Chapter 3

There was a man in the party at Blairbinkie who, before we were at war, talked _fervidly_ of what he should do for his country if trouble came. I had not liked Hector Swankington the least little bit before that, but when he said that, in the event of war, he would raise a troop at his own expense, call it "Swankington's Horse" and lead it himself "wherever the fighting was hottest," I thought I'd not done him justice. So I listened to him and approved and encouraged the plan. And then the storm burst and we all scattered. The other morning I met him in the Park when I was taking my early walk. He asked if I would dine with him some evening at the "Iridescent," and I said it was not a time for dining at restaurants. "No," he agreed, "it certainly isn't now all the French cooks are gone; and what an idiotic idea this is about reducing the number of courses at dinner! Silly rot, I call it!"

I ignored this and asked, "What about 'Swankington's Horse'?"

"Oh! that's all off," he said huffily. "I wrote to the authorities about raising the troop, asked what State recognition I should get, and enclosed a drawing of the hat I meant to wear as leader--a ripping scheme, turned up at one side and with a bunch of feathers. All the answer I got was a few brief words of acknowledgment and a request to set about it at once and report myself somewhere or other. Not a word of the State recognition I was to receive, and the drawing of the hat returned with 'Not approved' scrawled across it. So I've chucked the whole business. And now don't let us talk of _that_ any more!"

I gave him my freezing look (you've never seen my freezing look, dearest--it's _terrible_!) and I said with a little calm deadly manner that I very, _very_ seldom use, "I've no wish to talk to you of _that_--or of anything else--ever again." And I left him.

The party at Blairbinkie that scattered almost as soon as it assembled was by way of being a farewell to the old place, for the Clackmannans had virtually sold it to a Mr. Spragg, of Pittsburg. He was going to have the old castle taken across in bits and set up again in Pennsylvania; and he was taking all the family portraits, the mausoleum, the old trees in the park and the stags at a valuation, as well as the village itself with all its cottages and people, in order that the castle might have its proper _setting_ out there. There were two more things he wanted included in the bargain--a village idiot and a family ghost ("hereditary spectre," he called it).

Ah, my dear! all this belongs to the happy old days of a hundred years ago, when we were all three or four weeks younger. The man from Pittsburg, so far from being able to buy Blairbinkie, hardly knows where to look for his next meal, and as for shipping castles and trees and mausoleums and village idiots and family ghosts across the Atlantic he only wishes he could get _himself_ across, even if he had to work his passage!

Josiah is at the uttermost ends of the earth. He went in June, about rubber-mines or oil-concessions, I'm not sure which. I had a cable from him the other day from a place that began with "Boo" and ended with "atty"--I forget what came between. He told me not to be anxious, that he'd get back when and how he could. My answer was, "Not anxious. Wherever you are you'd better stay there, or you may get taken prisoner by those creatures, and then I'd never forgive you!"

Talking of prisoners reminds me of a rumour about the Bullyon-Boundermeres. They were cruising somewhere in their new big steam-yacht when war broke out, and now there's a report that the enemy have taken the yacht and turned it into a cruiser; that the Bullyon-Boundermere people are prisoners on board, and that they're making _her_ wash dishes and forcing _him_ to work as a stoker or a bulkhead or some fearful thing of that kind! This is not _official_, my dear, but I give it you for what it's worth.

I called a little meeting here yesterday about a scheme of mine. Beryl and Babs and your Blanche and several more of us are really _crack_ shots, and I want to form us into a band of rifle-women and ask the Powers that be to let us guard some important place--a bridge or a bank or a powder magazine. We should wear a distinctive uniform, and we wouldn't let anyone come _near_! Babs said she hoped the uniform would be smart and becoming, but I soon shut her up. "This is not a time to think of cut or colour," I told her. "Myself, I shouldn't care _how_ my uniform was cut--even if the _shoulder_ seams were at the _elbows_. And as for colour I'd wear _grass-green_, though it's a colour in which I look a mere _fiend_, if it would help my country!" And Beryl and Babs cried and kissed me.

Ever thine, BLANCHE.

* * * * *

Illustration: _The Lady of the House_, "JUST THE PERSON I WANTED TO SEE. I'VE STARTED TEN COMMITTEES IN CONNECTION WITH THE WAR AND I WANT YOUR HELP."

_Visitor._ "MY _DEAR_! I'VE JUST STARTED TWELVE AND I SIMPLY _COUNTED_ ON YOU!"

* * * * *

"The Suez Canal has brought St. Helena much closer than in Napoleonic days."

_T.P.'s Weekly._

In the same way the opening of the Panama Canal has made Heligoland much more adjacent than in Lord SALISBURY'S days.

* * * * *

ODE TO JOHN BRADBURY.

(_The new notes for_ L1 _and_ 10s. _are signed by JOHN BRADBURY._)

When the Red KAISER, swoll'n with impious pride And stuffed with texts to serve his instant need, Took Shame for partner and Disgrace for guide, Earned to the full the hateful traitor's meed, And bade his hordes advance Through Belgium's cities towards the fields of France; And when at last our patient island race, By the attempted wrong Made fierce and strong, Flung back the challenge in the braggart's face, Oh then, while martial music filled the air, Clarion and fife and bagpipe and the drum, Calling to men to muster, march, and dare, Oh, then thy day, JOHN BRADBURY, was come.

JOHN BRADBURY, the Muse shall fill my strain To sing thy praises; thou hadst spent thy time Not idly, nor hadst lived thy life in vain, Unfitted for the guerdon of my rhyme. For lo, the Funds went sudden crashing down, And men grew pale with monetary fear, And in the toppling mart The stoutest heart Melted, and fortunes seemed to disappear; And some, forgetting their austere renown, Went mad and sold Whate'er they could and wildly called for Gold!

"Since through no fault of ours the die was cast We shall go forth and fight In death's despite And shall return victorious at the last; But how, ah how," they said, "Shall we and ours be fed And clothed and housed from dreary day to day, If, while our hearths grow cold, we have no coin to pay?"

Then thou, where no gold was and little store Of silver, didst appear and wave thy pen, And with thy signature Make things secure, Bidding us all pluck up our hearts once more And face our foolish fancied fears like men. "I give you notes," you said, "of different kinds To ease your anxious minds: The one is black and shall be fairly found Equal in value to a golden pound; The other--mark its healthy scarlet print-- Is worth a full half-sovereign from the Mint."

Thus didst thou speak--at least I think thou didst-- And, lo, the murmurs fell And all things went right well, While thy notes fluttered in our happy midst. Therefore our grateful hearts go forth to thee, Our British note-provider, brave JOHN BRADBURY!

R. C. L.

* * * * *

"BELGIUM.--Can any member let me know as to what kind of weather to expect in Belgium towards the end of October, and as to the condition of the roads? I and my wife propose going a tandem tour at that time in the Ardennes, Luxembourg, etc. Are most of the hotels shut for the season at that time? Would the north of France be preferable?--G. J."--_C. T. C. Gazette._

This gentleman is evidently particular. We are half afraid he will not get quite what he wants.

* * * * *

THE COLUMN OF ADVENTURE.

Even _The Times'_ "agony column," my staple reading during toast-and-marmalade, suffers from the all-pervading war. Old friends have dropped out of the column on its war march. No longer does the Young Gentleman yearning for the idyllic life call on the charitable to provide him with a year of perfect ease, comfort and luxury. I had hoped to meet him some day, to draw out his confidences, perchance to edit his memoirs. "My Check is My Fortune" would be a catchy title. But apparently the War has put him out of business. The idyllic life has gone. Another victim.

His place is being filled by the Sportsman, eager to be up and shooting--partridges. "Either singly or with a house party," he offers. He asks only for board, lodging and ammunition. These provided, he is willing to go for the enemy all September and October.

Another Sportsman, humbler in aspiration, is prepared to specialise on rabbits. He is ready to continue the fight until "Peace terms dictated in Berlin by Allies."

There has also arisen the Professional Rescuer. He offers to go abroad--for a cash consideration--and smuggle back stranded relatives. He does not give particulars of personal appearance, but one may imagine him as essentially Williamlequeuish--small dark moustache, super-shrewd eyes, Homburg hat, a revolver in every pocket, speaking six languages more fluently than the natives, and on terms of intimacy with half the diplomats of Europe. He would open his conversation with a casual: "The last time I was chatting with the KAISER (I shall, of course, cut him in future)...."

Another occupation has been called into being by the War. It is that of Berth-Snatcher. He is apparently a City man who has realised all his securities and invested them in berths and staterooms on Atlantic Liners. These he now offers "at a small bonus"--exact amount unstated.

Also interesting is the occupation of Amateur Adviser. He has much well-intentioned advice to offer to all and sundry: "To the War Office. It is hoped that something is being done regarding," etc. Or: "Japan, our Ally, could easily lend us half a million men."

Presumably the Amateur Adviser has been denied place in the correspondence columns.

The Young Hungarian Nobleman, whose remittances have been stopped by the war, is reminiscent of the original yearner for the idyllic life. "Is supposed to be of good appearance," he states with obtrusive modesty.

But the romantic halo around these young aristocrats is rather tarnished by the Young French Vicomte. When he advertises that he "would thankfully accept some clothes from English or American gentlemen," one suspects a snug little second-hand business somewhere in savoury Soho.

* * * * *

From a letter in _The Bristol Evening Times_:--

"Only last evening I was passing through one of our main thoroughfares, and saw seven or eight Territorials taking refreshment in the backbone. I ask in fairness, Is this the backbone. I ask in fairness, is this patriotic?"

In fairness we reply. It is neither.

* * * * *

"The old Latinist has it, 'Deos vult pedere prius dementas.'"

_Manx Chronicle._

How one's Latin slips from one with advancing age! But he must have been very old.

* * * * *

"The Scheldt can easily be damned."--_Daily Chronicle._

So can the KAISER, but it isn't enough to say so.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Ex-Teuton (to landlady)._ "ACH! MADAME, EET IS ALL RIGHT! I VOS ENGLEESH NOW! I HAVE TO-DAY MEIN PAPERS OF NATIONALIZATION TO YOUR HOME OFFICE SENT OFF. DERE VOS SEVERAL OATHS BY HALF-A-DOZEN PEOPLES TO BE SVORN. IT VOS A TREMENDOUS AFFAIRS!"

* * * * *

THE HEROES.

Once upon a time, many years ago--how many I cannot say, but certainly it must have been before the Christian era--there lived a sublime Emperor. After being for long the warmest, if platonic, friend of Peace, and forcing the world to listen to his loud protestations of fidelity, he suddenly surprised his hearers by declaring war.

It was shortly after the opening of hostilities that he was seated on his throne presenting awards of merit to the bravest of his brave soldiers. The hall was filled with martial enthusiasm, and the memorable scene was one in which splendour, animation and the confidence of rectitude were equally notable.

The Emperor's noble Vizier, to whose massive mind treaties were of no more consequence than waste paper, stood at the side of his Imperial Master to act as introducer of the gallant soldiers whose exploits (with which the world was ringing) it had been decided to reward although so early in the campaign--_pour encourager les autres_.

"The first decorations," remarked the Vizier, "are for deeds of signal courage."

He motioned to a stalwart warrior. "This noble son of the Empire," he said, "with his own bow shot six non-combatants within as many minutes."

Loud cheers rent the air.

"Three of them," the Vizier continued, "were women."

Louder cheers.

"The other three were old men over seventy."

Immense enthusiasm.

"This determined hacker-through," the Vizier continued, as another giant stood forth, "shot an unarmed priest."

More enthusiasm.

"And," added the Vizier, "burned his temple."

Amid the plaudits of the flower of the Stale the monarch affixed the cherished tokens to the heroes' breasts. "My Braves!" he exclaimed. "In the name of the Fatherland I thank you."

Another warrior stepped out and saluted.

"And what, my friend," asked the monarch, "did you do?"

"Nothing, Sire," he replied with the unaffected simplicity of the man of action; "I merely stamped on some little children--twins, I think."

"Two medals for that," said the Emperor with ready wit, and there was not a wet eye as he placed them in their proud position.

The Vizier beckoned to a youthful officer on whose lip the down was hardly yet visible. But though young in years he was already every inch a soldier of his country.

"This gallant gentleman," said the Vizier, "unaided, and at great personal risk, shot a baby in arms."

"In arms?" asked the monarch sharply. "Surely that mitigates the heroism?"

"I meant in its mother's arms," the Vizier hastily explained.

"Ah!" said the Emperor with a sigh of relief, "that reassures me." And amid profound excitement he embraced the soldier, pinned the coveted badge to his breast and bade him quickly return to the front to carry on the great work.

"The next reward is for resource in emergency," said the master of ceremonies an hour or so later.

He beckoned to a superb officer, splendid in his trappings--a blue-eyed colossus of nearly six-feet-six.

"This highborn Captain," said the Vizier, "snatched some women from their beds and pushed them before his men so that the enemy should not shoot."

The hall resounded with applause.

"'Twas a brilliant thought," said the Emperor. "Not only will we decorate him for intelligence, but for valour."

"The last is for chivalry, Sire," said the master of the ceremonies, indicating the remaining award.

An officer stood forth.

"This warrior," said the Vizier, "ordered his men to trample down some public flower-beds in the enemy's capital."

"Bravely done," said the Emperor. "A great and imaginative lesson. We'll learn them to resist invasion!"

Amid renewed demonstrations of loyalty and fervour the Emperor brought the proceedings to a close.

"Among so many deeds of valour," he said, "I find it impossible to say which is the most splendid. All are glorious. I am in a position to assure you that Heaven is proud of you. The Fatherland also is proud of you, and, above all, I am proud of you. May the blessings of Heaven continue to fall upon our great and merciful campaign for the right!"

With these words the proceedings terminated and the heroes hurried back to the fighting line, eager to win more laurels by similar feats of culture.

* * * * *

SIDELIGHTS ON THE WAR.

It is frequently remarked that the present war will be far-reaching in its consequences. The truth of this is apparent from the following notices, gathered at random from the column of "Personal Paragraphs" which the Editor of _The Shrimpington-on-Sea Gazette_ publishes weekly, without charge, thereby earning the reputation of a patriot:--

IN CONSEQUENCE OF the present crisis in the Money Market, Mrs. Pincham desires to give notice that she hereby disclaims all liability for any debts contracted by her at Bridge, and the same will not be paid.

THIS IS TO SAY THAT, owing to the war and my pocket-money being stopped because I broke the dining-room window, if Jackson Minor does not pay me the balance of sixpence remaining for his half-share of the white rabbit we both bought last term, his half of the rabbit will be sold and the proceeds kept by the undersigned, SMITH TERTIUS.

LADY STRAITER regrets to be obliged to announce that, in consequence of the perilous financial situation in Europe, she will be forced to discontinue her subscription of 2_s._ 6_d._ per annum to the Society for the Relief of Distressed Dustmen.

MR. ALURED DE MORTIMER TALBOT-HOWARD-ST. MAUR begs to inform his many friends and the general public that the above is his real name, and that he is proud to say he is by birth and descent an Englishman. The spiteful rumours which allege that he originally kept a pawnbroker's shop in Hamburg, where his name was Wilhelm Guggelheimer, are merely the inventions of malicious persons who are envious of his property and social position.

As the Shrimpington-on-Sea Golf Course has been entirely ploughed-up (with the exception of the greens) and planted with onions, turnips, cabbages, and beetroot, to increase our national food-supply, all members are requested to play in rubber-soled shoes only during the next two months, so as not to damage the growing crops.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"MY AUNT."

Illustration: SHOULD THE TELEPHONE BE USED EXCEPT UNDER MEDICAL ADVICE?

_Mrs. Martingale_ Miss LOTTIE VENNE. _Dr. Sweette_ Mr. ERNEST HENDRIE.

***

Really, the only question to ask oneself of this adaptation from the French is "Is it funny enough?" With so much being offered by the newsboy outside the Vaudeville that is not at all funny, it would be pleasant to find inside the doors a little relief from the world.

I will give the authors the benefit of any doubt I may have felt now and then, and say that _My Aunt_ serves its purpose. In places it made us all laugh a good deal, and I don't think we were prepared to be easily amused; although (for a reason which still escapes me) there was a sudden burst of clapping when _Aubrey Braxton_ announced that he had received an "ultimatum" from _Suzanne_. The latter part of the Second Act is particularly well worked up, and one remark of _Aubrey's_ to _Leslie Tarbolton_ brought down the house. ("You are the sort of man who would go to call on a sick friend ... and eat his grapes.") The Third Act is terribly padded with things which are not really funny, but it gives us an opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss LOTTIE VENNE, to whom the authors had not previously been generous. (I love Miss VENNE'S voice and I love her manner of waving her arms in the air. It was delightful to see and listen to her again.)

For the best parts of the first two Acts, then; for Miss LOTTIE VENNE'S voice; above all, for Mr. A. W. BASKCOMB'S face, _My Aunt_ is worth while. As _Aubrey Braxton_ Mr. BASKCOMB--the never-to-be-forgotten _Slightly_ of so many Christmasses--goes through all the many troubles of a hero of farce with his own inimitable air of hopeless resignation. I hope that his efforts will not be unrewarded, and that the management will find that, without rivalling the success of that other aunt, Charley's, they will yet for some time be able to play to good "business as usual."

M.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S HOLIDAY STORIES.

III.--THE FIGHT OF THE CENTURY.

(Concluded.)

[_SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING INSTALMENT:--The great boxing boom is at its height. A fight arranged between Smasher Mike and the famous heavyweight champion. Mauler Mills, is arousing intense excitement throughout the country. Nothing whatever is known of the Smasher, and the betting is therefore 100 to 1 against him. Young Lord Tamerton is at this time in desperate financial straits. His bosom friend, Ralph Wonderson, who is in love with his sister, the beautiful Lady Margaret Tamerton, prevails upon him to wager heavily on Smasher Mike, and undertakes to put him in the way of obtaining a loan of L5,000 for this purpose. Their conversation is overheard by an agent of Sir Ernest Scrivener,_ alias _Marmaduke Moorsdyke, who is the mortal enemy of Wonderson and is plotting to get Lady Margaret Tamerton in his power._]

The vast area of Corinthia was crammed with eager spectators, whose eyes were concentrated with feverish intensity on the raised platform in the centre of the hall. In the seats near the ring, for each of which a hundred guineas had been charged, sat the cream of Britain's aristocracy, including Lord Tamerton and Lady Margaret Tamerton, for whom two tickets in a plain envelope had been left that morning.

At last the preliminaries came to an end and Smasher Mike, clad in a claret-coloured dressing-gown with yellow facings, crawled through the ropes and went to his corner. As he raised his face to the lights a murmur of amazement ran through the hall.

"_It's Ralph Wonderson!_" Lady Margaret gripped her brother's arm till the perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"_It's Ralph Wonderson!_" The whisper passed from lip to lip, merging presently into a burst of cheering as Mauler Mills scrambled up to the platform, wearing an electric-blue dressing-gown with green facings and pink sash.

Ralph sat motionless in his corner, watching his gigantic adversary with a pleasant smile and softly whistling the air of a popular song. At length the referee leisurely entered the ring. As he did so, Ralph gave a violent start and Lady Margaret gripped her brother's arm till his teeth chattered. _The referee was not the popular Algernon Mittens, as had been announced, but Sir Ernest Scrivener!_

Lord Tamerton stared up at the ring with ashen lips. With such an official in charge nothing but a miracle could save Ralph Wonderson from being disqualified in the first round. The House of Tamerton was more utterly ruined than ever.

But in thirty seconds Ralph, trained in many sports to meet all emergencies, had summed up the situation and decided upon his course of action.

The gong sounded and the two pugilists advanced warily towards each other. Suddenly Ralph lashed out a terrific right which, as he intended, missed the Mauler by a foot. Unable, apparently, to retain his balance, he swung completely round with the impetus of the blow, and his clenched fist landed squarely upon the referee's jaw. Sir Ernest shot high over the ropes and crashed down on the Dowager Duchess of Cumbersea, whence he rebounded with terrible force into the arms of the Marquis of Meltington.

After a brief delay all three were removed to the hospital.

* * * * *

The fight, under a new referee, was in its twentieth round. Not a sound could be heard beyond the shuffling of the pugilists' feet and the thud of fist on flesh.