Chapter 2

But there was no sting in the blows this time; all the zest seemed to have gone out of the affair; and, but for the whack the Biffer gave, Jimmy never felt anything. The third time down was a farce, for, after Jimmy had deliberately stopped opposite the Biffer in order to let him have as many as his injured soul required, no one touched him. In fact they were all shaking hands with Jimmy, who was now his smiling self once more and ready to play with the best of them, when suddenly the Biffer took it into his head to make a joke.

"Perhaps he _is_ a German," said the Biffer, and waited for the general laugh to follow his sally.

But the laugh didn't come; instead there was a dead silence.

Who was the Biffer--a new boy at that--to call anyone a German? Instinctively a ring was formed and the Biffer found himself in the middle of it.

Jimmy took off his coat and gave it to Jones minimus, who danced for sheer delight.

Jimmy had only one regret: the butcher-boy was not there to see him--the butcher-boy who had expended so much time over him, had taught him the upper cut, the under cut, every cut that the heart of a butcher-boy delights in. The Biffer was very busy biffing the air with a rapid circular motion of the arms, for Jimmy's fixed scowl and set of jaw troubled him.

Oh, why wasn't the butcher-boy there to see that tremendous smack on the nose the Biffer got? He would have felt amply rewarded.

No one had ever seen Jimmy fight like this, and Jones minimus shouted in his joy, for the Biffer was outbiffed in every direction.

In vain did he cry "_Pax_," for Jimmy had not half relieved his feelings, and there was no end to the dodges the butcher-boy had taught him, each of which, he had said, meant sudden death.

"He's had enough, Jimmy," whispered Jones minimus. "I'm satisfied," he added as the Biffer, who was lying on the ground, refused to get up and have any more.

As the boys entered the class-room the next day there was the map of Europe still hanging up in front of the class, and the very first question that was asked by the master was, "Well, Jimmy, what is this sea?"

"The North Sea or British Ocean, Sir!" said Jimmy, a reply that was greeted with a rousing cheer by the whole of Form II.

* * * * *

A SECOND HELPING!

Our Bagdad force fell in a rut At Ctesiphon; Turks made things hum. We found that we had got to Kut, Whilst Russians found a way to Kum!

Our men know not the word "defeat," They'll make it clear on Tigris plain That, Russian-like, when they retreat, 'Tis but to cut and come again.

* * * * *

A TURKISH TROPHY.

(_A belated letter from Gallipoli._)

My dear ----, By this week's post I trust you will receive the long promised trophy, to wit one Turkish headpiece procured by my own personal exertions. As the story of its capture, though somewhat out of the ordinary, has been passed over in stony silence both by the official _communiqués_ and "Our Special Correspondent" I shall endeavour to give you a brief impression of the difficulties overcome as truthfully as my sense of imagination will allow me. First of all I must draw a map:--

This should give you an idea of the English and Turkish lines at a point where they are about eighty yards apart. Without going into details you will see the English trench is of the superior pattern, as it has traverses. I had to work in that technical term to show I know all about it; I know another, "the berm," but I am not too sure about what that is, and also I don't suppose I could draw a "berm" if I saw one. Anyway, I know it's quite a good term connected with trenches, as I heard a G.O.C. fairly strafe a subaltern, the other day, because he hadn't got a "berm." Well, to refer to the map, you will observe that there is an old ditch running between the two lines of trenches, and both sides have advanced a certain distance along this ditch and have built barricades about ten yards apart. Every day it is part of my job to take a constitutional along our trenches, and after discussing the European situation and the latest Budget with the various battalion commanders to ask them whether there is any particularly obnoxious part of the opposition line they would like me to salute with my battery. Usually they say, "No, there's nothing in particular, but let's have a shoot all the same; for example, there's a dog that barks abominably every night opposite L 57. Couldn't you abolish him?" Incidentally we no longer give our trenches names, such as Piccadilly, Rotten Row, but mere letters and numbers; the reason being that one of the staff was picked up in a fainting condition, having strolled down Park Lane and then found himself, to his horror, in Peckham High Street. The shock--his own home being in Baling Broadway--had proved too much for his constitution. However, to refer back to the map once more, our barricade across the ditch is a most convenient spot for observing artillery fire and as such is frequently used by me. Unfortunately my view was always hasty and badly interrupted by the attentions of a Turkish sniper behind their barricade. This man's name was Ibrahim, and he was a Constantinople cab-driver, married, with two children, both boys. You may be surprised that we know so much about the enemy, but we live in such close proximity that opposite the Lancashire Fusiliers a Turk named Mahomet, who lives at No. 3, Golden Horn Terrace, told the reporter of _The Worpington Headlight_ that for three years he had been suffering from pains in the back--but that's another story. Incidentally Mahomet at present inhabits a sniper's post surrounded by a perfect thicket of barbed-wire, and I had a bright scheme for its removal. I got hold of a trench catapult, an ingenious contrivance of elastic that hurls a bomb some hundreds of yards, and placed in it a harpoon attached to a long coil of rope. The idea was that on release of the catapult the harpoon would be hurled in the air, the rope would neatly pay out, and then, as soon as the harpoon had grappled Mahomet, all we would have to do would be to haul on the rope and over would come the whole bag of tricks. Unfortunately something went wrong, and the rope, instead of neatly uncoiling, flailed round the trench like a young anaconda, and, catching a harmless spectator by the leg, hurled him twenty feet in the air. Immediately the opposition lines resounded like a rifle-booth at a country fair. However our spectator descended unpunctured, and the only damage done was to our vanity, when Mahomet threw over a message attached to a stone to ask whether we would repeat the performance as he and a pal had a bet on as to who was the best shot and wanted a human aeroplane to judge.

But we have got a long way from Ibrahim. Ibrahim possessed the headpiece I am sending you. I could not think of a method for obtaining it, as his vigilance was deadly. However a bright thought struck me, and I assiduously saved up my rum ration for a month. Then one bitter cold night I tossed over the accumulation in a bottle wrapped up in an old sock. Presently there resounded in the still air a pleasant bubbling sound indicative of liquid being poured out of a glass receptacle, then a deep sigh, followed by a profound silence. Inch by inch I crawled over our barricade and slowly wormed my way along the ditch. At last I reached the Turkish barricade and cautiously slid my hand over the top until my fingers encountered Ibrahim's toque. Then I gave a gentle tug. Horror! he had the flap down under his chin. Unmanned for a moment I recovered, and I slowly slid my fingers down his hirsute neck and with a gentle titillation slid the flap clear. Ibrahim merely stirred in his sleep and resumed his slumbers. Triumphantly hugging the trophy to my bosom I crawled back to our barricade.

The saddest part of the tale is yet to come. I had promised to procure you a trophy unstained by association with human slaughter, but when the day dawned there lay poor Ibrahim stiff and stark behind his barricade, killed by a cold in his head.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Message Boy Wanted for Butchery."

_Brechin Advertiser._

A lot of people are after that boy.

* * * * *

"Taxi driver who laid down Fare at Royal Hotel at 2.45 p.m. on Christmas Day, would oblige by returning Gent's Umbrella to Hotel."

_Aberdeen Journal._

We gather that it had been a wet morning.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HUNTIN' WEATHER.

There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney (And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn); The hunters stamp in their stalls an' whinny, Soft with leisure an' fat with corn.

The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty, Sleek they are with their coats aglow, Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty And the saddles sit in a dusty row.

Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field (Like the ghostly hunt of a dead an'-done day), They--an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed.

The houn's they rioted like the devil (They ran a hare an' they killed a goose); I cursed Caubeen, but he looked me level: "The boys are away--so what's the use?"

The mists lie clingin' on bog an' heather, Haws hang red on the silver thorn; It's huntin' weather, ay, huntin' weather, But trumpets an' bugles have beat the horn!

* * * * *

A Debt of Honour.

Mr. Punch ventures to plead on behalf of the nine hundred men of the Royal Naval Division who were taken prisoners by the enemy in the retirement from Antwerp. Less fortunate than those of the same Division who were interned in Holland (for want of official information most people imagine that all the missing were so interned), they lack the necessities of life. Parcels of food are sent to them, fortnightly to each man, as well as clothing and tobacco; and it is known that they receive all that is sent. Mr. Punch begs his readers to help the fund from which these simple comforts are provided, and to address their gifts to Lady GWENDOLEN GUINNESS, at 11, St. James's Square, S.W.

* * * * *

From a report of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S speech:--

"The works of Ireland have been extremely helpful, and I am glad to acknowledge that I have been extremely helpful."

_Manchester Guardian._

On this occasion the MINISTER OF MUNITIONS appears to have allowed himself the privilege of "thinking aloud."

* * * * *

"_The Daily Mail_ will not be published to-morrow, and for that reason we seize the occasion to-day of bidding our readers a merry Christmas,"--_Daily Mail of December 24th._

And a very good reason too.

* * * * *

Seasonable.

"The Canadian Government has granted to Canadian troops oversea and in training at home a Christmas allowance of one chilling."

_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

"He much regretted that it was not possible to-day to communicate the results of the Derby Report in any detail, or, indeed, at all. The task had been one of stupendous bagnitude."

_Evening Standard._

Yes, but how big was the bag?

* * * * *

Two descriptions of the new Chief of the Imperial General Staff:--

"Of Scottish descent, and familiarly known to the Army as 'Jock,' he is one of the most remarkable soldiers of the time."

_Glasgow Evening Times._

"That he is known throughout the whole Army simply as 'Wullie' is a sure token that the private soldier has taken him to his heart."

_Glasgow Evening Citizen._

Won't the Germans be puzzled?

* * * * *

"Eddie Harvey (Fleetwood) and Ike Whitehouse (Barrow) went through 15 rounds contest for £5 a side and a nurse, and Harvey won on points."--_The People._

The stakes, we presume, were divided.

* * * * *

"A kid was born with monkey face and human skull at Saidapet on the 13th instant."

_New India._

This is headed "A Curious Phenomenon." But is it? Some of our neighbours' kids are just like that.

* * * * *

* * * * *

LONDON AS USUAL.

("_Kelly's London Directory_" for 1916, a contemporary remarks, is very much the same as the volume for 1915.)

Where, where are the signs of the raider Who swam to our ken like a kite, Who swore he had played the invader And knocked us to bits in the night; Who pounded these parts into jelly From Mile End, he said, to the Mall? For the man who should know (J. J. KELLY) Can't spot 'em at all.

You may turn up the street that is Vigo Or alight on the Lane that is Mark; You may let your incredulous eye go O'er each Crescent and Corner and Park; You may hunt through the humblest of alleys Or the giddiest haunts of the town, And Kelly's, who're "safe" as the Palace, Have got 'em all down.

So I sing to those equals in wonder, Of BRADSHAW (the expert on trains), Who have torn the Hun's fiction asunder-- That our City's a mass of remains; Here's our proof that we're plainly not undone, That, although every night she lies hid, Our stolid undaunted old London Still stands where she did.

* * * * *

* * * * *

STUDIES IN FRUSTRATION.

I.

The scene was the comfortable spacious breakfast-room in the Bishop's Palace. His lordship sat nearest to the fire; the bishop's wife presided over the fragrant coffee-pot, and the curate, their dine-and-sleep guest, sat opposite the bishop and farthest from the warmth. As a curate this position was his due. Some day he also would be a bishop, and then he too would know what it was to intercept the glow.

The curate was looking dubiously into the recesses of an egg. His fine Anglican features underwent a series of contortions.

"I am afraid," said the bishop, "that that egg is not a good one."

"You are right, my lord," said the curate. "It is not only bad, it's alive. I think it's the worst egg that was ever offered me."

II.

The wounded soldier lay in his deck-chair placidly smoking his hundredth cigarette that day. He was not naturally a smoker, but cigarettes arrived in enormous numbers and something had to be done with them.

His visitor sat beside him, note-book in hand. "Yes?" he remarked.

"And then," said the soldier, "came the order to charge. We fixed bayonets and rushed at the Bosches like mad. It was glorious--like the best kind of football match."

The visitor took it all down, and more.

"I remember bayonetting two men," said the soldier, "and then I remember nothing else. And that's six months ago. Still, I'm getting well, and then there's only one thing on earth that I really want with a passionate desire ..."

"I know! I know!" said the visitor, moistening his pencil.

"Never to see any more war as long as I live," the soldier continued.

III.

The aged artist sat in his luxurious studio surrounded by his masterpieces--that is, by the pictures he had never been able to sell.

The gem of the collection stood on an easel in the middle of the room; while a connoisseur, hat in hand, inspected it closely, enthusiastically, breathlessly. Then, coming over to where the artist was resting, he sat down opposite to him and in a voice trembling with emotion asked, "Tell me, how _do_ you mix your colours?"

There was a deep silence, almost painful in its intensity. A drawing-pin fell with a deafening crash.

The venerable painter stood up with a calm and leonine expression. "I use an ivory palette knife," he said.

IV.

The shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden. It was a warm spring evening. The old sun-dial had just struck seven.

The poet threw aside his book and called his Airedale terrier; the dog, responding in time, eventually reached his master's knee.

Seizing his opportunity, the representative of the Press observed, "You are, I see, fond of dogs."

"Fond of dogs?" replied the poet. "I? I detest them;" and so saying he kicked the Airedale a distance of several feet into the air, so that, falling immediately on the sun-dial, it was transfixed by the gnomon.

As he watched its struggles, thus impaled, the poet laughed the hearty resonant laugh for which he was famous.

V.

The Civil Service clerk so famous for his drollery was entering the office doors at half-past ten in the morning, or exactly sixty minutes past the appointed time. By an unfortunate chance his principal met him, as, alas! he had too often done, at the same tardy hour. "Late again," said the great man, consulting his watch. "I believe that you get here later every day." "Yes," said the clerk, "I do. But then I always stay on and work overtime."

VI.

The eminent publicist replaced his glass on the table and turned to the lady who sat beside him. "My business," he said, "is the manufacture of mustard. I have made a vast fortune out of it."

"How very interesting," the lady replied absently; but the next moment, inspired by a hidden thought, she added with quickened interest, "Please don't think me inquisitive, but how can a fortune be made out of a thing like mustard? People take so little of it."

"Madam," answered the mustard magnate deliberately, "we do not make our fortunes from the mustard that people eat"--

"Yes, yes?" cried the lady eagerly.--"but," he continued, "from what they spill in mixing poultices."

VII.

The famous money-lender one evening arrived as usual at the Casino, but this time only to bid his friends good-bye.

"Not leaving Monte?" they asked.

"Yes, I am," he replied; "I'm going to Rome."

"Rome?"

"Yes, why not? I'm told it's wonderful. I shall be there a month;" and so saying he hurried to his hotel.

Three days later he walked into the Casino again.

"What," cried his friends--"you here? We thought you were going to be in Rome a month."

"So I am," said the money-lender, "and more. I came back for my things, most of which I left here, as it had occurred to me I might not like it. But I adore it. Rome is beautiful, august, sublime. The simple severe beauty of the Vatican, the vast solemnity of the Campagna! It is indeed the eternal city. Let me keep Rome!"

And again he hurried away.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A Long Turn.

"To-morrow evening Miss Phyllis Bedells makes her final appearance at the London Empire, where she has danced without interruption for nine and a half years."

_Bristol Times and Mirror._

* * * * *

De Mortuis....

"Tired of this much worn physical life Chief George Moshesh bursted the bands of morality as under Tuesday, November 2nd."

_South African Paper._

"Tenders invited for alterations and additions to the late Mr. Waata W. Hipango, Pitiki, are hereby cancelled."--_New Zealand Paper._

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE XMAS ADVENTURES OF A DRAWING.

_From Robert Simpson, Edinburgh, to Joan Dalgleish, London._

_December_ 15.

Dear Miss Dalgleish,--I send you as promised, when we parted in Skye, one of my little drawings. I am sorry I have had no time to get it framed. I am off in ten days to India to resume my work. If you have no room for this little picture on your walls it will do for a Red Cross Bazaar.

Hoping to meet you some other summer,

Yours sincerely,

R. Simpson.

_From Joan Dalgleish to Robert Simpson._

_London, December_ 17.

Dear Mr. Simpson,--So many thanks for the drawing of the bay. It will always remind me of our delightful holiday in the North, and in the murky days of December it will make me feel again in the fresh air of Scotland.

With best wishes for a pleasant journey,

Yours sincerely,

Joan Dalgleish.

_From Joan Dalgleish to Mary Morris, Manchester._

_December_ 23.

Dearest Mary,--I am sending you a little Christmas card, in the shape of a water-colour drawing with a calendar attached, which can be removed each year. It will remind you of the fine time we spent bathing and boating on the Welsh Coast, which I know you people in the North adore. I have long wanted to send you some token of our days together in that pleasant land, and, after much searching, here at last it is.

Your affectionate Friend,

Joan Dalgleish.

_From Mary Morris to Joan Dalgleish._

_December_ 24.

Dearest Joan,--What a treat to see that glorious Welsh Coast, that heaving sea and those sunny cliffs, when I am barely existing in this gloomy city! _Always_ will this _dear_ scene be in my sight morning and evening, to remind me of my friend whom I miss _so much_, and of those grand aspects of nature which we enjoyed together.

With dear love,

Mary.

_From Mary Morris to Miss Eleanor Mendip, Writers' Club, London._

_December_ 30.

Dear Miss Mendip,--It seems ages since we met after your _great_ visit to Manchester and after that _splendid_ lecture on "Some Aspects of Nature." I cannot let the New Year pass without sending you a little picture of our Northern coast as a humble token of my _immense_ admiration for your charming work--the poor offering of a constant admirer.

Hoping to see you again in our city and that you will again stay at our home,

Your affectionate admirer,

Mary Morris.

_From Miss Mendip to Miss Morris._

_January_ 2.

Dear Miss Morris,--Forgive me for not acknowledging before the graceful tribute of your admiration for my work. I do indeed regard you as a friend--few girls of my acquaintance have so real a sense of literary perfection as my dear young friend in Manchester. Always will I cherish your appreciative gift as a remembrance of my sweet young friend.

Yours affectionately,

Eleanor Mendip.

_From Miss Mendip to the Editor, "Women's Welfare," London._

_January_ 4.

Dear Mr. Scrimbles,--You said you intended to obtain an illustration to my paper on "Cottage Homes by Western Waters." I can save you trouble and some expense. I have succeeded in obtaining just the picture you want. I accordingly enclose it. You can add the fee of 10s. 6d. to my cheque for the article. I hope it will come out in February.

Yours truly,

Eleanor Mendip.

* * * * *

"WANTED. Good School-Master, in exchange for Blue Pom dog, 3 months, splendid coat, or sell £1. Approval both ways."

_Welsh Paper_.

Lest our scholastic readers should be incensed at this cynical estimate of their value we hasten to inform them that this "School-Master" is a pigeon and not a pedagogue.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"Puss in Boots."