Chapter 2

[Bradford wool-spinners are stated to be unable to escape from the deluge of wealth that pours upon them or avoid making profits of three thousand two hundred per cent.]

And so you thought we simply steered Great motor-cars to champagne dinners And bought tiaras and were cheered By hopes of breeding Epsom winners; Eh, lad, you little knew the weird Dreed by the Yorkshire spinners.

How hollow are those marble halls, The place I built and deemed a show-thing, Its terraces, its waterfalls-- Once more I hear that sound of loathing, The bell rings and a stranger calls To speak of underclothing.

They've bashed my offices to wrecks, They've broke their way beyond the warders, And now my country seat they vex, They trample my herbaceous borders; They chase me up and down with cheques, They flummox me with orders.

They bolt me to the billiard-room, Where chaps are playing five-bob snooker; They see me dodging from the doom, They heed no threats and no rebuker; "We've got thee now," they say, "ba goom!" And pelt me with their lucre.

Vainly I put the prices up To stem that flowing tide of riches; The horror haunts me as I sup; The unknown guest arrives and pitches His ultimatum in my cup:-- "The people must have breeches."

I shall not see the skylark soar Nor hear the cuckoo nor the linnet, When Springtime comes, above the roar Of folk a-hollering each minute For yarn at thirty-two times more Than what I spent to spin it.

Eh me, I cannot help but pine For days departed now and olden, When I could drink of common wine, To powdered flunkeys unbeholden; Do peas taste better when we dine Because the knife is golden?

Often I wish I might repair To haunts that once I used to enter, Like "The Old Fleece" up yonder there, Of which I was a great frequenter, Not yet a brass-bound millionaire, But just a cent-per-center.

EVOE.

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"Over 30,000 people paid £2,019 to see the cup tie at Valley Parade."-- _Provincial Paper._

The new rich!

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THE JUMBLE SALE.

Aunt Angela coughed. "By the way, Etta was here this afternoon."

Edward's eye met mine. The result of Etta's last call was that Edward spent a vivid afternoon got up as Father Christmas in a red dressing-gown and cotton-wool whiskers, which caught fire and singed his home-grown articles, small boys at the same time pinching his legs to see if he was real, while I put in some sultry hours under a hearthrug playing the benevolent polar-bear to a crowd of small girls who hunted me with fire-irons.

"What is it this time?" I asked.

"A jumble sale," said Aunt Angela.

"What's that?"

"A scheme by which the bucolic English exchange garbage," Edward explained.

"Oh, well, that has nothing to do with us, thank goodness."

He returned to his book, a romance entitled _Gertie, or Should She Have Done It?_ Edward, I should explain, is a philosopher by trade, but he beguiles his hours of ease with works of fiction borrowed from the cook.

Aunt Angela was of a different opinion. "Oh, yes, it has: both of you are gradually filling the house up with accumulated rubbish. If you don't surrender most of it for Etta's sale there'll be a raid."

My eye met Edward's. We walked out into the hall.

"We'll have to give Angela something or she'll tidy us," he groaned.

"These orderly people are a curse," I protested. "They have no consideration for others. Look at me; I am naturally disorderly, but I don't run round and untidy people's houses for them."

Edward nodded. "I know; I know it's all wrong, of course; we should make a stand. Still, if we can buy Angela off, I think ... you understand?..." And he ambled off to his muck-room.

If anybody in this neighbourhood has anything that is both an eyesore and an encumbrance they bestow it on Edward for his muck-room, where he stores it against an impossible contingency. I trotted upstairs to my bedroom and routed about among my _Lares et Penates_. I have many articles which, though of no intrinsic value, are bound to me by strong ties of sentiment; little old bits of things--you know how it is. After twenty minutes' heart-and-drawer-searching I decided to sacrifice a policeman's helmet and a sock, the upper of which had outlasted the toe and heel. I bore these downstairs and laid them at Aunt Angela's feet.

"What's this?" said she, stirring the helmet disdainfully with her toe.

"Relic of the Great War. The Crown Prince used to wear it in wet weather to keep the crown dry."

Aunt Angela sniffed and picked up the sock with the fire-tongs. "And this?"

"A sock, of course," I explained. "An emergency sock of my own invention. It has three exits, you will observe, very handy in case of fire."

"Hump!" said Aunt Angela.

Edward returned bearing his offerings, a gent's rimless boater, a doorknob, six inches of lead-piping and half a bottle of cod-liver oil.

"Hump!" said Aunt Angela.

No more was said of it that night. Aunt Angela resumed her sewing, Edward his _Gertie_, I my slumb--, my meditations. Nor indeed was the jumble sale again mentioned, a fact which in itself should have aroused my suspicions; but I am like that, innocent as a sucking-dove. I had put the matter out of my mind altogether until yesterday evening, when, hearing the sound of laboured breathing and the frantic clanking of a bicycle pump proceeding from the shed, I went thither to investigate, and was nearly capsized by Edward charging out.

"It's gone," he cried--"gone!" and pawed wildly for his stirrup.

"What has?" I inquired.

"'The Limit,'" he wailed. "She's picked ... lock ... muck-room with a hairpin, sent ... Limit ... jumble sale!"

He sprang aboard his cycle and disappeared down the high road to St. Gwithian, pedalling like a squirrel on a treadmill, the tails of his new mackintosh spread like wings on the breeze. So Aunt Angela with serpentine guile had deferred her raid until the last moment and then bagged "The Limit," the pride of the muck-room.

"The Limit," I should tell you, is (or was) a waterproof. It is a faithful record of Edward's artistic activities during the last thirty years, being decorated all down the front with smears of red, white and green paint. Here and there it has been repaired with puncture patches and strips of surgical plaster, but more often it has not. As Edward is incapable of replacing a button and Aunt Angela refuses to touch the "Limit," he knots himself into it with odds and ends of string and has to be liberated by his ally, the cook, with a kitchen knife. Edward calls it his "garden coat," and swears he only wears it on dirty jobs, to save his new mackintosh, but nevertheless he is sincerely attached to the rag, and once attempted to travel to London to a Royal Society beano in it, and was only frustrated in the nick of time.

So the oft-threatened "Limit" had been reached at last. I laughed heartily for a moment, then a sudden cold dread gripped me, and I raced upstairs and tore open my wardrobe. Gregory, the glory of Gopherville, had gone too!

A word as to Gregory. If you look at a map of Montana and follow a line due North through from Fort Custer you will not find Gopherville, because a cyclone removed it some eight years ago. Nine years ago, however, Gregory and I first met in the "Bon Ton Parisian Clothing Store," in the main (and only) street of Gopherville, and I secured him for ten dollars cash. He is a mauve satin waistcoat, embroidered with a chaste design of anchors and forget-me-nots, subtly suggesting perennial fidelity. The combination of Gregory and me proved irresistible at all Gopherville's social events.

Wishing to create a favourable atmosphere, I wore Gregory at my first party in England. I learn that Aunt Angela disclaimed all knowledge of me during that evening.

Subsequently she made several determined attempts to present Gregory to the gardener, the butcher's boy and to an itinerant musician as an overcoat for his simian colleague. Had I foiled her in all of these to be beaten in the end? No, not without a struggle. I scampered downstairs again and, wresting Harriet's bicycle from its owner's hands (Harriet is the housemaid and it was her night out), was soon pedalling furiously after Edward.

The jumble sale was being held in the schools and all St. Gwithian was there, fighting tooth and nail over the bargains. A jumble sale is to _rus_ what remnant sales are to _urbs_. I battled my way round to each table in turn, but nowhere could I find my poor dear old Gregory. Then I saw Etta, the presiding genius, and butted my way towards her.

"Look here," I gasped--"have you by any chance seen--?" I gave her a full description of the lost one.

Etta nodded. "Sort of illuminated horse-blanket? Oh, yes, I should say I have."

"Tell me," I panted--"tell me, is it sold yet? Who bought it? Where is--?"

"It's not sold _yet_," said Etta calmly. "There was such rivalry over it that it's going to be raffled. Tickets half-a-crown each. Like one?"

"But it's _mine_!" I protested.

"On the contrary, it's _mine_; Angela gave it to me. If you care to buy all the tickets--?"

"How much?" I growled.

"Four pounds."

"But--but that's twice as much as I paid for it originally!"

"I know," said Etta sweetly, "but prices have risen terribly owing to the War."

* * * * *

I found Edward outside leaning on his jaded velocipede. He was wearing the "Limit."

"Hello," said he, "got what you wanted?"

"Yes," said I, "and so, I observe, did you. How much did _you_ have to pay?"

"Nothing," said he triumphantly; "Etta took my new mackintosh in exchange," he chuckled. "I think we rather scored off Angela this time, don't you?"

"Yes," said I--"ye-es."

PATLANDER.

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* * * * *

From an invitation to a subscription-ball:--

"Hoping that you will endeavour to make this, our first dance, a bumping success...."

As the Latin gentleman might have said, _Nemo repente fuit Terpsichore_.

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"_Two pigs off their feet had hard work to get to food trough, but K---- Pig Powders soon put them right._"--_Local Paper._

Set them on their feet again, we conclude.

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"Respectable reserved lady (25), of ability, wishes to meet respectable keen Business Gentleman, honourable and reserved."--_Advt. in Irish Paper._

Obviously reserved for one another.

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"A big re-union of all returned men and their dependents is to be held at the Board of Trade building on New Year's day.... A year ago the affair was a hug success and the ladies hope for an even better record this year."--_Manitoba Free Press._

Manitoba is so embracing.

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* * * * *

TO MY BUTTER RATION

(_On hearing that the stuff is shortly to be decontrolled_).

Thou whom, when Saturday's expiring sun Informs me that another day is done And summons fire from the reflecting pane Of Griggs and Sons, where groceries obtain, I seek, not lightly nor in careless haste As men buy bloaters or anchovy paste, Who fling the cash down with abstracted air, Crying, "Two tins, please," or "I'll take the pair," But reverently and with concentred gaze Lest Griggs's varlet (drat his casual ways!), Intrigued with passing friend or canine strife, Leave half of thee adhering to the knife-- My butter ration! If symbolic breath Can be presumed in one so close to death, It is decreed that thou, my heart's desire, Who scarcely art, must finally expire; Yea, they who hold thy fortunes in their hands, Base-truckling to the profiteer's commands, No more to my slim revenues will temper The cost of thee, but with a harsh "_Sic semper_ _Pauperibus_" fling thee, heedless of my prayers, Into the fatted laps of war-time millionaires.

No more when Phoebus bids the day be born And savoury odours greet the Sabbath morn, Calling to Jane to bring the bacon in, Shall I bespread thee, marvellously thin, But ah! how toothsome! while my offspring barge Into the cheap but uninspiring marge, While James, our youngest (spoilt), proceeds to cram His ample crop with plum and rhubarb jam. No more when twilight fades from tower and tree Shall I conceal what still remains of thee Lest that the housemaid or, perchance, the cat Should mischief thee, imponderable pat. Ah, mine no more! for lo! 'tis noised around How thou wilt soon cost seven bob a pound. As well demand thy weight in radium As probe my 'poverished poke for such a sum. Wherefore, farewell! No more, alas! thou'lt oil These joints that creak with unrewarded toil; No more thy heartsick votary's midmost riff Wilt lubricate, and, oh! (as WORDSWORTH says) the diff!

ALGOL.

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"PUNCH" ON THE SCREEN.

Mr. Punch begs to inform the Public that he has prepared for their entertainment twelve sets of Lantern Slides reproducing his most famous Cartoons and Pictures (five of the sets deal with the Great War), and that they may be hired, along with explanatory Lectures, and, if desired, a Lantern and Operator, on application to Messrs. E.G. WOOD, 2, Queen Street, Cheapside, E.C., to whom all inquiries as to terms should be addressed.

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"When he endeavoured to put the man out the Alderman was chucked under the paw. He drove straight to the barracks, informed the police of what had occurred, and having met his assailant on the road near by, he was placed under arrest."--_Irish Paper._

The Alderman seems to have had a rough time all through.

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THE MOO-COW.

I was getting so tired of the syncopated life of town (and it didn't fit in with my present literary work) that I bribed my old pal Hobson to exchange residences with me for six months, with option; so now he has my flat in town, complete with Underground Railway and street noises (to say nothing of jazz music wherever he goes), and I have his country cottage, old- fashioned and clean, and a perfectly heavenly silence to listen to. Still, there _are_ noises, and their comparative infrequency makes them the more noticeable. There is, for instance, a cow that bothers me more than a little. It has chosen, or there has been chosen, for its day nursery a field adjoining my (really Hobson's) garden. It has selected a spot by the hedge, almost under the study window, as a fit and proper place for its daily round of mooing.

Possibly this was at Hobson's request. Perhaps he likes the sound of mooing, or, conceivably, the cow doesn't like Hobson, and moos to annoy him. But surely it cannot mistake me for him. We are not at all alike. He is short and dark; I am tall and fair. This has given rise to a question in my mind: Can cows distinguish between human beings?

Anyway the cow worries me with its continual fog-horn, and I thought I would write to the owner (a small local dairy-farmer) to see if he could manage to find another field in which to batten this cow, where it could moo till it broke its silly tonsils for all I should care; so I indited this to him:--

MY DEAR SIR,--You have in your entourage a cow that is causing me some annoyance. It is one of those red-and-white cows (an Angora or Pomeranian perhaps; I don't know the names of the different breeds, being a town mouse), and it has horns of which one is worn at an angle of fifteen or twenty degrees higher than the other. This may help you to identify it. It possesses, moreover, a moo which is a blend between a ship's siren and a taxicab's honk syringe. If you haven't heard either of these instruments you may take my word for them. Further, I think it may really assist you if I describe its tail. The last two feet of it have become unravelled, and the upper part is red, with a white patch where the tail is fastened on to the body.

It is only the moo part of the cow that is annoying me; I like the rest of it. I am engaged in writing a book on the Dynamic Force of Modern Art, and a solo on the Moo does not blend well with such labour as mine.

There are hens here at Hillcroft. This remark may seem irrelevant, but not if you read on. Every time one of these hens brings five-pence-halfpenny worth of egg into the world it makes a noise commensurate with this feat. But I contend that even if your cow laid an egg every time it moos (which it doesn't, so far as my survey reveals) its idiotic bellowing would still be out of all proportion to the achievement. Even milk at a shilling a quart scarcely justifies such assertiveness.

My friend Mr. Hobson may, of course, have offended the animal in question, but even so I cannot see why I should have to put up with its horrible revenge; which brings me to the real and ultimate reason for troubling you, and that is, to ask you if you will be so good as to tell the cow to desist, and, in case of its refusal, to remove it to other quarters. If the annoyance continues I cannot answer for the consequences.

Thanking you in anticipation, I am, Yours faithfully, ARTHUR K. WILKINSON.

The reply ran:--

DEER SIR,--i am not a scollard and can't understand more'n 'alf your letter if you don't lik my cow why not go back were you cum from i dunno what you mean by consequences but if you lay 'ands on my cow i'll 'ave the lor of you.

Yours obedient HENRY GIBBS.

I felt that I hadn't got off very well with Henry, and thought I would try again, so wrote:--

DEAR MR. GIBBS,--Thank you so much for your too delightful letter. I am afraid you somewhat misapprehended the purport of mine. I freely admit your right to turn all manner of beasts into your demesne; equally do I concede to them the right to play upon such instruments as Nature has handed out to them; but I also claim the right to be allowed to carry on my work undisturbed. The consequences would be to me, not to the cow, unless laryngitis supervenes. I love cows, and I greatly admire this particular cow, but not its moo; that is all.

Is it, do you suppose, uttering some Jeremiad or prophecy? Can it, for example, be foretelling the doom of the middle classes? Or is it possible that our noisy friend is uttering a protest against some injurious treatment received from its master?

I have discovered that our daily supply of milk is supplied by your herd, and on inquiry I find that our cook is not at all confident that a quart of the same as delivered to us would satisfy the requirements of the Imperial standard of measurement.

If the animal's fog-horn continues I shall take it as an indignant protest against a slight that has been cast on its fertility, and shall seriously think of calling in the Food-Inspector to examine you in the table of liquid measure.

Delightful weather we have been experiencing, have we not?

Believe me as ever, dear Mr. Gibbs, Yours most sincerely, ARTHUR K. WILKINSON.

I do not know how much my correspondent understood of this letter, but, as the moo-cow was shortly afterwards relegated to fresh pastures, and as we are getting decidedly better measure for our milk money, I gather that he had enough intelligence for my purposes.

The threat which I thus put at a venture may be recommended to anyone suffering from the moo nuisance.

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"The serious loss to D'Annunzio recently of 300,000 lire, through the disappearance of his cashier, has had a happy sequel. The airman-poet has received a like amount from a rich Milanese lady. The donor remains incognito."--_Evening Standard._

It was very clever of the lady to disguise herself as an unknown man.

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THE NEW SUBTRACTION.

(_By a middle-class Martyr._)

EUCLID is gone, dethroned, By dominies disowned, And modern physicists, Judæo-Teuton, Finding strange kinks in space, Swerves in light's arrowy race, Make havoc of the theories of NEWTON.

Yet, mid this general wreck, These blows dealt in the neck Of authors of established reputation, Four methods unassailed Endured and never failed To guide our arithmetic calculations.

But now at last new rules Are used in "Council Schools" In consequence of Governmental action; And newspapers abound In praise of the profound Importance of the so-called "New Subtraction."

New, maybe, but too well I know its influence fell; The "new subtraction" (which _I_ suffer under) From what I earn or save By toiling like a slave Is just a euphemistic name for plunder.

* * * * *

"At Richmond a discharged soldier was charged with stealing a pillow, valued at 7/6, the property of the Government.... The prisoner, who had a clean sheet, was fined 40/-."--_Local Paper._

We can understand his wanting a fresh pillow to go with his clean sheet.

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GOLDEN GEESE.

The London University Correspondent of _The Observer_ has been deploring the fact that a number of professors and lecturers have lately resigned their poorly-paid academic positions in order to take up commercial and industrial posts at much higher salaries. Among the instances he cites is that of a Professor of Chemistry at King's College, who has been appointed Director of Research to the British Cotton Industry Research Association.

The movement, which the writer denounces as bearing "too obvious an analogy to the killing of the golden goose," is not however confined to London University. From the great seats of learning all over the country the same complaint is heard. We learn, for instance, that Mr. Angus McToddie, until recently Professor of Physics at the John Walker University, N.B., has vacated that post on his appointment as Experimental Adviser to the British Constitutional Whisky Manufacturers' Association.

Past and present _alumni_ of Tonypandy will learn with regret that the University is to lose the services of its Professor of Live Languages, Mr. O. Evans, who is about to assume the responsible and highly-remunerated position of Director of Research to the Billingsgate Fishporters' Self-Help Society.

The Egregius Professor of Ancient History at Giggleswick University will shortly take up his duties as Editor of _Chestnuts_, the new comic weekly.

Professor Ernest Grubb, who for many years has adorned the Chair of Entomology at Durdleham, is about to enter the dramatic sphere as stage-manager to a well-known troupe of performing insects.