Chapter 3

And so "_Tante_" is shown to us at once as a histrionic vampire, feeding on the admiration and love of others. _Gregory Jardine_, in love with her ward, _Karen_, has already seen through her; we have seen through her; the question is, when will _Karen_ see through her. Forget about the book and you have the foundation of a good play here, on which Mr. CHAMBERS has built skilfully. I gather from the fact that he took alone the call for "Author" that he would wish us to forget about the book. I cannot quite do that, but I can say with confidence that whoever has not read _Tante_ will enjoy _The Impossible Woman_ fully, and that the others will at least find it interesting.

Miss LILLAH MCCARTHY was a superb _Okraska_. Since she had to reveal herself plainly to the audience, the temptation to overplay the part must have been great, but she resisted it nobly. Mr. GODFREY TEARLE, still a little apt to smile at the wrong moment, was a thoroughly efficient _Gregory_; but Miss HILDA BAYLEY did not give me a very clear idea of Mr. CHAMBERS' _Karen_, and was certainly not Miss SEDGWICK'S. Miss MAY WHITTY and Mr. HENRY EDWARDS, in the small but important parts of _Mrs. Talcot_ and _Franz Lippheim_, were of very great assistance to the play.

M.

* * * * *

Illustration: "I DUNNO 'OO NANCY IS--BUT THAT THERE KAYZER CAN'T BE NO GENTLEMAN TO STAND BY AN' SEE 'ER KNOCKED ABAHT!"

* * * * *

Motto for German sailors who have sunk several herring-boats:--_Nemo repente fuit Tirpitzimus._

* * * * *

Illustration: _Member of Relief Committee (taking down "all particulars.")_ "THANK YOU, THAT'S ALL. OH, BY THE WAY, I HAVEN'T GOT YOUR TELEPHONE NUMBER."

* * * * *

TEETH-SETTING.

When the thunder-shaking German hosts are marching over France-- Lo, the glinting of the bayonet and the quiver of the lance!-- When a rowdy rampant KAISER, stout and mad and middle-aged, Strips his breast of British Orders just to prove that he's enraged; When with fire and shot and pillage He destroys each town and village; When the world is black with warfare, then there's one thing you must do:-- Set your teeth like steel, my hearties, and sit tight and see it through.

Oh, it's heavy work is fighting, but our soldiers do it well-- Lo, the booming of the batteries, the clatter of the shell!-- And it's weary work retiring, but they kept a dauntless front, All our company of heroes who have borne the dreadful brunt. They can meet the foe and beat him, They can scatter and defeat him, For they learnt a steady lesson (and they taught a lesson, too), Having set their teeth in earnest and sat tight and seen it through.

Then their brothers trooped to join them, taking danger for a bride, Not in insolence and malice, but in honour and in pride; Caring nought to be recorded on the muster-roll of fame, So they struck a blow for Britain and the glory of her name. Toil and wounds could but delight them, Death itself could not affright them, Who went out to fight for freedom and the red and white and blue, While they set their teeth as firm as flint and vowed to see it through.

R. C. L.

* * * * *

IMPORTS AND EXPORTS.

[_A German cargo of lead has been captured._]

It is not lost to you, so make no moan; You shall receive it back, O Potsdam pundit; We do but take a temporary loan, Intending to refund it.

And goodly interest it shall not lack, A generous rate per cent. for every particle; We take the raw material, sending back The manufactured article.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S HOLIDAY STORIES.

V.--A HUNTING MORN.

(_In the approved manner of the Sporting Feuilleton._)

Setting his teeth determinedly, Ralph Wonderson swarmed up the Virginia-creeper until he reached the closely-shuttered window. Here he clung precariously with one hand while with the other he produced a gimlet and noiselessly bored two holes in the green shutters. Was he too late? The question shot through his brain. With a quick intake of breath he applied an eye to one hole and an ear to the other and watched and listened.

In the lighted room before him sat Sir Ernest Scrivener (_alias_ Marmaduke Moorsdyke) and a brutal-looking stranger. Sir Ernest was speaking.

"Everything, I think, is ready," he said in his cold, level voice. "The wedding is to take place in the village church to-morrow at eleven. You, Ragley, will take up your position, disguised as a policeman, by the church porch, arrest Wonderson on a charge of arson, and detain him until I arrive, if I should not be already there. I have here the policeman's uniform complete. We are cub-hunting to-morrow morning, and at the proper moment I shall leave the hunt and make my way across to the church, provided with the forged warrant of arrest (which I shall, as a magistrate, hand to you), the forged death certificate of my present wife, and the forged special licence for the marriage of Lady Margaret Tamerton and myself. You will then rush Wonderson off in the motor which will be waiting, and I shall proceed to marry Lady Margaret. Yes--yes, everything is quite ready."

"There's just one thing, Sir," said Ragley, "if you'll excuse me mentioning it. Supposing as how the lady refuses like."

Sir Ernest tossed away his half-smoked cigar and smiled evilly.

"That has been foreseen," he said. "The shock of Wonderson's arrest will cause her to feel faint. I shall have ready a bottle of smelling salts. I need not go into details ... drugs ... loss of will power ... you see...."

The blood boiling in Ralph's ears prevented him from hearing more. Only the sight of the two murderous-looking revolvers on the table and the knowledge that he could not afford to take risks at this juncture stopped him from tearing open the shutters and dashing into the room.

Sir Ernest rose to his feet and simultaneously Ralph slid down the creeper and regained _terra firma_. His mind was working rapidly.

* * *

The meet of the Chingerley Hunt made a gay spectacle. The red coats of the men and the fascinating Parisian _toilettes_ of the ladies shone resplendently in the morning sunshine, while the champing of the horses' bits blended harmoniously with the choiring of numberless larks. Through the brilliant throng moved the Master, Sir Ernest Scrivener, bowing his greetings right and left as he passed.

A few minutes before the hour fixed for the start the approach of a solitary horseman caused many eyebrows to lift in surprise, while Sir Ernest for an instant went white to the teeth. Then he laughed scornfully.

"Why, Wonderson!" cried one of the Hunt. "What on earth are you doing here? I understood you were being married this morning."

"That is so," replied Ralph easily. "But I see no reason why I shouldn't hunt first. DRAKE, you know, played bowls during a crisis, and NERO fiddled."

As he spoke he watched Sir Ernest narrowly. The Master was making his way towards the iron cage in which the fox cub was imprisoned. Ralph edged his horse insensibly nearer.

Amid the eager plaudits of the Hunt Sir Ernest leaned down from his saddle and raised the catch with a flourish. As he did so a packet of papers fell from his breast pocket.

In a flash the released cub had pounced upon the papers and carried them off in his mouth. With a savage oath Sir Ernest plunged his spurs into his horse's flanks and gave chase. Ralph, perceiving instantly what had happened and guessing the all-important nature of the papers, was by him in a stride. Side by side the pair thundered along, while behind them the hounds and hunters streamed out in a confused and glittering medley. They were off! The hunt was up.

Crouching low on the necks of their panting steeds, the two protagonists swept forward, plying remorselessly whip and spur, curb and snaffle. For a time neither gained an inch. Then, without warning, the fox doubled. With a single turn of his iron wrist Ralph wrenched his horse round without the loss of a second, but as he glanced back over his shoulder he perceived that the Master was only twenty yards behind. Ralph redoubled his efforts, his eyes glued to the white bundle clenched in the cub's dripping jaws.

Through field and farmyard, by barn and byre, over rick and river, they sped, and ever the gap between the fox and Ralph lessened, while the gap between Ralph and Sir Ernest grew wider, and the savage baying of the hounds, mingled with the frenzied view halloos of the Hunt, receded further into the distance. Never had the Chingerley Hunt known such a chase.

At last Ralph recognized that his chance had come. Leaning over his horse's ears, he took careful aim and slashed out with his long whip. Unerringly the lash coiled round the papers and jerked them from the fox's mouth. A single glance showed him that they were, as he had anticipated, the forged documents.

Two minutes later Sir Ernest found the exhausted fox lying insensible by the roadside. Glancing up, he perceived Ralph vanishing over the crest of a hill.

"Curse him!" he muttered savagely. "Curse him! I must and will overtake him before he reaches the church or the game is up. If I take a short cut under the hill I can outwit him yet. Curse him again!"

Mercilessly lashing his foaming horse, he galloped in the direction of the church. As he rode a sense of the urgency of the situation grew upon him. If he arrived first, Wonderson could be arrested, if necessary at the pistol's point, before he entered the churchyard, and the papers recovered. If he was too late.... He plunged his spurs an inch deep into his weary mount.

At length the desperate Mazeppa-like dash was over. As he shot through the lych-gate Sir Ernest breathed a sigh of relief. A policeman stood by the church porch awaiting him. Wonderson had been beaten.

With an ugly laugh of triumph he swung himself from the horse. Stolidly the constable turned to face him. Sir Ernest gave one startled exclamation as he saw, not Ragley, but a stranger. He had been forestalled.

The heavy hand of a second policeman fell on his shoulder from behind.

"Sir Ernest Scrivener," said a voice solemnly, "I arrest you on a charge of forgery, and I advise you to come quietly."

Sir Ernest glanced round and saw that he was completely surrounded by police.

As the handcuffs clicked over his wrists there crashed above him the joyous clamour of wedding bells.

* * *

Ralph Wonderson paused for a moment at the lych-gate, his lovely fair-haired bride clinging to his arm. Standing in the mellow beauty of the English landscape they made a memorable picture. A red-coated figure, covered with the stains of hard riding, approached them, bowing low. In his hand he held a magnificent fox's brush.

"This has been unanimously awarded to you, Sir," he said, "as a memento of the finest ride in the annals of the Chingerley Hunt."

And, as Ralph and his bride raised the brush to their lips, from the admiring throng which pressed about them went up that thrilling immemorial hunting chorus, "_Tally-ho! Yoicks forrard! Rah! Rah!_"

* * * * *

ANOTHER MANIFESTO.

We, the undersigned, having carefully considered the situation in all its bearings and applications, have come to the decision that it is no longer consonant with the self-respect of Englishmen to share a name with the great swollen-headed German aggressor--the despiser of treaties, the desecrator of Belgium and the foe of the liberty of the world. We therefore give notice that from now and henceforward we renounce the name of William in all its variations.

(_Signed_)

WILLIAM ARCHER.

WILLIAM ASHMEAD-BARTLETT.

WILLIAM BOOSEY.

BURGLAR BILL (Shade of).

WILLIE CLARKSON.

WILL CROOKS.

WILLIAM DE MORGAN.

WILL EVANS.

GULIELMO FERRERO.

WILLIAM GUNN.

WILLIAM KNIGHT.

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

WILHELM MEISTER (Shade of).

BILLY MERSON.

WILLIAM OSLER.

WILLY POGANY.

WILLIAM RAMSAY.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE (Shade of).

WILLIAM THE SILENT (Shade of).

WILLIAM STRANG.

BILL SIKES (Shade of).

WILLIAM WATSON.

WILLIAM WHITELEY, LTD.

* * * * *

Illustration: _A Pufflecombe Worthy speaks._ "YOU BE TELLING US, JAMES BUZZICOTT, 'BOUT THIS 'ERE LOOVANE THERE'S S'MUCH TARK OVER IN THE PAPERS, AN' THE DESTRUCTION OF A GRAN' OLE BUILDING. BUT WOT DO EE ZAY, JAMES BUZZICOTT, 'BOUT PUFFLECOMBE AND T'OLD 'BELL AN' HORNS' IF US BE INVADED? WOT DO EE ZAY 'BOUT THAT?"

* * * * *

IT'S AN ILL WIND....

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I thought you would like to hear about the Intelligence Bureau which we have established at home since the War broke out. It is run on German lines and so far has been most successful, although there are serious risks.

Clarence thought of it. He is my cleverest brother. He got the idea from a newspaper. Before the War we weren't allowed to read anything in the papers but the cricket scores, but now we may read all.

The Bureau works like this. Clarence goes to mother and says, "May we go fishing this afternoon?" Mother says "No," and hurries off to the sewing meeting somewhere. They are all making things for soldiers, and soldiers' wives and children, and Belgian peasants. Briefly, when she's gone, Clarence writes on a piece of paper the fact that Mother has no objection to our fishing, shows it to our governess, and off we go. Isn't that clever of Germany? When mother returns she forgets to ask of the governess what we have been doing, and it is all right.

The other week-end mother went away and wrote to Clarence that we were to be sure to go to the children's service on Sunday afternoon. Clarence read the letter aloud, and when it came to that part he said, instead of "children's service on Sunday afternoon," something about a picnic on Monday. That is what he calls editing, which is the special duty of an Intelligence Bureau.

Hoping that other children may find our example useful,

I remain, Yours truly,

BETH MANN.

* * * * *

The Return to Culture.

"GERMANS FALLING BACK ON THE MUSE."

_North Mail._

* * * * *

ARMS AND THE WOMAN.

I was working in the garden, tidying up after the weekly visit of the jobbing gardener, when Bolsover put his head over the hedge. "Heard about the Pottingers' governess?" he asked excitedly.

"The Pottingers' governess?" I repeated. "No; what about her? Has she given them notice?"

"Well, she's not exactly the Pottingers' governess," he replied, "but governess to some intimate friends of theirs named Ings living at Ponders End. Anyhow, I can absolutely vouch for the truth of the story."

"Get on," I said. "Don't keep me on tenterhooks. What's she done?"

"Why, the police have discovered that she's a German spy," said Bolsover mysteriously.

"'Angels and ministers of grace de ---- '"

"Yes," he went on, "she had been with them three years, teaching the children '_Ich bin geworden sein_,' and '_Hast du die Tochter des Loewen gesehen_,' and all that. It appears that the police called at the house one night recently and insisted on searching her room and her trunks. Mr. Ings protested; said they'd made a mistake, pledged his word on her honour and integrity, but all with no avail. They searched and found--what _do_ you think?"

"I'll buy it," I said; "Uncle Jasper's coming to lunch with me. What did they find?"

"It's no catch," protested Bolsover, "but the solid truth. They found in one of her trunks a German service-rifle and a quantity of ammunition."

"Never!" I exclaimed.

"Only once," retorted Bolsover. "She's now in a Concentration Camp near Hendon."

I thought no more about the matter until midway through lunch. We were waiting for the _souffle_ when--

"Have you heard that story about a German?" Uncle Jasper and I began simultaneously.

"After you, Uncle," I said dutifully. "What were you going to say?"

"I was about to ask you if you had heard the story of the Polworths' governess," he said.

"No," I answered. "Tell me. You refer to the Polworths of Croydon?"

"Exactly. Well, they--or rather some friends of theirs named Culverton, living at Purley--had a German governess who had been in the family for some years. A night or two ago the police----"

But I needn't repeat it. In all essentials it was Bolsover's story over again, the only differences being that they found three bombs and that the governess was incarcerated at Horsham.

In the afternoon I accompanied Uncle Jasper to the railway station. On my way home I met the Vicar, and we fell to discussing the war. Eventually the conversation got to espionage.

"That reminds me," said the Vicar, "of a very strange case in the household of one of my parishioners--or it would be more correct to say that what I am going to tell you occurred in the house of a friend of his at Canterbury. However, the _bona fides_ of the facts is absolutely unimpeachable. It appears that----"

And here followed another version of the governess episode, identical in all respects with those of Bolsover and Uncle Jasper, save only that the police found a loaded revolver and a plan of Chatham Dockyard, and that the woman had been deported.

That same evening I dined at old Colonel Jevers', and when the ladies had withdrawn to the drawing-room our host began--

"Talking about the war reminds me of a most extraordinary spy story I heard to-day about a German governess."

All the men exchanged glances and smiled. The Colonel continued--"I can say at once that what I am going to tell you is authentic, for the events actually happened to the man who told me--I daresay some of you know Bickerton?--or rather to an old friend of his, which, under the circumstances, is practically the same thing. Well, this friend of Bickerton's, whose name was--"

"Ings, Mullens, Doddridge, Finlayson," we all, except young Pitts, murmured _sotto voce_.

"... Potherby, lived at--"

"Ponders End, Woking, Cleckheaton, Norwich," we added in a similar manner.

"... Maidstone, and for some time had had in his employ a German governess."

And so the tale went on until the Colonel got to the searching of the trunk. "... and in it was found...."

"A service-rifle, three bombs, a loaded revolver, plans of fortifications," we supplied as before.

"... incriminating letters showing clearly that for years the woman had been in communication with the German Secret Service Bureau," concluded our host.

Young Pitts left with me and walked to my house.

"I didn't hear any asides from you while the Colonel was repeating that hoary old yarn," I said as we reached the gate. "Hadn't you heard it before?"

"I heard it in the train this morning," Pitts answered.

"You don't believe it, surely?"

"Of course not. Amongst other reasons, because the man in whose house the events were supposed to have taken place happens, I know, to be a bachelor, and would not therefore require the services of a German governess."

"Who was the person referred to in the version you heard?" I asked.

"You," he replied.

* * * * *

Illustration: _London Scot (proud of his English)._ "AW'LL BE HAME ABOOT EICHT O'CLOCK THE NICHT, AN'----"

_Voice of Operator (obedient to Government instructions)._ "NO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, PLEASE."

[_Cut off._]

* * * * *

Footwork.

"In a comparatively short time now, summer gardens will have to be overhauled, the bedding-out plants taken up, cuttings taken, and the ground prepared for next spring's display; all of which will be labour usually regarded as _manual_, but which is well within the capabilities of a strong intelligent woman."--_Country Life._

Who would of course regard such labour as womanual.

* * * * *

"Forming a hollow square in front of Webbe Tent, Lord Grenfell addressed the corps, and complimented them on the work they had done and their smart appearance."

_The Contingent._

After which the C.O., on behalf of the corps, complimented Lord GRENFELL on forming a hollow square.

* * * * *

Illustration: SEASIDE MINSTREL, SUSPECTED OF BEING AN ALIEN, IS MADE TO REMOVE THE BLACK FROM HIS FACE FOR PURPOSES OF IDENTIFICATION.

* * * * *

IMPERIAL FAVOURS.

We read with very great interest the official and authentic information circulated by the Wolff Agency with regard to the status of the Austrian _Landsturm_. From this we learn that "on account of its gallant conduct" (attended apparently by disastrous results) the Emperor FRANCIS JOSEPH has granted it permission to serve outside Austria. This is a gracious concession which will no doubt be very highly appreciated by the _Landsturm_; but one trifling difficulty seems to stand in the way. To be frank, we do not quite see how they are going to get outside. At least it would be well for them to take steps before it is too late. Events have not facilitated the journey _via_ Lemburg, or that _via_ Sarajevo. We know it would be a cruel disappointment if they found themselves debarred from enjoying this exceptional boon. Perhaps they might try the emergency exit to Italy, where a warm reception would await them.

Meanwhile the idea has been taken up by FRANCIS JOSEPH'S brother Emperor, who never likes to miss a good thing. We understand that he has granted to the German Fleet--on account of its gallant conduct in the Kiel Canal--permission to serve outside in the North Sea and also in the Solent. We need hardly add that the news has been received with the utmost geniality by the British Fleet.

* * * * *

Nasty Accident to Divine.

"Cardinal Vanutelli, the doyen of the Papal Conclave, has had the misfortune to break his conclave."--_Liverpool Echo._

* * * * *

Another Attack on the Press.

"The Antwerp correspondent of the 'Telegraaf' states that yesterday, between Termonde and Ghent, German soldiers fired upon a train full of Reuter."--_Birmingham Daily Post._

* * * * *

From a poster:--

"WHAT WE HAVE TO OFFER ITALY.

_The Globe._"

This is, of course, a rhetorical exaggeration. Actually it would be a small piece of Austria.

* * * * *

The Confession.

From a letter in _The Globe_ on the liberty allowed to German prisoners:--

"With Portland and Weymouth almost within artillery range the thing seems monstrous. Who is responsible?--I am, &c., MIDDLE TEMPLAR."

Then we hope Middle Templar is ashamed of himself.

* * * * *

TO LIMEHOUSE.

Eastward the buzzing tram-car dips Adown Commercial Road, Till you may see the masts of ships, With all their canvas stowed, Stand o'er the house-tops, high Against blue sky; And thus Romance doth stray, Mid work-a-day.

O drabbest of all penny fares! Yet may you catch a glimpse Of little dusty courts and squares Where little dusty imps Play by the plane-trees there, Squalid, un-fair-- If these a child or tree Could ever be.

The trams they go with hoot and lurch Long miles, through glare and grime, With here and there a dim cool church Wide open all the time; Where on this lovely day Folk stop to pray That wars, at length, may cease And we have peace.

* * * * *

Stamping Out the Enemy.

"With German factories paralysed and the cold grip of the British Feet about her throat, Germany, it is argued, must bring the war to a close before starvation conquers her."

_Yorkshire Evening Post._

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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