Part 2

As for Bulpitt's wife's mother, she was in the pit for over an hour before we hauled her out. The first time we got her to the surface she gasped out, quite smilingly, "Now I know what it's like in the tren----" and then she slipped back with an oozy thud. The second time she said, "I don't think they'll come ag----" The third time she said, "I don't care if the Zeppel----" And when we did get her out she said nothing at all, and I was sorry for Bulpitt.

Amidst all these scenes of confusion little Miss Agatha at No. 4 stood at attention in a fur overcoat and a big pair of boots that would easily slip on, with a coal-scuttle on her head to keep off bombs. She stood there warm, safe, and respectably clad, waiting till the house crashed about her and the time came to save herself.

I hate to think of the Zeppelins coming; but if they do come I hope--how I hope!--I shall be near No. 4 to see the indomitable little lady emerge.

* * * * *

TEMPORA MUTANTUR.

In WALPOLE'S time, not over nice, Each man was said to have his price; We've changed since then; For, if my daughter's word is fact, The world to-day is simply packed With "priceless" men.

* * * * *

Journalistic Candour.

"When a court-martial was opened for the trial of two sergeants at Woolwich yesterday one of the officers questioned the right of a reporter to be present.... The reporter was told to leave, which he did, after protesting that an official shorthand note was an entirely different thing from a newspaper report."--_Daily Chronicle._

* * * * *

A LETTER TO THE FRONT.

Mrs. Jeremy looked up from her knitting. "I want you to do something for me," she said to her husband.

"Anything except sing," said Jeremy lazily.

"It's just to write a letter."

"My dear, of course. _The Complete Letter-writer_, by J. P. Smith. Chapter V--'Stiff Notes to Landlords'--shows Mr. Smith at his best. 'Gossipy Budgets, and should they be crossed?'--see Chapter VI. Bless you, I can write to _anybody._"

"This is to a man you've never met. He's a private at the Front and his name is Mackinnon."

"'Dear Mr. Mackinnon'--that's how I should begin. Do we want to say anything particular, or are we just trying the new notepaper?"

Mrs. Jeremy put down her work and gave herself up to explanation. Private Mackinnon was in a school friend's husband's regiment, and he never got any letters or parcels from anybody, and the friend's husband had asked his wife to ask her friends----

"Wait a bit," said Jeremy. "We shall want the College of Heralds in this directly." He took out his pencil and drew up a pedigree:--

School. | +-------+------+ | | J.P.S.=Mrs. J. Friend=Officer. | Regiment. | +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+ | | | | | | | | | Mackinnon.

"There you are. Now _you_ think it's J. P. S.'s turn to write to Mackinnon." He drew a line from one to the other. "Very well; I shall tell him about the old school."

"You do see, don't you?" said Mrs. Jeremy. "All the others get letters and things from their friends, and poor Mr. Mackinnon gets nothing. Katharine wants to get up a surprise for him, and she's asking half-a-dozen of her friends to send him things and write him jolly letters." She picked up the muffler she had been knitting. "This is for him, and I said you'd do the letter. You write such jolly ones."

Jeremy threw away the end of his cigar and got up.

"Yes, but what about?" he said, running his hand through his hair. "This is going to be very difficult."

"Oh, just one of your nice funny letters like you write to me."

"Quite like that?" said Jeremy earnestly.

"Well, not quite like that," smiled Mrs. Jeremy; "but you know what I mean. He'd love it."

"Very well," said Jeremy, "we'll see what we can do."

He withdrew to his library and got to work.

"_My dear Mr. Mackinnon_," he wrote, "_the weather here is perfectly beastly_."

He looked at it thoughtfully and then put it on one side. "We won't destroy it," he said to himself, "because we may have to come back to it, but at present we don't like it."

He began another sheet of paper.

"_My dear Mackinnon, who do you think it is? Your old friend Jeremy Smith!_"

He murmured it to himself three or four times, crossed out "old" and put "new," and then placed this sheet on the top of the other.

"_My dear Mackinnon, yesterday the Vicar_----"

"I knew it would be difficult," he said, and took a fourth sheet. Absently he began to jot down a few possible openings:--

"_I am a Special Constable ..._"

"_Have you read Mrs. Humphry Ward's latest ..._"

"_I hope the War won't last long ..._"

"Yes," he said, "but we're not being really funny enough."

He collected his letters as far as they had gone and took them to his wife.

"You see what will happen, darling," he said. "Mr. Mackinnon will read them, and he will say to himself, 'There's a man called Jeremy P. Smith who is a fool.' The news will travel down the line. They will tell themselves in Alsace that J. P. Smith, the Treasurer of the Little Blessington Cricket Club, is lacking in grey matter. The story will get across to the Germans in some garbled form; 'Smith off crumpet,' or something of that sort. It will reach the Grand Duke NICHOLAS; it will traverse the neutral countries; everywhere the word will be spread that your husband is, as they say, barmy. I ask you, dear--is it fair to Baby?"

Mrs. Jeremy crumpled up the sheets and threw them in the fire.

"Oh, Jeremy," she said, "you could do it so easily if you wanted to. If you only said, 'Thank you for being so brave,' it would be something."

"But you said it had to be a 'jolly' one."

"Yes, that was silly of me. I didn't mean that. Just write what you want to write--never mind about what I said."

"Oh, but that's easy," said Jeremy with great relief; "I can do that on my head."

And this was the letter (whether he wrote it on his head or not I cannot say):--

"MY DEAR MR. MACKINNON,--You are not married, I believe, but perhaps you will be some day when the War is over. You will then get to know of a very maddening trick which wives have. You hand them a letter over the coffee-pot beginning, 'Dear Smith, I saw a little water-colour of yours in the Academy and admired it very much. The what-do-you-call-it is so well done, and I like that broad effect. Please accept an earldom,'--but, before they read any of it at all, they turn to the signature at the end and say, 'Why, Jeremy, it's from the KING!' And then all your beautiful surprise is gone.

"Now I don't mention this in order to put you off marriage, because there is a lot more in it than letters over the coffee-pot, and all the rest is delightful. But I want to tell you that, if (as I expect) you are keeping the signature of this letter for the surprise, you will be disappointed. I am sorry about it. I tried various signatures with a surprise to them (you would have liked my 'Hall Caine,' I think), but I decided that I had best stick to the one I have used for so many years, 'J. P. Smith.' It will make you ask that always depressing question, 'Who is J. P. Smith?' but this I cannot help. Besides, I want to tell you who he is.

"An hour ago he was sitting in front of a fire of logs, smoking a cigar. He had just finished dinner, so good a dinner that he was congratulating his wife on it as she sat knitting on the other side of the fire. If he had a complaint to make at all, it was perhaps that the fire was a little too hot; perhaps when he went upstairs he would find that a little too hot also was the bottle in his bed. One has these hardships to face. To complete the picture, I ask you to imagine a door closed rather noisily kitchenwards, and an exclamation of annoyance from Mr. Smith. He passes it off by explaining that he was thinking of the baby rather than of himself.

"Well, there you have this J. P. Smith person ... and at the same hour what was this man Mackinnon doing? I don't know; you do. But perhaps you will understand now why I want to say 'Thank you.' I know what you will answer: 'Good Lord, I'm only doing my job, I don't want to be _kissed_ for it.' My dear Mackinnon, you don't understand. I am not very kindly writing to you; you are very kindly letting me write. This is _my_ birthday, not yours. I give myself the pleasure of thanking you; as a gentleman you cannot refuse it to me.

"Yours gratefully, J. P. SMITH."

"You dear," said Mrs. Jeremy. "He'll simply love it."

Jeremy grunted.

"If I were Mackinnon," he said, "I should prefer the muffler."

A.A.M.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BEASTS AND SUPERBEASTS.

[_A German zoologist has discovered in German New Guinea a new kind of opossum to which he proposes to give the name of_ Dactylopsila Hindenburgi.]

At the Annual Convention of the Fishes, Birds and Beasts, Which opened with the usual invigorating feasts, The attention of the delegates of feather, fur and fin Was focussed on a wonderful proposal from Berlin.

The document suggested that, to signalise the feats Of the noble German armies and the splendid German fleets, Certain highly honoured species, in virtue of their claims, Should be privileged in future to adopt Germanic names.

To judge by the resultant din, the screams and roars and cries, The birds were most ungrateful and the quadrupeds likewise; And the violence with which they "voiced" their angry discontent Was worthy of a thoroughbred Hungarian Parliament.

The centipede declared he'd sooner lose a dozen legs Than wear a patronymic defiled by human dregs; And sentiments identical, in voices hoarse with woe, Were emitted by the polecat and by the carrion crow.

The rattlesnake predicted that his rattle would be cracked Before the name _Bernhardii_ on to his tail was tacked; And an elderly hyæna, famed for gluttony and greed, Denounced the suffix _Klucki_ as an insult to its breed.

Most impressive and pathetic was the anguish of the toad When he found the name _Lissaueri_ had on him been bestowed; And a fine man-eating tiger said he'd sooner feed with SHAW Than allow the title _Treitschkei_ to desecrate his jaw.

But this memorable meeting was not destined to disperse Without a tragedy too great for humble human verse; For, on hearing that _Wilhelmi_ had to his name been tied, The skunk, in desperation, committed suicide.

* * * * *

Count REVENTLOW in the _Deutsche Tageszeitung_:--

"It is an established fact that when our airships were, in order to fly to the fortified place of Great Yarmouth, merely flying over other places or cities, they were shot at from these places. It may be assumed with certainty that these shots, which were aimed at the airships from below, hit them, and probably they wounded or even killed occupants of the airships. This involves an English franc-tireur attack, ruthlessly carried out in defiance of International Law and in the darkness of the night, upon the German airships, which, without the smallest hostile action, wanted to fly away over these places....

The airship is a recognised weapon of war, and yet people in England seem to demand that it shall regard itself as fair game for the murders performed by a fanatical civil population, and shall not have the right to defend itself."

By the offer of a princely salary, _Mr. Punch_ has tried to tempt Count REVENTLOW to join the staff in Bouverie Street. In vain. As the chief humorist of Central Europe he feels that his services are indispensable to the Fatherland.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OVERWORK.

The poets having indicated that they were going to take a few moments off, the words were free to stand at ease also. They did so with a great sigh of relief, especially one whom I recognised by his intense weariness and also by the martial glow on his features, his muddied and torn clothes and the bandage round his head.

"You're 'war,'" I said, crossing over to speak to him.

"Yes," he replied, "I'm 'war,' and I'm very tired."

"They're sweating you?" I asked.

"Horribly," he replied. "In whatever they're writing about just now, both poets and song-writers, they drag me in, and they will end lines with me. Just to occur somewhere and be done with I shouldn't so much mind; but they feel in honour bound to provide me with a rhyme. Still," he added meditatively, "there are compensations."

"How?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "I find myself with more congenial companions than I used to have. In the old days, when I wasn't sung at all, but was used more or less academically, I often found myself arm-in-arm with 'star' or 'far' or 'scar,' and I never really got on with them. We didn't agree. There was something wrong. But now I get better associates; 'roar,' for example, is a certainty in one verse. In fact I don't mind admitting I'm rather tired of 'roar,' true friends as we are.

"But I can see the poor young poetical fellows' difficulty; and, after all, I do roar, don't I? Just as my old friend 'battle' here"--I bowed to his companion--"is attached to 'rattle.'

"Of course," he went on, "I'm luckier than 'battle' really, because I do get a few other fellows to walk with, such as 'corps'--very often--and 'before' and--far too often--'gore'; but 'battle' is tied up to 'rattle' for the rest of his life. They're inseparable--'battle' and 'rattle.' Directly you see one you know that the other is only a few words away. We call them the Siamese Twins."

I laughed sympathetically.

"There's 'cattle,'" I said, remembering 'The War-song of Dinas Vawr.'

"No use just now," said 'war.' "'Rattle' is the only rhyme at the moment; just as General FRENCH has his favourite one, and that's 'trench.' If 'battle' and 'rattle' are like the Siamese Twins, 'FRENCH' and 'trench' are like Castor and Pollux. Now and then the COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF makes the enemy 'blench,' but for one 'blench' you get a thousand 'trenches.' No, I feel very sorry, I can tell you, for some of these words condemned to such a monotony of conjunction; and really I oughtn't to complain. And to have got rid of 'star' is something."

I shook him by the hand.

"But there's one thing," he added, "I do object to, which not even poor old 'battle' has to bear, and that's being forced to march with a rhyme that isn't all there. I have to do that far too often; and it's annoying."

I asked him to explain.

"Well," he said, "those poets who look forward are too fond of linking me to 'o'er'--'when it's 'o'er,' don't you know (they mean 'over'). That's a little humiliating, I always think. You wouldn't like constantly going about with a man who'd lost his collar, would you?"

I said that I shouldn't.

"Well, it's like that," he said, "I am not sure that I would not prefer 'star' to that, or 'scar,' after all. They, at any rate, meant well and were gentlemanly. But 'o'er'? No.

* * * * *

The new book for schools: "Kaiser: De Bello Jellicoe."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE AMATEUR POLICEMAN.

Friend Robert, if mere imitation Expresses one's deepest regard, How oft has such dumb adoration Been shown on his beat by your bard; In dress, though the semblance seems hollow, How oft since my duties began Have I striven, poor "special," to follow The modes of the Man.

I have aped till my muscles grew rigid Your air of Olympian calm; Have sought, when my framework was frigid, To "stand" it _sans_ quiver or qualm; I have also endeavoured to copy The stealthiest thud of your boot; And, with features as pink as a poppy, Your solemn salute.

In vain. Every effort is futile, And, while I am "doing my share" To guard (after midnight) a mute isle, Or the bit of it close by my lair, 'Tis perfectly plain that, although it Is easy to offer one's aid, The P.C., alas! like the poet, Is born and not made.

* * * * *

THE UNLIKELY DUKE.

The proposal, made the other day at the annual meeting of Lloyds Bank at Birmingham, that a dukedom should be conferred upon Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, in recognition of his skilful handling of the financial crisis, has aroused intense interest both in Park Lane and in the Welsh valleys.

Even among certain of the right honourable gentleman's colleagues in the Cabinet the idea meets with warm approval.

There has not yet been a meeting of Dukes to consider how to deal with any situation that may arise; but there is little doubt that their Graces are keeping a keen look-out, and it may be expected that when the time comes their plans will be found to be more or less complete.

Down in Wales there is considerable rivalry already concerning the title the CHANCELLOR should take. A strong local committee is being formed at Criccieth to urge the claims of that delightful resort; but it may expect to receive strenuous opposition from the people of Llanpwllwynbrynogrhos, who argue that, while Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S connection with their village may be slight, it would be highly desirable that there should exist the obstacle of such a name whenever the new Duke's fellow Dukes wished to refer to him.

Since it was at the annual meeting of Lloyds Bank that the idea was put forward, we are inclined to think that whenever a title is required the CHANCELLOR might select the "Duke of Lloyds;" and on the other hand, of course, a bank professing such admiration for Mr. LLOYD GEORGE could not pay a prettier compliment than by styling itself "LLOYD GEORGE'S Bank."

We profoundly hope that there may be no truth in the ugly rumour that one of the CHANCELLOR'S servants, who has been in the family for many years and imbibed its principles, has declared emphatically that it would be against her principles to serve in a ducal household.

Needless to say there has been a flutter among estate agents. Already vast tracts of deer-forest in Scotland have been offered at astonishing terms to the proposed Duke, and these not only comprise some of the finest scenery in the British Isles, but afford opportunity for thoroughly interesting agricultural development.

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S own views on the whole subject were uttered in Welsh, and we have no doubt our readers will quite understand that they cannot be printed here.

* * * * *

Our Dumb Friends.

The tradition of strong language established by our armies in Flanders seems to be well kept up to-day, if we may judge by the following Army Order issued at the Front:--

"Though on occasion it is necessary to tie horses to trees, this should be avoided whenever possible, as they are sure to bark and thus destroy the trees."

* * * * *

* * * * *

A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.

III.

My dear _Mr. Punch_,--Although, being no longer a soldier in anything but name (and pay), I pursue in India the inglorious vocation of a clerk, I am nevertheless still in a position to perceive the splendid qualities of the British Officer. Always a humble admirer of his skill and bravery in the field, I have now in addition a keen appreciation of his imperturbable _sangfroid_ when confronted with conditions of great difficulty in the office.

I am working in the Banana (to circumvent the Censor I am giving it an obviously fictitious name) Divisional Area Headquarters Staff Office, which is situated in the town of ----. Suppose we call it Mango. There are four brigades in the Banana Divisional Area, one of which is the Mango Brigade. Now it so happens that the General Officer Commanding the Banana Divisional Area is at present also the General Officer Commanding the Mango Brigade; consequently this is the sort of thing which is always happening. The G.O.C. of the Mango Brigade writes to himself as G.O.C. of the Banana Divisional Area: "May I request the favour of a reply to my Memorandum No. 25731/24/Mobn., dated the 3rd January, 1915, relating to paragraph 5 of Army Department letter No. S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, which amplifies the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?" Next morning he goes into the Divisional Office and finds himself confronted by this letter. A mere civilian might be tempted to take a mean advantage of his unusual situation. Not so the British Officer. The dignified traditions of the Indian Army must not lightly be set aside. The G.O.C. of the Brigade and the G.O.C. of the Divisional Area must be as strangers for the purposes of official correspondence.

So he writes back to himself:--"Your reference to Army Department letter No. S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, is not understood. May I presume that you allude to Army Department letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914, which deals with the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?"

Later on he goes to the Brigade Office and writes--"... I would respectfully point out that Army Department letter No. S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, cancels Army Department letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914."

At his next visit to the Divisional Office he writes back again:--"... Army Department letter No. S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, does not appear to have been received in this office. Will you be so good as to favour me with a copy?"

So it goes on, and our dual G.O.C., like the gallant soldier he is, never flinches from his duty, never swerves by a hair's-breadth from his difficult course. This surely is the spirit which has made the Empire.

But I expect you are weary of this subject. Still, you must please not forget that we are officially on active service, and active service means perhaps more than you people at home imagine. Last Sunday, after tiffin, I came upon one of my colleagues lounging in an easy-chair, one of those with practical extensions upon which you can stretch your legs luxuriously. With a cigarette between his lips and an iced drink beside him, he sat reading a magazine--a striking illustration of the fine resourcefulness of the Territorials in adapting themselves to novel conditions.