Chapter 2

This cigar arrived at my house in a case of samples last July. The samples went up from right to left in order of importance, each in his own little bed--until you got to Torpedo Jimmy at the end, who had a double bed to himself. Starting with _Cabajo fino_ in the right-hand corner, the prices ranged from about nine a penny to five pounds apiece, the latter being the approximate charge for T. James or any of his brethren.

Celia was looking over my shoulder when I opened the case, and she surveyed my brown friends with interest.

"When are you going to smoke _that_ one?" she asked, touching Torpedo Jimmy's cummerbund with the tip of her finger.

"On your birthday," I said.

"Bother, then I shan't see much of you. Couldn't you smoke it on two ordinary days instead?"

"You can only smoke a cigar that size after a very good dinner," I explained.

"What was the matter with the tapioca pudding last night?" said Celia sternly.

"I mean you must have champagne and bands and lots of lights, and managers bowing all round you, and pretty people in the distance, and--all that sort of thing. You can't do that at home. Besides, I shall want a waiter or two to hold the far end of it while I'm smoking. It'll be all right going there; we can put it on the top of a cab."

"Of course it will be lovely going out with you," said Celia, "but Jane will be very disappointed. She'd have liked to hear it buzzing."

"I hope it won't buzz," I said.

"Couldn't you smoke it now, and then we'd go out next week and celebrate your recovery." She sighed. "My birthday's a long way off," she said wistfully, thinking of the band and the lights and the pretty people in the distance--and not necessarily in the distance either.

"Well, p'raps we'll think of another excuse. Anyhow it will be a very great day, and if I survive we shall often look back upon it."

Celia stroked it again.

"It's just like a torpedo, isn't it?" she said. And so we called it Torpedo Jimmy. A torpedo is actually a little bit bigger. Not much, however.

That was July. When August came we knew that there would be no excuse before the birthday and that the birthday would be no excuse. The great dinner was postponed. It didn't matter, because we forgot about the great dinner.

But towards the end of September Celia came across the sample case again. All the beds were empty now but one. Torpedo James still lay in his four-poster, brown and inscrutable.

"Better put him away," she said, "and on the day that peace is signed you can take us both out."

And so Torpedo Jimmy became a symbol. The more I long for peace, the more I long for that historic smoke. When Louisa's brother or Nora's uncle has a long pessimistic talk with KITCHENER, then I look sadly at my cigar; but when FRENCH and JOFFRE unbend to Vera's stepfather or Beryl's cousin and give him words of cheer, then I take it out and pinch it fondly, and already I see the waiter coming round with a torch to light it.

I have been looking at it to-day, and I see that it is giving a little at one end. I fancy that the moth has been getting at it. Well, if it does not last till peace is signed, it will be a peace that I shall not believe in. For a stable peace, as all our eminent novelists keep pointing out in all the papers, many things are necessary, and one of them is that I should smoke my cigar happily on the first night of it. Torpedo Jimmy must do himself justice. No premature explosions; no moths flying out from the middle of it; no unauthorised ventilation. The exact moment must be chosen by the Allies. My cigar must be ripe ... and yet not too ripe.

Celia says she is sure it will be just lovely. So sure is she that she suggests hanging the cigar in the hall and tapping it to see how the war is going. "When it taps exactly right, then we shall know the war is just over."

But I think we shall know that anyhow. EDWARD GREY will break it to Beryl's nephew all right; Celia will climb down off her parcel and rush home to me with the news; I shall ring up the restaurant and order dinner ... and at eight o'clock, in great spirits, we shall get into our taxi and drive off together--Celia and I and Torpedo Jimmy.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

SOME FACTS ABOUT THE WAR

(_An essay in the prevailing mode_).

The actual cost of hostilities has been estimated by reliable authorities at the enormous sum of L143,468 0_s._ 0-1/2_d._ _per diem_ for this country alone. The odd halfpenny presumably represents the cost of an evening edition bought by the official contradictor in the exercise of his duties.

* * *

Amongst the (more or less) skilled industries that have been gravely affected by the outbreak of hostilities must now be placed the making of prophetic fiction. It is calculated that the number of novels dealing with _The Next Great War_ that have had to be scrapped must run well into four figures.

* * *

On the other hand, the number of novelists who will in the future begin their Historical Romances, "It was in the late summer of 1914," is beyond human calculation.

* * *

In view of the reported insurance of Westminster Abbey against damage by air-craft, a correspondent asks what steps are being taken towards the illumination of the Albert Memorial.

* * *

It is at least odd that Olympia should have been selected as the Ideal Home for our Undesirable Aliens. The last German production in the same building was _The Miracle_. Many of the interned are said to be expecting another.

* * * * *

"Mrs. Mallaby Deeley is doing good work in securing withers for horses."

_Harrow Observer._

And now every horse which goes to the Front can be certain of having its own withers.

* * * * *

Illustration: _First Lady_ (_horrified at bright scarlet muffler for Navy, the creation of second lady_). "MY DEAR--THE COLOUR! IT'LL MAKE A TARGET FOR THE GERMANS!"

_Second Lady._ "OH! THEN IT'LL HAVE TO DO FOR THE STOKER."

* * * * *

THE LADY'S WALK.

I know a Manor by the Thames; I've seen it oft through beechen stems In leafy Summer weather; We've moored the punt its lawns beside Where peacocks strut in flaunting pride, The Muse and I together.

There I have seen the shadows grow Gigantic, as the sun sinks low, Leaving forlorn the dial; When zephyrs in the borders stir, Distilling stock and lavender To fill some fairy's phial.

There, when the dusk joins hands with night, (I like to think the story's right-- I had it from the Rector-- Still, don't believe unless you choose!) Doth walk, between the shapen yews, A little pretty spectre,

The Lady Rose, a well-born maid Whose true-love in this garden glade-- A bold, if faithless, fellow-- Had loved, but left her for the sake Of venturing with FRANKIE DRAKE, And died at Puerto Bello;

While she--poor foolish loving Rose-- Of heart-break, so the story goes, Died very shortly after, One day--as Art requires--when Spring Had set the hawthorns blossoming And waked the lanes to laughter.

And so adown these alleys dim, Where oft she'd kept a tryst with him, She nightly comes a-roaming; And, sorrowing still, yet finds content, I fancy, where "Sweet Themmes" is blent With flower-beds and the gloaming.

Ah me, the leaf is down to-day; Does still the little phantom stray, Poor pretty ghost, a-shiver, When sad flowers droop their weary heads Along the chill Autumnal beds Beside the misty river?

Or does it, at the year's decline-- As sensible as Proserpine-- When Autumn skies do harden, Go down and coax the seeds to grow Till daffodillies stand a-row And April's in the garden?

I cannot tell; what's more, I doubt We've other things to think about This sorrowful November; I only know for such sad hours That dainty ghosts and Summer flowers Are pleasant to remember.

* * * * *

The Absolute Limit.

"The directors of the Bradford Club have reviewed the position in regard to the free admission of soldiers to the ground, the number of men thus admitted having been far greater than was anticipated. It has now been decided that men in uniform or bearing other credentials of service shall be admitted to section E on payment of the nominal sum of 3d. This will prevent the jostling of the ordinary patrons."--_Bradford Daily Telegraph._

A cruiser here and there may be sunk, a regiment here and there may be cut up, but thank God our Bradford football patrons will never again be jostled by any of these vulgar soldiers in uniform.

* * * * *

Notice in a Battersea window:--

"BRIDE CAKES ANY SIZE TO SUIT ALL POCKETS."

In these days of narrow skirts most women will find the guinea size sufficient.

* * * * *

Illustration: FACTS FROM THE FRONT.

TACTICAL USE, BY THE ENEMY, OF THE MORE RESILIENT UNITS OF THE LANDSTURM FOR NEGOTIATING BELGIAN DYKES.

* * * * *

OUR LITERARY WAR LORDS.

["The other day the enemy's artillery fire on my battery was so great that we were forced to take cover. I sat crouched in my 'funk-hole' for seventeen solid hours. Luckily I had Jacobs's 'Sea Urchins' with me, which I read to the accompaniment of screaming and bursting shells."

_Officer in the Royal Field Artillery._]

_Mr. Punch_, while remarking that he is not surprised that the shells screamed in the circumstances, begs to assure his readers that, if the following information corresponds with the facts, Mr. Jacobs is not the only author who has been solacing our troops in the trenches.

Miss Carrie Morelli writes: "There has so far been no public mention of any books of mine being read in the trenches and affording solace to our gallant troops. This, however, is because all the reports from the Front come from men, and men are notoriously jealous of feminine activity in literature as elsewhere. I have no doubt in my own mind that many a soldier in action has been cheered by hurried glances at my novels, a list of which can be forwarded on application."

An unsigned letter from the Isle of Man states that the writer, who rightly wishes to remain anonymous, possesses a copy of a novel of astonishing genius, in which a German bullet is embedded. This book, it seems, was the inseparable companion of a soldier in the 3rd Manx Highlanders, who carried it always next his heart, and in its position in that intimate and honoured spot it saved his life. The writer, who confesses to being the author of the novel in question, states that he would divulge both his own name and that of the title of the book but that his objection to publicity amounts to a mania.

The publishers of _The Orangery_, by Mrs. Markley, write to inform us of an astounding incident which throws a new and sensational light on the campaign in the Western Theatre of War. It appears that at a critical moment during the great effort of the Germans to break through the left flank of the Allies, General VON KLUCK absolutely refused to see or consult with his Staff for the space of three hours. It subsequently transpired that a copy of _The Orangery_, which had been found in the knapsack of a British prisoner, had come into the General's possession and so absolutely enthralled him that he abandoned all thought of strategy or tactics until he had finished its perusal. Owing to the extraordinary power of Mrs. Markley's genius the German advance was paralysed, and the Allies, resuming the offensive, drove the enemy back in confusion, with results which have vitally affected the progress of the campaign.

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT has just received a remarkable letter from a British marine who was recently landed on the coast of Flanders. The writer describes how, as he was reading one of Mr. BENNETT'S recent articles on the war in a carefully excavated trench, a "Jack Johnson" shell descended directly over him, but was suddenly diverted by the article, and soared away at right angles, bursting with a terrific chuckle at a safe distance.

* * * * *

Latest War News.

Turkey has now joined the "Sossidges"--a trifle earlier in the year than usual.

* * * * *

We understand that Pietermaritzburg will shortly change its name to Petrobothagrad.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE EXCURSIONIST.

_Scene_: TICKET OFFICE AT ---- (_censored_).

TRIPPER WILHELM. "FIRST CLASS TO PARIS." CLERK. "LINE BLOCKED."

WILHELM. "THEN MAKE IT WARSAW." CLERK. "LINE BLOCKED."

WILHELM. "WELL, WHAT ABOUT CALAIS?" CLERK. "LINE BLOCKED."

WILHELM. "HANG IT! I _MUST_ GO _SOMEWHERE_! I PROMISED MY PEOPLE I WOULD."

* * * * *

BRITAIN TO BELGIUM.

Sister, for the tears that thou hast shed, Sister, for thy dear undying dead, For the sons thou hast not grudged to give, Loyally, that Liberty might live; Sister, for the little child Dead beside a hearth defiled-- Do I dream my love alone Can atone?

Can I bring again the brave that fell When thy heaven crumbled into hell? Can I banish from before thine eyes Haunting visions under haggard skies? Blazing home and blackened plain, Can I make them fair again? Can I ever heal thy smart, Broken Heart?

Sister, we be women, thou and I; Sorrow's craving who can satisfy? None may pay thee back so dear a loss, Only let me help to bear thy cross. Sick and hungry in their need Let me succour, let me feed; Little Sister, freely take For their sake.

* * * * *

Illustration: "'HE'S AS WILLING AS A CHRISTIAN; STRIKE ME BLIND IF HE ISN'T', SAID SIKES."

_Oliver Twist_, Chap. xvi.

(_With apologies to the late Fred Barnard._)

* * * * *

AS OTHERS WISH TO SEE US.

The ingenious German device of writing private letters to English friends filled with German justifications of the War and news of the gaiety and normal prosperity of Berlin is now being carried farther, and extracts from private letters purporting to be addressed by English people to German friends have begun to be printed in the Berlin papers. Here follows an illustration of this type of composition:--

My dear friend,--I am sure you will like to hear from me, especially as I am in a position to enlighten you as to the deplorable condition of things in England under the fear of the Mailed Fist and forebodings of the worst. For it is only too true that all the best and most knowledgable people here have thrown up the sponge and are prepared for the inevitable.

A private letter is probably the only means of communicating the real situation to you, for the English papers of course do not tell the truth. In fact you must believe nothing they say, for there is a great conspiracy here to maintain the fiction that we are high-spirited, eager and confident. Everything is done to foster that illusion.

BERNHARDI'S great book has been translated and is being largely sold, and it is awful to watch the faces of the people reading it--how they blanch and quiver. It is curious, you might think, that they read it at all; but you know the dread fascination of the snake for the humming-bird. The bird sees its doom, but cannot escape, and in fact draws nearer.

Would you believe it of this nation, so famous for its phlegm, that at the outset of the war there was such a panic among our intellectuals that they could not write prose at all, but all the papers were full of rhyme? As you know, there is no sign of hysteria more trustworthy than this.

You may have heard that recruiting has been brisk and keen, but do not believe this. Only by huge bribes have men been induced to join at all. The finances of the country are being taxed to the utmost to find the extra "palm-oil" which these mercenaries demand.

The Birmingham factories are feverishly busy making dum-dum and explosive bullets.

You may have gathered from the papers that football goes on as usual. This is so, outwardly, but as a matter of fact the games are played with no spirit and are kept going wholly by force applied by the Government, whose aim is thus to suggest a feeling of security in the country. A few misguided people, who completely misunderstand the situation, hold that footballers should go to the Front and fight; but the Government take a more prudent view and will not allow this, holding that their agility on the field in League Matches and so forth is of high service as an anodyne and distraction. I have heard of more than one case of a well-known herculean player, accustomed not only to big money but applause and hero-worship, seriously wondering if fighting were not his real duty and if he ought not to make a bolt for the Front, but being compelled to acquiesce in the Government's plans and go on drawing his salary for the public pursuit of an air-bladder. This shows you to what a pass things have come.

There are also hundreds of young actors in London alone who are being forcibly kept in the country to go on entertaining and playing the fool for the same sedative purpose. These youths are all healthy and fit, but it is held that their true function is to work in the theatres and halls to beguile the audiences and divert their thoughts from the terrible reality of German invasion. With each step that the Germans draw nearer the mummers redouble their efforts to excite laughter. Thus did NERO fiddle.

The terror produced by your nerve-racking Zeppelins is constant. Hardly a soul is now to be seen in the streets of London. Everyone is below the earth, in the Tubes and subways, which are packed by white and trembling crowds. Every cellar is congested, the top floors having been wholly abandoned. As a sign of the times I may tell you that a Company, called the Aerated Dread Co., has been formed to provide iron suits for those who can afford them, and on the Board of Directors are both the PRIME MINISTER and Sir EDWARD GREY. So awful is the agitation from which everyone here is suffering under the Zeppelin menace that the noise of a tyre bursting in the street often prostrates as many as forty passers-by.

No more to-day, my friend. I will write again soon and add to the melancholy picture of a once powerful nation shuddering with craven fears.

Give my love to your dear children.

Your devoted K---- L----.

* * * * *

"On the sea dyke the Germans have posted heavy artillery.... They have also posted gunes in the dunes."--_South Wales Echo._

This settles us. We shall now begin our War Poem.

* * * * *

Illustration: FROM THE RECRUIT'S POINT OF VIEW.

_Sergeant._ "FORM FOURS!" "AS YOU WERE! FORM FOURS!!" "_As you were!!_ FORM FOURS!!!" "***!!! *****!!!!"

* * * * *

ARCHIBONG.

[Encouraged by the example of some eminent followers of TYRTAEUS, _Mr. Punch_ has great pleasure in printing the following topical soldiers' song, composed by one of his young men after reading about a British force that seized Archibong in the Cameroons.]

O we're marching on to good old Archibong; And we're going most particularly strong; For our beef is really "bully," And they feed us very fully-- Yes, the feeding's fit for any restaurong, _Tres bong_, Fit for any fust-class London restaurong.

What's the matter with the road to Archibong? We didn't come out here to play ping-pong Or to get up a gymkhana-- But we'll all have a banana When we've driven back the Proosians to Hong Kong, Ding-dong, When we've driven back the Proosians to Hong Kong.

What's the matter with the town of Archibong? It isn't quite as lively as Boulong; But the name is very tuneful-- Yes, I'll have another spoonful, For I never liked my soda-water strong; It's wrong For a man to drink his soda-water strong.

Then here's a parting cheer to Archibong, Where the natives play divinely on the gong; It's not so cool and airy As the town of Tipperary, But it's just as good for tittuping along In a song, It's just as good for tittuping along.

* * * * *

SCALPED.

From Battalion Orders of a certain regiment:--

"The Brigadier-General regrets that the 5th are noticeable throughout the brigade for the long, slovenly and unkempt condition of men's hair. The Commanding Officer considers that this reflects on the credit of the battalion and directs Company Commanders to take immediate steps to have this slight removed for good and all."

* * * * *

WHAT'S IN A HYPHEN?

From a cinema advertisement:--

"THE TWO-STEP CHILDREN (DRAMA)."

It sounds rather more like Musical Comedy.

* * * * *

"Between them the vessels of the Allies succeeded in destroying a German battery of field artillery, dispersed a German bridging train collected to force the passage of the Yser, blew up an ammunition column, killed General von Tripp, expressed pleasure at the Russians winning in Galicia, and even regarded it as compensation for his wound."--_Aberdeen Free Press._

Is there anything the Fleet _can't_ do?

* * * * *

LITTLE AND GOOD.

Young Thompson was a bit too short, But hard as nails and level-headed, And in his soul the proper sort Of dogged pluck was deeply bedded; To join the ranks he almost ran, But saw the weedy supersede him; Though he was every inch a man, His country didn't need him.

He read each passionate appeal On wall and window, cab and cart; How impotent they made him feel! He tried once more, though sick at heart. In vain! He saw the sergeants smirk; He argued, but they wouldn't heed him; So sullenly trudged back to work-- His country didn't need him.

But, now the standard height's curtailed, Again he goes to join the ranks; Though yesterday he tried and failed To-day they welcome him with thanks. Apparently he's just as small, But, since his size no more impedes him, In spirit he is six foot tall-- Because his country needs him.

* * * * *

Illustration: T. B. D.

_Officer's Steward._ "WILL YOU TAKE YOUR BATH, SIR, BEFORE OR AFTER HACTION?"

* * * * *

THE MYSTERY OF PRINCE ----.

We seek information of the present whereabouts of Prince ---- of ----.

Some few weeks ago the news came that he was carried wounded into a Brussels hospital, with a velvet mask over his face, so that none might recognise him. The PRINCE was visited in hospital by a tall man, also heavily masked, but not so heavily as to conceal a pair of soaring moustaches, freshly waxed. None dared speculate as to Who this Visitor might be. The hush was tremendous. The Visitor silently pinned on the patient a specimen of the Iron Cross and as silently left.

It was the 37000th Iron Cross bestowed since the outbreak of war.

At the autopsy it was proved conclusively that the bullet inside the PRINCE was of German origin.

After the post-mortem the PRINCE was luckily captured by the Belgians, and held at Antwerp as hostage for the good behaviour of the German troops occupying Brussels.

When the fall of Antwerp became imminent the PRINCE was secretly removed to England. A fortnight ago he was seen in a motor-car driving round Battersea Park, accompanied and guarded by an English officer.

The PRINCE wore his saxe-blue full-dress tunic, his corn-gold moustache and his rather stout face, and was looking considerably depressed.

Since that date no word has come of him. The Censor seems to have rigidly suppressed all evidence of his movements.