Chapter 3

D'Arcy and I had an awkward moment the other day. We turned into a wayside golf club in an emergency, and begged to be allowed to buy our tea there. Even as we did so the Secretary himself arrived in a motor car, which, as we were not aware, had but a little while ago overtaken Major Danks and the half battalion under his charge. Even the Secretary himself, accustomed to ignore foot-passengers, did not appreciate that he had roused the Major's wrath by the haste of his overtaking. The Secretary was, to us, politeness itself--nay more, he insisted upon our being the guests of the club not only on that occasion but on every available opportunity. Other members gathered round and endorsed his view. We returned thanks in brief and soldierly speeches. There were, by way of reply, votes of confidence, and, in rejoinder, expressions of reciprocated esteem. The invitation was extended to every officer in the battalion, and then we withdrew to the wash-house to prepare to receive hospitality. Hardly had we departed when the Major arrived, and we returned from our ablutions, if not into the open, at least sufficiently near to hear him reprimanding the Secretary in the most violent terms, threatening arrest to the miscreant chauffeur, and, indeed, the annihilation of the whole clubhouse and links, and every man, woman and child in or about them. Old man, I have never less enjoyed a meal at others' expense than I did the tea which followed.

Acting temporarily as Quarter-Master I went to the butcher's to-day. "A nice morning, Sir," said he. What could he do for me? "What about some beef?" said I. "About ten pounds?" he suggested. "Nearer two hundred," I replied.... "Good day," he concluded, as he bowed me out of the shop. "A _very_ nice morning, Sir."

I'll tell you my opinion of these soldiers, Charles, amateur or professional. Feed them like princes and pamper them like babies, and they'll complain all the time. But stand them up to be shot at and they'll take it as a joke, and rather a good joke, too.

Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Scene: Playground of sand in a London park._

_Kind-hearted Old Lady._ "THAT LITTLE BOY LOOKS VERY LONELY. WHY DON'T YOU ASK HIM TO PLAY WITH YOU?"

_Little Girl._ "OW, DON'T TAKE NO NOTICE OF 'IM, LIDY. 'E'S SWANKIN' 'COS 'E'S BIN TO THE SEASIDE."

* * * * *

ONE OF THE SECRETS OF RUSSIAN SUCCESS.

(_By our Military Expert._)

The brief statement from Headquarters at Petrograd that on the South-West front Wszlmysl has fallen and that the pursuit of the Austrians has reached Mlprknik has a significance that may easily be overlooked by those who are unfamiliar with the topography of the district and its pronunciation. Wszlmysl (pronounce Wozzle-mizzle) is a large fortified town in the district of Mprzt (pronounce Ha-djisha), at the junction of the rivers Ug (pronounce Oogh) and Odzwl (pronounce Odol), about ten miles to the N.E. of Ploschkin (pronounce as written), with which it is connected by an electric tramway. The information available shows that the garrison of Wszlmysl (pronounce Woolloomoolloo) deserted their guns and retreated in haste with the Russians in hot pursuit. Now, inasmuch as this fortress has been pronounced by the Russian expert, Colonel Shumsky (pronounce Sch-tchoomsky), to be stronger than either Namur or Liége, the precipitate retirement of the Austrians can only be accounted for by a complete breakdown of _moral_.

The cause of this breakdown may escape most observers, but it is in reality simple enough. It has long been known that the Austrians have found themselves terribly handicapped by their inability to deal faithfully with the consonantal difficulties presented by the names of towns and districts in which the ethnic basis is Slav and not Teutonic. Quite recently, on the capture of the town of Prtnkévichsvtntchiskow (unpronounceable, and only to be approximately rendered with the assistance of a powerful Claxon horn), the garrison were found to be in a deplorable condition of aphasia and suffering from chronic laryngitis. We have therefore the best grounds for believing that a similar cause operated in the case of the Austrian defenders of Wszlmysl. They fled because they were unable to cope with the vocal exigencies of the situation.

To sum up, we have in our Eastern ally a nation not only great in numbers, in warlike prowess, and in enthusiasm for their cause, but also fortified by the possession of a language so rich in phonetic variety and so formidable in consonantal concentration as to strike terror into opponents of lesser linguistic capacity.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"THOSE WHO SIT IN JUDGMENT."

In days of great national tension the public needs some coaxing to be got into the theatre at all. Our managers should either, at the risk of appearing callous, offer us a pure distraction from the strain of things or else provide something in harmony with the emotions of the time. But frankly I cannot find in the programme at the St. James's any apparent sign of consideration for present conditions. It is true that it supplies excellent entertainment for Mr. GEORGE ALEXANDER, who has plenty of occupation in a part that suits him well. But I was thinking, selfishly enough, of my own needs and those of other non-combatants.

I admit that the scene in West Africa was a diverting novelty. I had never before, to my recollection, met a native monarch from the Gold Coast, and I have pleasure in accepting the assurance of Mr. CROWTHER, Secretary for Native Affairs in this district, that they are like that. But it was impossible to feel any very deep concern as to what might happen to the damaged hero (_Michael Trent_) on his return to England after the failure of his rubber schemes. The best he could hope for, by way of consolation for being misunderstood, was to become a co-respondent in a suit brought by the chief sitter-in-judgment. Even so we might have contrived a little sympathy if the woman's fifth-rate environment had not made any community of tastes hopelessly improbable. For her, too, it seemed to us a poor business that the only encouragement she could offer him in the undeserved ruin of his career was to get it blasted all over again--and this time on a true charge--by running away with him.

But the rubber-man in the play was never a hero. There in his Gold Coast shanty we see his lover's young brother dying of fever under his eyes. Yet from the moment when he himself gets a touch of the same complaint he takes to brandy, and practically loses all further interest--at any rate of a coherent kind--in the fate of his _protégé_. And at the end--though he seems to take a good deal of personal pride in the prospect--the only heroism that lies before him is the living-down of a sordid scandal in the divorce-court.

As _Michael Trent_, Mr. GEORGE ALEXANDER played excellently, and I have nothing to say against either the quality or the quantity of his work, except that in the First Act the tale of his experience in the Beresu forest, which began with a very natural air, developed into something like a recitation. He might almost have been Mr. ROOSEVELT, in a mood of exaltation, describing his river to the Geographical Society. That clever actress, Miss HENRIETTA WATSON, had to play a difficult part as _Trent's_ lover, in a vein that, I think, is new to her. She did it well, though she seemed to start on a note of intensity which left her too little margin for the time when she really needed it; her appeal, too, was rather to our intelligence than our hearts. Mr. NIGEL PLAYFAIR, waiving his gift of deliberate humour, showed himself a master of the petty meannesses of a certain phase of suburban banality. Mr. VOLPÉ presided, with the right rotundity of a rubber company's chairman, over a very spirited meeting of indignant share-holders. And, finally, nothing became Mr. REGINALD OWEN so well as the manner of his dying.

O. S.

* * * * *

"YOUNG WISDOM."

_Victoria_ was very young and very, very wise. She knew all about the slavery of the marriage-tie, the liberty of the female subject, and high-sounding things of that sort, and kept books of advanced thinking secretly under her mattress--where her little brother found them and thought them dull, and her mother found them and thought them rather funny. _Victoria's_ theory was that all marriages ought to be preceded by a trial trip, but it was her sister _Gail_ who had the pluck to put this theory into practice. She insisted on her young man, _Peter_, eloping with her on the night before their wedding. _Peter_, a simple gentleman with a mouth permanently open, was reluctantly persuaded. Whereupon _Christopher_, the best man, engaged to _Victoria_, insisted upon _Victoria_ also living up to her theory and eloping without clerical assistance--which she did almost as unwillingly as _Peter_. The two couples meet at midnight in an old moorland cottage rented by an artist called _Max_ (no, not the one you think), whereupon two important things happen:--

(1) _Gail_ decides in about twenty minutes that she loves _Max_, not _Peter_. (2) _Victoria_ decides that she hates trial trips. So they all five go back together, and, after a lot of "Tut-tut-what-the-blank-upon-my-souls" from the military stage-father, they sort themselves out again and get married properly--_Peter_ being left over with a cold in the head.

The author, Miss RACHEL CROTHERS, has not strained herself severely in writing _Young Wisdom_, and the result is a pleasantly innocent little play, which, thanks to the Misses MARGERY MAUDE and MADGE TITHERADGE as the two sisters, and Mr. JOHN DEVERELL as _Peter_, gave us all a good deal of pleasure. Miss MAUDE had a part with a little comedy in it for once, and she played it delightfully.

M.

* * * * *

MEDITATIONS ON MUSHROOMS.

We were playing the ancient and honourable game of acrostics and we had to think of and describe a word bounded on the West by the initial E, and on the East by the final H.

"That which you can never have of mushrooms," was one of the descriptions. It was, of course, guessed at once--"Enough;" and could there be a truer compliment to this strange exotic delicacy, which costs nothing but a walk in an early autumnal morning and is more choice than the rarest flavours ever designed by the most inspired of _chefs_? For certainly there has never been enough of them. I, at any rate, have never had enough. The thought of mushrooms missed must add pathos to many a death-bed.

It is a terrible moment when the dish comes in and one rapidly notes the disparity between the paucity of its contents and the vast and eager anticipation of the company. For it is useless to attempt to conceal greed when mushrooms arrive. A certain amount of dissimulation has mercifully been given by a wise Providence to all of us for the lubrication of the cogs of daily life; but it does not extend so far as this. And particularly so if the mushrooms have been fried in butter. Stewed they are not of course to be undervalued, especially if one dares to soak one's bread in the juice; nor even reposing in tragic isolation on Juan Fernandezes of toast; but the real way is to fry them in butter. As I say, it is a terrible moment when the dish arrives and the faces of the guests are studied; but should there be one present, or--more ecstatic moment still--two, who confess to a dislike of this perilous fungus, then what an access of rapture by way of compensation! Truly wise hostesses have been known to murmur something about toadstools and risk, as an encouragement to the doubters; or if they don't their husbands do. It is however no real good! Even with two defaulters the dish does no more than stimulate desire; whilst such is its power of fascination that consummate _gourmets_ have been known to express no dismay at the possibility of poison being there, a death so won being worth dying.

Mushrooms, to win such homage as this, must be picked in the fields and cooked at home. The forced mushrooms which grow under the shelf in the greenhouse or in a corner of the cellar lack something of divinity; while there is not a restaurant _chef_ in the world who has not a long record of ruined mushrooms to his name. No sooner does a public cook get at a mushroom than it begins to deteriorate. When the _chef_ comes in at the door the savour flies out of the window. It is a point of honour with him. When therefore I said that one can never have enough mushrooms I meant at home.

It is an injustice to the mushroom to eat it as an adjunct to other food; while there is one meat which in alliance it renders unwholesome. The odd thing is that every one differs as to what this meat is; but my own hazy recollection says mutton. Still that prohibition is not for us, who know the only way in which mushrooms should be eaten: fried, with bread and butter, and the butter spread too thick.

* * * * *

It is rumoured that the freedom of Hunstanton is to be conferred on the KAISER.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE BULL-DOG BREED.

_Officer._ "NOW, MY LAD, DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE PLACED HERE FOR?"

_Recruit._ "TO PREVENT THE HENEMY FROM LANDIN', SIR."

_Officer._ "AND DO YOU THINK THAT YOU COULD PREVENT HIM LANDING ALL BY YOURSELF?"

_Recruit._ "DON'T KNOW, SIR, I'M SURE. BUT I'D HAVE A DAM GOOD TRY!"

* * * * *

"BUSINESS AS USUAL."

Corkey is the School Attendance Officer and a terror to every boy in the neighbourhood. He looks at the truant and says fiercely, "Where was you?" Then he wags a savage finger at him. "Yes, you was," he says, "you was, you know you was. I caught you in the hact." No boy has ever been known to withstand him.

Yet Corkey has a heart.

William Frederick Wright is our chief boy scout. In the first great days of the war, William was on duty at a railway bridge up the line. Local fame placed him somewhere between FRENCH and KITCHENER. Sent to round up the truant, Corkey reported in glowing words, "_Guarding his country._"

A second week's absence produced the same report. Then business instinct began to war with patriotism in the breast of Corkey. During the third week he once more looked the culprit up.

His report was grim and terse. "_Warned him_," he wrote.

On the following Monday William sadly returned.

* * * * *

THE AWAKENING.

Ere our lesson to the KAISER, Self-anointed Lord of Earth, Left that furious monarch wiser _Re_ our troops' intrinsic worth, Frankly, I had thought you flighty, Callous to the very core; Lovely?--yes, like Aphrodite; Nothing more.

Later, when you slaked your thirsting For an apron, cuffs and cap, Long before the war-cloud, bursting, Made a mess of Europe's map, Though your mind showed some improvement, Lady, I conceived you had Joined a purely social movement For a fad.

Now the scales at length uplifted From my eyes in you reveal, Verily, a woman gifted With the power to help and heal. So I send, for shame, these verses Where you brave the battle's brunt, One of England's noble Nurses At the front.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I always open a new book by GERTRUDE ATHERTON with a pleasant grace-before-meat sensation of being already truly thankful for what I am about to receive. And it is hardly ever that I am disappointed. I do not mean to tell you that her latest story, which bears the attractive title _Perch of the Devil_ (MURRAY), will eclipse the record of all that has gone before; but it need not do that to be well worth reading. It is a tale of mining life, set against a background of claims and veins and drifts and ores--things that I for one delight to read about because of their infinite possibilities, the romance of the gamble that is in them. There is plenty of this gamble in _Perch of the Devil_ (the mountain township where the miners lived). _Gregory Compton_, the hero, makes his pile all right, and has some rare moments in doing it. He would have been happier if he could have enjoyed prosperity, when it came, for its own sake and for that of his pretty wife. But, though he bestowed upon her all the luxuries that successful mining commands--frocks and cars and European travel--it was another woman, _Ora_, who had his heart. And unfortunately she was the wife of his partner. It is with this quartette of characters that Mrs. ATHERTON works out her tale, an unusually small cast for a story of 373 pages; but you will hardly need to be told with what sympathetic and subtle skill she depicts them. Her art is, as always, extraordinarily minute and close. The two women especially are made to live before us with a great effect of actuality. She has wit, too, of a dry, rather grim, kind. I liked her comparison of _Gregory's_ emotion on finding himself in love with _Ora_ to that of a small boy despising himself for a second attack of measles before he discovers the later complaint to be scarlet fever. You must read this book.

* * * * *

In no industrial survey of the present situation have I seen any reliable estimate of the probable output of patriotic romance. Yet the figures seem likely to be impressive. One of the earliest samples is before me now. It is called _The Gate of England_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), with the sub-title, _A Romance of the Days of Drake_, and is in every way true to its admirable type. What I mean by this is that it contains everything that you expect and are glad to find--a Virgin Queen, imperious and quick of retort, with a generous eye for the claims of gallantry; a hero who simply could not be more heroic; villains (of Spanish name, priests, murderers, all a regular bad lot), and the right proportion of female interest and humorous relief. Need I give you the details? How the hero, Captain of the Queen's body-guard, saves Her Majesty's life (a scene with a genuine thrill in it) and is rewarded by her. How he goes in command of an expedition against Channel freebooters, and finally ends up as an agent of the British Intelligence Department, finding out things about the army of His Grace of Parma, then at Dunkirk awaiting conveyance by the Spanish fleet. He seems, however, to have been something of a failure in the way of intelligence, as by lack of this the hero managed to get himself and his companion imprisoned for spies (which indeed they were), and was only rescued by the intervention of DRAKE as the god from the machine. A pleasant, if undistinguished, tale that will be enjoyed by the young of all ages. It is a minor point, but when one finds the hero called _Christopher Stone_, and another character rejoicing in the name of _Gabriel Ray_, it is hard to acquit the author of some poverty of invention. His own name (I had almost forgotten to mention) is MORICE GERARD; and he has done better work.

* * * * *

_Pan-Germanism_ (CONSTABLE) is a seasonable cheap reprint of a study of that egregious creed by ROLAND G. USHER, an American Professor of History. With an almost cynical candour and detachment the author analyses the origins, assumptions, justifications and pretensions, and foreshadows with some insight the miscalculations, of those who have essayed to direct the destinies of modern Germany. It is as well that this essay comes from a neutral pen; it would else be discredited as a freak of prejudice. Pan-Germanism, as here seen, is the _reductio ad absurdum_ of the doctrine that all is fair in war--and peace. It is no less than blank anarchy, philosophic and practical, and indefinitely less workable as a theory of international life than that of the so long discredited Sermon on the Mount. The honest Briton can find here solid justification of his cause. Perhaps it is not altogether unwholesome that our national withers don't entirely escape wringing. We are a little guilty, but much less guilty than our arch-opponent; so thinks this sober and wide-eyed critic.... Certainly, and the more significantly since it is without direction or intention of the writer, one sees behind all the tragedy of these dark weeks and of the long months and years to come the sinister picture of a man of no more than common earthly wisdom saddled with responsibilities that might well break the nerve of a council of the gods. Is it well, if the matches must be kept in the powder-magazine, to let the children in to play with them?

* * * * *

Illustration: PERHAPS THE LONDON PUBLIC WOULD FEEL MORE SECURE IF OUR GUARDIAN AIRSHIP WERE MADE IN THIS PATTERN.

* * * * *

That he will arm the German cat and dog The KAISER swears in language hot and heady; He leaves the swine out of his catalogue Because the swine, it seems, are armed already.

* * * * *

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

"Another German officer prays for a decisive engagement which will put an end to bloody encounters. One evening he and his fellow-officers had to share between themselves a meal prepared for their men."--_Times._

The records of the war have furnished many instances of physical hardship, but none more terrible than this.