the smaller of the two is so much a matter of taste that the game can only be decided by an umpire or by the votes of the spectators. But there is seldom much doubt. It is not uncommon for one of the players to break down and become almost hysterical, and few can hold out long against one of the champions. Some people allow facial expression and general demeanour to count, but this I do not recommend. It gives some an unfair advantage, and I have known it lead to unpleasantness.

Perhaps a short sample will give a better idea of the game than any description. I take one from a little tournament in which I competed a few days ago. I was highly commended, but it was thought I displayed a little too much intelligence. This is one of the pleasing features of Platitudes; when one loses, things like that are somehow said, as they are never said, for instance, at Bridge. From this specimen the beginner will learn the right style and method. Only by study of the best models and by constant practice can he attain anything like proficiency.

_He._ What a world we live in, do we not? (_This is a very common opening._)

_She._ Yes, to be sure. Dear, dear!

_He._ The age is so complex, so full of rush and hurry. Everyone is running after money, are they not?

_She._ They are not. I mean they are.

_He_ (_heaving a sigh_). How sad it is!

_She_ (_in a tone of gentle correction_). It is deplorable. Did you read Mr. Goldstein's speech the other day? I thought it so sweet! He said that the possession of wealth entailed great responsibilities.

_He._ How like him! (_After a pause_) And how true! Yes, things are in a bad way.

_She._ How one deplores these strikes.

_He_ (_sternly_). They ought to be shot.

_She._ Too dreadful. I think it is so terrible when quite nice people are positively inconvenienced. It makes one think of the French Revolution.

_He._ Ah! Yes, the French Revolution. Well, well, the good old days are gone.

_She._ Yes, they have quite gone.

_He_ (_sighing heavily_). Dear, dear, dear, dear! May I have some teacake?

_She._ Oh do! but I'm afraid they're cold.

_He._ I like them cold. I think they are so much cooler then.

_She._ They are a shade less warm.

[_There was a short interval here when the supporters of each party gathered round and gave advice and encouragement. The lady seemed as fresh as a fiddle, but the man was very exhausted and had to have a spirituous stimulant. After a quarter-of-an-hour's interval the game was resumed._]

_She._ Look at the fashionable ladies and their dogs! The sums they lavish on them!

_He._ Oh, it's disgraceful. The Government ought to do something.

_She._ I call it wicked.

_He_ (_much struck with this_). You are quite right.

_She._ But mind you, I'm fond of animals myself.

_He._ Oh, so am I. I dote on dogs. You know, I call the horse a noble animal--that's what I call the horse.

_She_ (_after a pause_). I call the camel the ship of the desert.

_He._ Ah, very witty, very clever. I see you have a sense of humour. "Ship of the desert"--that's good.

_She._ Yes, I don't know what I should have done without my sense of humour.

_He_ (_sharply_). No more do I.

_She_ (_confidentially_). You know, I think dogs should be treated _as_ dogs. They should be kept in their proper places. I like them best in the country, you know. Don't you?

_He._ Yes. I think the country is the place for all animals. One sees so many there--at least in some places.

_She._ I am so fond of the country. It is so restful. The old oaks and the buttercups and the village rector and the dear cows. I don't know what we should do without them.

_He._ That's what I say. Where would England be without the country?

_She._ Ah, yes. "Far from the madding crowd," as the poet says.

_He._ Yes. What a great poet MILTON is, to be sure.

_She._ Oh, delightful! And don't you like Miss WHEELER WILCOX?

_He._ Of course--ripping, yes, of course. Her poems of pleasure--her poems of passion, her--well, in fact, all her poems.

_She._ Quite.

At this point the man broke down altogether and began to gibber. But he recovered in time to see the prize unanimously voted to the lady. This consisted of a volume of Mr. ----, but perhaps I had better not mention names; it might be liable to misconstruction. I hope I have said enough to show what a fascinating and delightful game it is. No appliances are required (as with dominoes), except one's own nimble brain; and I think Platitudes will soon sweep the country. Signs are not wanting that Clumps and Dumb Crambo are already becoming back numbers in the best circles.

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"The military dirigible Koerting made the wound in the leg of Baron de Rothschild. It was found to have flattened itself against the bone."--_Egyptian Mail._

"The Koerting; so it is," said the Baron, when shown the X-ray photograph of his calf.

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TOURS IN FACT AND FANCY.

Tell me not of Western Islands Or some bonnie loch or ben Of those hustled haunts, the Highlands; I'm not going there again.

Cease from cackling so cocksurely Of some heavenly woodland dell Where the pipes of Pan blow purely; I have sampled these as well.

Do not harp upon your hollow Tales of Somewhere-by-the-Sea Patronised by Ph. Apollo; 'Tisn't good enough for me.

No, nor urge me, friend, to hasten To your "cloudless alien climes," Hungering for my Fleece like Jason-- I've been fleeced there many times.

No, not one of your romances Can, I say, provide a lure; Not one spot on earth's expanses For my ailment find a cure.

Others may enjoy each jolly day Somewhere with their hard-earned pelf; But, for me, I want a holiday From my super-silly self.

* * * * *

THE NUT.

From a story in _Munsey's Magazine_:

"My father was a clergyman in a college community; and that explains my home in a nutshell."

It doesn't. The father should have been a vegetarian in a Garden City community.

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"Captain Roald Amundsen has qualified for his pilot's certificate at the military camp near Christiania. An officer of the Flying Corps first took him for a preliminary flight round the course, showing him what tests were required. Suddenly the elevator broke and the aeroplane fell nose downwards to the ground 40 feet below. Captain Amundsen escaped unhurt."--_South Wales Echo._

So he got through the first test all right.

* * * * *

"SMALL SURREY SCORE.

ONLY HAYES AND HITCH SHINE AT NORTHAMPTON."

_Westminster Gazette._

Surrey should have been at home, where HAYES and HITCH would have found an excellent third in Old Sol, who shone at his best.

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"CLACTON.--A Lady would be glad to hear of anyone wishing to Join House-Party from August 14th to September 10th. Minute from sea and ten golf links."--_Advt. in "Times."_

Personally we find that, at our usual rate of divot-removing, five golf-links will last us a month. Ten is an unnecessary extravagance.

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Illustration: _Polite little boy_ (_suffering from repletion_). "OH, PLEASE MISS, DON'T ASK ME TO HAVE ANY MORE; I CAN'T SAY NO."

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_).

I think I should have detected what was the primary Trouble with _A Lad of Kent_ (MACMILLAN) if Mr. HERBERT HARRISON had given me any opportunity of studying _Lord Haresfield_ at closer quarters. Upon the material vouchsafed it was impossible to spot in him the villain of the piece; I was only allowed to meet him at two brief interviews, throughout which he was consistently courteous and kind, with nothing of the murderer about him. There was, in this connection, not only _suppressio veri_, but even some _suggestio falsi_; at any rate I still have great difficulty in believing that a man so obviously intelligent and diplomatic could have initiated schemes so unnecessarily elaborate and entirely incompetent for the mere removal of an unknown and fatherless village youth. I make these observations only as in duty bound; for myself, I didn't care twopence who was trying to get rid of _Phillip_, or why. Provided they didn't succeed, I was content to leave them at it and enjoy the fascinating picture of life in a sea-coast village in the good old days when everybody was busy either in preventing or assisting the "free trade" when a press-gang might come along at any moment and steal a man or two without so much as by your leave, and, generally speaking, things moved. Mr. HARRISON has a delightful style, a perfect sympathy with the times of which he writes, and no small gift of characterization. Frankly, I don't believe he attaches any more importance to his plot than I do, for he is quite content to leave it to itself for several chapters on end.

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_The Double House_ (STANLEY PAUL) began attractively with a retired Indian colonel who had a mysterious sorrow and wished to betake himself to some quiet English hamlet "where echoes from his past might never penetrate." Of course this could hardly be called wise of the Colonel; the slightest knowledge of quiet English neighbourhoods in fiction or the drama might have assured him that towards the end of Act I somebody was simply bound to turn up who knew all. However, he rented one half of a divided old manor house, and, even when informed that the other half was inhabited by a widow of quiet habits, he apparently did not share my own instant certainty that there were coincidences ahead. As a matter of fact E. EVERETT-GREEN, the author, had so arranged matters that this lady was the sister-in-law of a wicked murderer, for whose crime the gallant _Colonel_ had himself been tried. So much for his past; but as a matter of fact that of the lady was ever so much more sinister. She had, it appeared, married a gentleman called _Paul Enderby_, only to learn after the ceremony that her husband had a twin-brother _Saul_, who must have been the twinniest twin that ever breathed, since at no moment could any living soul tell the two apart. I won't harrow you with details, but the confusion was such that, even after the unlamented decease of _Paul_, poor bewildered _Mrs. Enderby_ was by no means sure that she wasn't only a bereaved sister-in-law. Her sad plight reminded me of nothing so much as that of the lady in _Engaged_ who entreated to have three questions answered: "Am I a widow, and if so how came I to be a widow, and whose widow came I to be?" The great difference between the two cases is that this of _Mrs. Enderby_ is meant to be taken with solemnity--a task that I regret to add was too heavy for me. I am only sorry that so charming a title as _The Double House_ has been so sadly wasted.

* * *

If a wicked male novelist had dared to write _Jacynth_ (CONSTABLE) I tremble to imagine the things that certain fair critics would have said about him. But since a woman is the creator, and one, moreover, with the well-won reputation of Miss STELLA CALLAGHAN, what is there to say? After all she must know. As a portrait of futility, _Jacynth_ is the most mercilessly realistic thing that I have met for some time. Pretty, brainless, egotistical, utterly unable ever to understand even the least of the men who loved her--this was _Jacynth_. The picture is so unsparing that (though I am not calling the book a masterpiece or free from dull moments) the very completeness of the dreadful thing fascinates you unwillingly. _Jacynth_ was the typical product of a seaside town, where she was adored by two men--a young squire and a famous novelist. I was just a little bored by her beginnings, especially when she sprained her ankle--a gambit I had imagined _démodé_ even with the most provincial of heroines. However, _Jacynth_ married the novelist, and after the honeymoon settled down to a steady course of fatuousness and general interference with his work which presently reduced the poor man to exasperation, and finally constrained him to pack her off on a prolonged visit to the seaside home of her maidenhood. After that _Jacynth_ went from worse to worst; too preposterous a fool even to be greatly moved when she brought tragedy into the lives of those who came under her malign influence. I will not follow her vicissitudes in detail. Throughout the book the most sinister thing in her story was to me the fact that a woman had written it. Moreover I have a lurking suspicion that the portrait is no imaginary one. Perhaps this is a high tribute to Miss CALLAGHAN'S skill; it certainly is meant to be a compliment to her courage.

* * *

I've often longed to come upon Some giant spoor and dog the track till I ran to earth a mastodon, A dinosaur, a pterodactyl; But I supposed my natal date-- However distantly I view it-- Was several thousand years too late To give me any chance to do it.

And yet Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE Has found a man who's penetrated Through bush and swamp on virgin soil And seen the things I've indicated, Creatures with names that clog your pen-- Dimorphodon and plesiosaurus-- And carried home a specimen To silence any doubting chorus.

In _The Lost World_[A] the tale is told (SMITH, ELDER do it cheap) in diction So circumstantial that its hold Is more than that of common fiction; If you can run the story through, By aid of portraits when you need it, And not be half convinced it's true, You simply don't deserve to read it.

[Footnote A: New Edition, with illustrations.]

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There is nothing wrong with Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS' latest collection of short stories, _The Judge's Chair_ (MURRAY), but there is something vigorously to protest against upon the wrapper that covers them. For there I found an uncompromising statement to the effect that these stories "bring to a conclusion the author's Dartmoor work," and no sooner had I read it than my heart sank into my heels. Solemnly I plead with him to reconsider this decision, for if he does not his innumerable admirers will be deprived of something almost as annual and quite as enjoyable as Christmas. If he wants a holiday let him have one by all means, though personally I was not pleased when he left Dartmoor for Italy. But let it be only a holiday, a break in his real business. As for the book, I advise everyone who can appreciate dry humour and quaint philosophy to sit behind _The Judge's Chair_. "The Two Farmers" is in its way a masterpiece, grim and very real, and there is not the ghost of a sign in the whole collection that Mr. PHILLPOTTS has written of Dartmoor until he is tired of it or it of him. He has made a niche for himself in that old temple of Nature, and we must all try to persuade him to stay there.

* * *

I have been reading a book, written by the Rev. H. S. PELHAM, and published by MACMILLAN, which is at least twenty times as absorbing and moving as any novel. It is called _The Training of a Working Boy_. I daresay you may have met with other volumes on something like the same theme before, and may suppose you know all about camps and evening schools and blind-alley employment and the rest of it. But I am pretty well sure that you have read nothing more practical and human on the questions of boydom. It is, indeed, the humanity, sympathetic and more than half humorous, of Mr. PELHAM'S attitude that gives his book its appeal and incidentally, I fancy, explains his success with the object of it. His little volume is a plea for personal rather than pecuniary help, and is directed more especially to Midlanders, since its chief concern is with the boy population of Birmingham. I can only wish for it the largest possible number of readers in the shires and elsewhere, since to read it is inevitably to be moved to active sympathy.

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