Chapter 2

This match of a hundred up was played in the handsome saloon of the "Leadswingers' Arms" yesterday afternoon before an unusually dense crowd, who both came in just too late to secure the table. It is understood that the game was arranged as the result of a heated discussion during lunch the same day, in the course of which Herbert had the effrontery to tell me--I mean, to tell James--that what I--that is, he--knew about billiards wouldn't cover the pyramid-spot. James, who some hours later thought of a perfectly priceless repartee, which he has since forgotten, replied with dignity by challenging the other to an immediate game. Herbert accepted and, hastily finishing their lunch, the two repaired to the nearest billiard-room.

"I'm not due back at the office for another twenty minutes, so we've tons of time," observed Herbert airily as they entered.

James looked at him, but said nothing. He had the better of the opening manoeuvres, however, for he secured the only cue that possessed a non-flexible tip; Herbert's was at the best of the semi-rigid type, a fact which impelled him to declare that the place would soon resemble a popular tea-shop. Not being pressed for an elucidation of this remark, he volunteered one. "No tips," he explained as he tenderly chalked his.

Herbert won the toss and elected to break with spot, which appeared to be a rounder ball than its fellow. Taking a careful and protracted aim at the red, he only missed the object-ball by inches, his own travelling twice round the table before finally coming to rest in baulk.

"Now then, Inman," he said, with a poor attempt at jauntiness, "score off that if you can."

James's reply was a calculated safety-miss, which only failed of its intention in that it left his ball about an inch away from the middle pocket. The closeness of the contest may be gauged from the fact that at this stage the game was called (or would have been called if the marker had not gone out to his dinner) at one all.

"In off the white," declared Herbert, and promptly potted it. "Sorry," he added almost before the ball was in the pocket.

For some time after this episode, which chilled the atmosphere a trifle, the exchanges were uneventful. A slight tendency towards "barracking" on the part of the crowd was quickly stifled, however, by a brilliant effort from James, who by means of all-round play built up an attractive break of 5.

Herbert at once responded by taking off his coat, but for several innings contributed nothing else of note except a powerful shot which pocketed the red ball in the fireplace. After an agreement had at last been reached about the rule governing this particular class of stroke, both players settled down to their work and put in some useful breaks, runs of 3, 7 and 4 by James being countered by 2, 5, 6 and 3 (twice) by Herbert. The latter was the first to reach the 50-mark, an event which the crowd signalised by hanging up their hats and advancing to the table. When they were informed that the game was one of a hundred up, they seemed disposed to argue the matter, and from this stage their attitude towards the players became openly and impartially critical.

The latter half of the match was marked by a somewhat peculiar incident. With the game standing at 75 all Herbert made a stroke that left the red hovering on the brink of a pocket. He waited anxiously, but with no result. At this point one of the crowd emitted a prodigious yawn, and it was the intense vibration set up from this act, so James declared, that induced the ball to topple over into the pocket. In support of his contention that no score should ensue he pointed to a framed copy of the Rules of Billiards on the wall that balanced a coloured advertisement of Tommy Dodd whisky, and recited the rule on vibration. Herbert strenuously denied that any such phenomenon had taken place, and when James appealed to its author he was met with such an outburst of elephantine sarcasm that he refrained from further contesting the point.

After this the luck of the play went against James, and when, the marker having by now finished his meal, the score was actually called at 90-99 in his opponent's favour, he might have been excused for giving up the game as lost. With dogged determination, however, he faced the situation. His own ball was somewhere near the centre, the red about eighteen inches from the top left-hand pocket, and the white midway between the right-hand cushion and the D. With an almost superhuman stroke (but _not_, as was subsequently averred, with his eyes shut) he smote the red, and his ball travelled rapidly up and down the table. On the down journey it glanced off the white, after which, still going at a tremendous pace, it made a complete tour of the table and concluded its meteoric career in the bottom right-hand pocket. Meanwhile the red and the white had both departed on voyages of their own, the terminus in each case being the self-same pocket. (_See diagram._) After the balls had been taken out, examined and counted, and James's person had been searched to see if he were concealing any, the marker pronounced this to be a 10-shot, and the game was thus strikingly ended in James's favour.

* * * * *

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"The Great Song of a Britisher is-- 'There's No Place Like Home.' STAY AT ----'S HOTEL, And you'll Sing it and Realise it."--_South African Paper._

"The mere selling of an article is a simple matter, but keeping the customer sold is our principal aim."--_Advt. in West Indian Paper._

* * * * *

* * * * *

MY DÉBUT IN "PUNCH."

I am, I hope, decently modest. When I said so once to Margery she remarked that there was no need to make a virtue of necessity. But younger sisters, of course...

I came down to breakfast at my usual time--as the others were finishing-- and found a letter awaiting me. I opened it under the usual fire of insults from Margery and John. To-day I ignored them, however, and my young heart gave a small jump. I am a modest young man.

"What's the matter with you, little Sunbeam?" asked John (he is Cecilia's husband, through no fault of mine). "Is the tailor more rude than usual, or has she found out your address?"

"The Vicar has asked him to sing at the Band of Hope," suggested Margery.

I commenced my breakfast.

"What is it, Alan?" asked Cecilia.

"Oh, nothing," I said easily. "The proof of a thing of mine that _Punch_ has accepted."

They hadn't a word to say for a few seconds, then Margery began:--

"Poor old dear, it must be some awful mistake."

I ignored Margery.

"But, Alan darling, how beautiful! You've been trying for years and years and now at last it has happened. I _do_ hope it isn't a mistake," said Cecilia anxiously. She was trying to be nice, you know. I'm sure she was. I went on with my breakfast.

"Well, John," said Cecilia, "can't you congratulate him, or are you too jealous?"

John sighed deeply and pondered.

"Terrible how _Punch_ has gone down since our young days, isn't it?" he said heavily.

* * * * *

I spent a miserable time until it appeared. Somehow or other Cecilia let the great glad news get about the village. Farley, our newsagent and tobacconist, held me when I went in for an ounce of the usual mild.

"So I 'ear you've 'ad a article printed by this 'ere _Punch_, Sir," he said. "Somethink laughable it'd be, I suppose like, eh?"

"Not half," I said, striving hard to impersonate a successful humourist.

"Ah, well, it's all good for business," he said, as one who sees the silver lining. "I've 'ad quite a number of orders for the paper for the next two or three weeks."

I crept from the shop, only to meet an atrocious woman from "The Gables," who stopped me with a little shriek of joy.

"Oh, Mr. Jarvis, I've been dying to meet you, do you know. I always have thought you so funny, ever since that little sketch you got up for the Bazaar last summer. I said to my husband when I heard of your success, '_I'm_ not surprised. After that sketch, _I knew_.' _Do_ tell me when it's appearing. I'm sure I shall simply scream at it."

I escaped after a time and wondered whether it was too late to stop publication of the horrible thing.

* * * * *

I came down to breakfast and found John with a copy beside him. I looked at him.

"Yes," he said, "the worst has happened. It is in print. We have been waiting for you to appear."

He turned the pages and cleared his throat.

"I shall now read the article aloud," he said. "Each time I raise my hand the audience will please burst into hearty laughter."

Margery giggled.

"Cecilia," I said, rising, "if you don't control this reptile that you have married, if you don't force him to hold his peace, if you allow him to read one word, I'll throw the bread-knife at him and ... and pour my coffee all over the tablecloth."

"John," said Cecilia, "have a little thought for others and read it quietly to yourself."

Cecilia meant well, of course, but Margery giggled again.

John read it to himself in a dead silence, sighed heavily and passed it to Margery.

"We shall never live it down," he said, putting his head into his hands and gazing moodily at the marmalade.

Margery read it and giggled three or four times; but Margery giggles at anything.

Cecilia read it and beamed.

"Alan, dear," she said, "it's lovely! Of _course_ they accepted it. John, you wretch, say you liked it." (Cecilia can be a dear.)

"Well, if I must tell the truth," said John, "it isn't quite so bad as I expected. In fact I very much doubt whether he wrote it at all. If he did--well, it's a marvellous fluke, that's all."

I smiled.

"You may smile, swelled-head," said John; "but I'll bet you five golden guineas to a bad tanner you couldn't do it again."

"Done," I said.

After a few days, however, I realised that I had made a mistake. Even a bad sixpence is worth something nowadays.

Cecilia and Margery vied with each other in offering me the feeblest suggestions for articles that they felt sure would reduce a rhinoceros to hysterics. John presented me with a copy of _A Thousand and One Jokes and Anecdotes_ "to prove he was a sportsman," he said. I started to look for a bad sixpence.

Then Margery said to me:--

"Why don't you write and explain the whole thing to the Editor and offer to go halves if he prints it?"

I looked at her in amazement.

"You horrible little cheat!" I said.

* * * * *

However, on thinking it over carefully there seems a lot to say for the idea and it's really quite fair. Anyhow I can't possibly let John win. So here's the story, and with any luck it will cost John five golden guineas. But I shan't give the Editor half.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PERILS OF HUMOUR.

From _Punch_:--

"'THE PROFITEER'S ANTHEM.

The hymns to be sung will be (1) "All people that on earth do well."'-- _Rangoon Times._"

From _The Manchester Evening Chronicle_:--

"'THE PROFITEER'S ANTHEM.

The hymns to be sung will be (1) "All people that on earth do dwell."'

_Rangoon Times_, quoted in _Punch_."

* * * * *

"It was reported to the Sanitary Committee yesterday that the Inspector of Nuisances had made arrangements for the repair of the meteorological instruments."--_Local Paper._

Judging by our recent weather, quite the right man to look after it.

* * * * *

From a money-lender's circular:--

"Having been, perhaps, the richest nation in the world before the war, and wealth being only comparative, it is our empirical duty to achieve a like position again."

So that's why they are "trying it on."

* * * * *

"The news, says the Paris correspondent of _The Times_, in itself is serious enough as showing the dangers of letting the Adriatic settlement continue to be at the mercy of a coup de theatre or coup de d'etat, whichever one may like to call it."--_Evening Paper._

We fancy the Paris correspondent of _The Times_ would prefer the former.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE BURIAL OF DUNDEE.

"Dundee is dead," said my wife, returning from her morning visit to the kitchen.

"I am very sorry to hear it," I replied, laying down the newspaper on the breakfast-table, at which I still lingered; and indeed I was sorry. Dundee had been our household cat from the earliest days of our married life, from the time when he was a tiny kitten the colour of marmalade, which had earned him his name.

"Cook is very much upset," my wife continued.

"Her distress does her credit," I answered.

"She talks of leaving."

I must confess with shame that a pang acuter than the first went through me at the news, for Cook was one of those rare artists who understands the value of surprise and never rides success to death.

"Ask her to reconsider her decision," I said.

"I have," said my wife, "and she remained immovable."

"Perhaps when the first shock has worn off?"

"There is just a chance."

"Yes, I am sure you can persuade her," I concluded, preparing to leave for my office.

"Before you go," interrupted my wife, "what are we going to do about the burial?"

"How does one usually dispose of dead cats?" I asked. "I thought the dustman--"

"Out of the question."

"I know it is forbidden by the by-laws of the Corporation, but a shilling ----"

"How stupid you are! If anything were to decide Cook to go it would be handing over Dundee's remains to the dustman. You know how particular Cook is about funerals."

I knew indeed. The rate of mortality among her friends and relations was abnormally high, and on account, as I suspect, of her skill in cookery she was in frequent demand as a mourner. By continual attendance she had cultivated a nice sense of what was fitting on these occasions and posed as an authority on the subject.

"Very well, then, let's have him buried," I said.

"Where?"

"In our garden."

"Who by?"

"Palmer or Emily."

Palmer and Emily are respectively the parlour- and house-maid.

"Both would say it was not the work for which they were engaged. They would leave at the same time as Cook, if I asked them."

"Who else can we get?" I asked.

"Yourself," my wife made answer.

"Me? But I can't be seen by all the street burying a cat." I should explain that our only garden is in front of the house.

"If you wait till it is dark you needn't be afraid of anyone seeing you," protested my wife.

"And run the risk of being detected by some suspicious policeman. No, thank you."

"Then if you won't do it yourself you must find someone who will. It is our last hope of persuading Cook to stay."

"By heaven!" I cried, looking at my watch, I am a quarter-of-an-hour late. I must run."

This was my customary device to evade the embarrassing dilemmas which my wife not infrequently thrust upon me at this hour. So for the moment I escaped. All day in the office I was fully occupied. From time to time the memory of Dundee lying stark in the basement obtruded itself upon my thoughts, but I dismissed the vision as one does a problem one has not the courage to face.

The problem remained unsolved when I stepped out of the train on my return from the City. To gain time for reflection I resolved to make a détour. As I struck into an unfamiliar side street, I looked up, and there in front of me stood an undertaker's shop.

The inspiration! I entered. From the back premises advanced to meet me the undertaker, with a visage tentatively wobegone, not yet knowing whether I was widower, orphan, businesslike executor or merely the busybody family friend. I unfolded my difficulty. Beneath the outer crust of professional melancholy there evidently seethed within the undertaker a lava of joviality.

"Certainly, Sir, certainly," he said. "It is not perhaps strictly in my line, but one of my assistants will be delighted to earn an extra shilling or so by obliging you. What name and address?"

I joyfully gave both and made my way home.

Midway through dinner came a ring at the front-door bell. Palmer interrupted her service to answer, and returned to me with a card on a salver.

"A gentleman to see you, Sir," she announced.

"How strange, at this hour! Who can it be?" asked my wife.

"The gentleman to bury Dundee," I explained in a lowered voice, as I passed the visiting-card, deeply edged with black, across the table to her.

Next morning my wife was able to announce that Cook had consented to stay. The burial of Dundee by a real undertaker had gratified her sense of the correct. I departed to the City filled with self-complacency.

For a month I dwelt in this fool's paradise. Then one evening my wife gently broke the news.

"I have something serious to tell you. Cook has given notice."

"Who is dead now?" I asked.

"No one. She is engaged to be married."

"Married?"

"Yes, to the young undertaker."

"What young undertaker?"

"The one who buried Dundee."

It was too true. At supper, after the inhumation, a mutual esteem had sprung up that rapidly ripened into love. The enterprising young journeyman, so enamoured of his calling that he consented to inter dumb creatures in his leisure time, had evidently discerned in Cook, with her wealth of funeral lore, a helpmeet worthy of himself; while Cook on her side, conquered by his diligence and discretion, considered she had secured a respectable settlement for life, with the prospect of obsequies of the highest class for herself.

* * * * *

* * * * *

CLERICAL EDUCATION.

[The Rev. KENNEDY BELL, in _The Daily Sketch_, deplores the dreariness of parish magazines and suggests, with a view to brighten their contents, that clergymen should serve an apprenticeship on the daily Press.]

The Reverend Mr. KENNEDY BELL Is wholly unable to say all's well With the state of our parish magazines, And is moved to indicate the means Of making their pages bright and snappy And bored subscribers cheerful and happy. Now the most original of his hints For galvanizing these dreary prints Is this: That every parson, before He aspires to be parish editor, Should join the staff of a leading daily And learn to write genially and gaily. It may be a counsel of sheer perfection, And yet, perhaps, on further reflection, We may admit that something is gained By the plan of having clergymen trained In the very heart of the Street of Ink To paint their parish magazines pink. So generous laymen may haply decide That it _may_ be worth their while to provide Each KENNEDY BELL with stepping-stones To rise to the height of a KENNEDY JONES. But others, a small and dwindling crew, Possibly fit, but certainly few, And cursed with a most pronounced capacity For suffering from inept vivacity, Would gladly be reckoned as unenlightened Could they keep one class of journal un-"brightened."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PASSING OF THE LITTER.

It happened only a couple of weeks ago, but the horrible memory comes back to me as if it only happened yesterday. It was my own fault, because with a telephone loose about the place one ought not to encourage other pets.

"Well," I said to Sibyl, "there we are, and we must make the best of them."

Sibyl sniffed as she usually does when these periodical occurences happen in our house.

"Which of them are you going to keep?" she asked, "and is it really necessary to keep any of them?"

"Well," I said; "but----"

"What I mean to say," said Sibyl, "better do away with them when they are quite young. It would be far more humane."

"I am with you up to a point," I said; "I admit they are not a very prepossessing lot."

"How they came to be born at all is what I cannot understand," said Sibyl, who is always like that when trying to be serious.

"Well," I said, "I have decided to keep one of them--No. 1."

"But surely," said Sibyl, "that the most delicate one of the lot."

That, I well knew, was quite true. Whether I should ever rear No. 1 was a matter for time to prove. It was so delicate that once or twice already it had been on the verge of collapse, but I had rallied it each time.

"As for the others," I said, "we shall have to get rid of them."

I need not go into painful details, but the thing was easily done. That very evening, unfortunately, through an oversight, No. 1 perished also.

For this I blame McWhirter.

"The number of my bus is 21," he said in the theatre buffet that night; "by the way what's yours?"

"Whisky," I said absent-mindedly, "and not much soda."

And it was only after I had drunk it that I realised my error. It was then too late.

And that is how New Year Resolution No. 1--the most delicate of the litter--passed away at the early age of one week.

* * * * *

OUR PLUTOCRATIC SPORTSMEN AGAIN.

"Wanted, set of gold clubs, with bag, for lady."--_Local Paper_.

* * * * *

LIFE.

A MODERN NOVEL--SPASMODIC SCHOOL.

I.

Her parents were hygienic, so they never let a germ intrude Within the cells and tissues of the girl they christened Ermyntrude; They bathed her body every hour and all internal harm allayed By pouring Condy's Fluid on her butter and her marmalade; And when they dressed her took good care to tuck her chest-protector in-- Result, she grew up strong and fair as any peach or nectarine.

II.

She had no fear of lion or of tiger (in imprisonment) And in an awful storm at sea she asked the mate what mizzen meant; It was a plucky act; if I'd neglected to report it you'd Never have known the depth and true dimensions of her fortitude. If you remain agnostic, if you hold it still not proven, I'll Give fifty more examples of her courage when a juvenile; They lie in my portfolio, all printed, filed and docketed, Including one in which a stick of dynamite she pocketed.

III.

She also painted: one could tell her pictures mid a billion, So daubed were they with ochre blots and splashes of vermilion; She claimed to be a connoisseur of _objets d'art_ and curios, But what attracted notice was her openwork and lury hose, Fashioned in every colour from magenta down to cinnabar, Suggestive of a rainbow or the various liquors _in_ a bar.

IV.

So when she came to twenty-one, the age they call discretional, The trooping of her followers was, in a word, processional.

V.