Chapter 3

Another recruit to Stage enterprise is Professor Seymour Legge, who has been appointed Chief Investigator to the Beauty Chorus Providers' Corporation. Mr. Legge was formerly Professor of Comparative Anatomy at Ballycorp.

* * * * *

SATURDAYS.

Now has the soljer handed in his pack, And "Peace on earth, goodwill to all" been sung; I've got a pension and my ole job back-- Me, with my right leg gawn and half a lung; But, Lord! I'd give my bit o' buckshee pay And my gratuity in honest Brads To go down to the field nex' Saturday And have a game o' football with the lads.

It's Saturdays as does it. In the week It's not too bad; there's cinemas and things; But I gets up against it, so to speak, When half-day-off comes round again and brings The smell o' mud an' grass an' sweating men Back to my mind--there's no denying it; There ain't much comfort tellin' myself then, "Thank Gawd, I went _toot sweet_ an' did my bit!"

Oh, yes, I knows I'm lucky, more or less; There's some pore blokes back there who played the game Until they heard the whistle go, I guess, For Time an' Time eternal. All the same It makes me proper down at heart and sick To see the lads go laughing off to play; I'd sell my bloomin' soul to have a kick-- But what's the good of talkin', anyway?

* * * * *

"If we were suddenly to be deprived of the fast underground train, and presented with a sparse service of steam trains in sulphurous tunnels, the result on our tempers and the rate of our travelling would be-- well, electric!"--_Pall Mall Gazette._

We have tried to think of a less appropriate word than "electric," but have failed miserably.

* * * * *

THE RIDING LESSON.

Phillida arrived up to time with her suit-case, a riding-crop and a large copy of D'AULNOY'S _Fairy Tales_. She was not very communicative as we drove out, and I sought to draw her. You never, by the way, talk down to Phillida. Personally, I don't believe in talking down to any child; but to employ this method with Phillida is to court disaster.

"Pleasant journey?" I inquired casually, flicking Rex's ear.

"'M," responded Phillida in the manner of a child sucking sweets. Phillida was not sucking sweets, and I accepted my snub. We drove on for a bit in silence. Phillida removed her hat, and her bobbed hair went all round her head like a brown busby. I looked round and was embarrassed to find the straight grey eyes fixed on my face, the expression in them almost rapturous.

"Jolly country, isn't it?" I essayed hurriedly, with a comprehensive wave of my whip.

The preoccupied "'M" was repeated with even less emphasis.

Another protracted silence. I decided not to interfere with the course of nature as manifested in one small grey-eyed maiden of eight. Presently there burst from her ecstatically, "Uncle Dick, is this the one I'm going to ride?" So that was it. From that moment we got on splendidly. We discussed, agreed and disagreed over breeds, paces, sizes. I told her the horse she would ride would be twice the size of Rex, and she nearly fell out of the trap when I said we might go together that very afternoon.

"I've not learned to gallop," she remarked with some reluctance; "but of course you could teach me."

I had only heard the vaguest rumours of her riding experience, and she was very mysterious about it herself. However, when she came downstairs at the appointed time, in her brown velvet jockey-cap, top-boots, breeches and gloves complete, she looked so determined and efficient I felt reassured.

I had to make holes in the stirrup leathers eleven inches higher than the top one of all before she could touch the irons; but she settled into the saddle with great firmness and we were off without any fuss. Once on a horse, she had no difficulty in maintaining a perfect continuity of speech, and I soon felt relieved of all anxiety about her safety. If she was not an old and practised hand, she had nerve and balance, and I did not think fit to produce the leading rein which I had smuggled into my pocket.

We trotted a perfect three miles, and she had an eye to the country and a word to say about all she saw. When we turned to come back, I felt Brimstone make his usual spurt forward, but I was not prepared for Treacle's sudden break away. He was off like a rocket. That small child's cap was flung across my eyes in a sudden gust. I had retrieved it in a second, but it was time lost, and, by Jove! she was out of sight round a bend. I followed after, might and main, but the racket of Brimstone's hoofs only sent Treacle flying faster. I caught sight of the small figure leaning back, the bright hair flying. Then they were gone again. My heart beat very fast. "She had never learned to gallop!" At every bend I hardly dared to look for what I might find. I knew Treacle, once started, would dash for home. If the child could only stick it, all might be well. I pounded along, and after a two-mile run I came on them. She had pulled him in and was walking him, waiting for me, a little turned in the saddle, one minute hand resting lightly on his broad back. She was prettily flushed, her hair blown, but she hadn't even lost her crop.

"Did you stop to get my cap?" she said as we came up. "Thanks awfully."

I wanted to hug the little thing, but her dignity forbade any such exhibition.

The only other reference to the afternoon's experience was on a postcard I happened to see written the same night, addressed to her mother.

"DARLING BEE" (it ran in very large baby characters),--"I had the most adorable ride to-day I ever had. I learned to galup all by myself. I thaut at first the horse was running away with me, but Uncle Dick soon caut me up. He had my cap.

Your loving PHILLIDA."

I only hope that Isabel will think it was all just as deliberate as that.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The Ashton-under-Lyne fight is beginning, and _The Daily News_ comes forward to-day with the suggestion that the Liberal candidate should withdraw.

The practical effect of the candidature of a Liebral may be only to reduce the Labour majority....

In such circumstances we think it matter for great regret that there should be any Libtral candilature....

Upon this the comment at the Liberal headquarters to-day was, 'Well, it is a little difficult to know just where we are, isn't it?'"--_Evening Paper._

Yes, or _what_ we are, for that matter.

* * * * *

"GILBERT-SULLIVAN OPERAS.

Friday, 'Trial by July.'"--_Provincial Paper._

It seems a long remand.

* * * * *

JOURNALISTIC CAMARADERIE.

"The whole of this preliminary business is nauseating, and in _real_ sporting circles it is taboo as a topic of conversation. No wonder _The Times_ devoted a leading article to the matter the other day."--_Daily Mail._

How these NORTHCLIFFE journals love one another!

* * * * *

* * * * *

MORE CHAMPIONSHIPS.

The sporting public is so intrigued by the prospect of a DEMPSEY-CARPENTIER match that other impending championship events are in danger of being forgotten.

The present position in the challenge for the World's Halma Championship is this. Mr. George P. Henrun is patriotically endeavouring to secure the contest for Britain, and to that end has put up a purse of half-a-guinea. The Société Halma de Bordeaux has cut in with a firm offer of twenty-two francs, and the matter now remains in abeyance while financial advisers calculate the rate of exchange in order to ascertain which proposal is the more advantageous. The challenger, of course, is Tommy Jupes, aged twelve, of Ashby-de-la-Zouche. His opponent, the champion, has an advantage of three years in age and two inches in reach, but the strategy of Master Jupes is said to be irresistible. Only last week he overwhelmed his mother, herself a scratch player, when conceding her four men and the liberty to cheat twice.

The public will be thrilled to hear that a match has now been arranged between the two lady aspirants for the World's Patience Championship, _viz._, Miss Tabitha Templeman, of Bath, and Miss Priscilla J. Jarndyce, of Washington. To meet the territorial prejudices of both ladies the contest will take place in mid-Atlantic, on a liner. There will be no seconds, but Miss Templeman will be accompanied by the pet Persian, which she always holds in her lap while playing, and Miss Jarndyce will bring with her the celebrated foot-warmer which is associated with her greatest triumphs. The vexed question of the allocation of cinema royalties has been settled through the tact of Mr. Manketlow Spefforth, author of _Patience for the Impatient_. One lady wanted the royalties to be devoted to a Home for Stray Cats, and the other expressed a desire to benefit the Society for the Preservation of Wild Bird Life. Mr. Spefforth's happy compromise is that the money shall be assigned to the Fund in aid of Distressed Spinsters.

Bert Hawkins, of Whitechapel, has expressed his willingness, on suitable terms, to meet T'gumbu, the powerful Matabele, in a twenty-ball contest for the World's Cokernut-Shying Championship. There is however a deadlock over details. T'gumbu's manager is adamant that the match shall take place in his nominee's native village of Mpm, but Mr. Hawkins objects, seeing little chance of escaping alive after the victory of which he is so confident. He says he would "feel more safer like on 'Ampstead 'Eaf." Another difficulty is that Mr. Hawkins insists on wearing his _fiancée's_ headgear while competing, and this is regarded by T'gumbu as savouring of witchcraft. Mr. Hawkins generously offers his opponent permission to wear any article of his wives' clothing; but the coloured candidate quite reasonably retorts that this concession is practically valueless. On one point fortunately there is unaniminity: both parties are firm that all bad nuts must be replaced.

* * * * *

ANOTHER ASIAN MYSTERY.

"OLD AND RARE PAINTINGS. Exquisite works of old Indian art. Mytholo-Roast Beef or Pork: Bindaloo Sausages gical, Historical, Mediæval."--_Englishman_ (_Calcutta_).

* * * * *

"Two capable young gentlemen desire Posts in good families as Companions, ladies or children; mending, hairdressing, decorations; willing to travel; in or near London."--_Daily Paper._

What did _they_ do in the Great War?

* * * * *

"One of the exquisite features was the presence of the Deacon's wives. We had 83 upon our Roll of Honour, and of these 36 turned up."--_Parish Magazine._

The other forty-seven being presumably engaged in looking after the Deacon.

* * * * *

"In addition to the fine work done by the Irish regiments he assured them that many a warm Irish heart beat under a Scottish kilt."--_Local Paper._

Surely Irishmen enlisted in Scottish regiments are not so down-hearted as all that!

* * * * *

THE TALE OF THE TUNEFUL TUB.

["Why do so many people sing in the bathroom?... The note is struck for them by the running water. While the voice sounds resonantly in the bath-room it is not half so fine and inspiring when the song is continued in the dressing-room. The reason is that the furniture of the dressing-room tends to deaden the reverberations."--_Prof. W.H. BRAGG on "The World of Sound."_]

When to my morning tub I go, With towel, dressing-gown and soap, Then most, the while I puff and blow, My soul with song doth overflow (Not unmelodiously, I hope).

The plashing of the H. and C. Castalian stimulus affords; I reach with ease an upper G And, like the wild swan, carol free The gamut of my vocal chords.

And when, my pure ablutions o'er, The larynx fairly gets to work, Amid the unplugged water's roar I caper, trolling round the floor, In tones as rich as THOMAS BURKE.

But in my dressing-room's retreat My native wood-notes wilt and sag; Not there those raptures I repeat; My bellow now becomes a bleat (For reasons, ask Professor BRAGG).

So, Ruth, if song may find a path Still through thy heart, be listening by The bathroom while I take my bath; But leave before the aftermath, Nor while I'm dressing linger nigh.

On the acoustic side, I fear, My chest of drawers is quite a "dud;" The chairs would silence Chanticleer, Nor would I have you overhear When I have lost my collar-stud.

* * * * *

BOOKS AND BACKS.

The proposal to revive the old "yellow back" cover for novels, partly in the interest of economy in production, partly to attract the purchaser by the lure of colour, has caused no little stir in the literary world. In order to clarify opinion on the subject Mr. Punch has been at pains to secure the following expressions of their views from some of the leading authors of both sexes:--

Mr. J.M. KEYNES, C.B., the author of the most sensational book of the hour, contributed some interesting observations on the economics of the dye industry and their bearing on the question. These we are reluctantly obliged to omit. We may note however his general conclusion that the impact on the public mind of a book often varies in an inverse ratio with the attractiveness of its appearance or its title. At the same time he admits that if he had called his momentous work _The Terrible Treaty_, and if it had been bound in a rainbow cover with a Cubist design, its circulation might have been even greater than it actually is. But then, as he candidly owns, "as a Cambridge man, I may be inclined to attach an undue importance to 'Backs.'"

Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON writes: "MATT. ARNOLD once chaffed me for keeping a guillotine in my back-garden. But my real colour was never sea-green in politics any more than it is yellow in literature or journalism. Yet I have a great tenderness for the old yellow-backs of fifty years ago. Yellow Books are another story. The yellow-backs may have sometimes affronted the eye, but for the most part they were dove-like in their outlook. Now 'red ruin and the breaking-up of laws' flaunt themselves in the soberest livery. I do not often drop into verse, but this inversion of the old order has suggested these lines, which you may care to print:--

"'In an age mid-Victorian and mellow, Ere the current of life ran askew, The backs of our novels were yellow, Their hearts were of Quaker-like hue; But now, when extravagant lovers Their hectic emotions parade, In sober or colourless covers We find them arrayed.'"

Mr. CHARLES GARVICE points out that the choice of colour in bindings calls for especial care and caution at the present time, owing to the powerful influence of association. Yellow might lend impetus to the Yellow Peril. Red is especially to be avoided owing to its unfortunate appropriation by Revolutionary propagandists. Blue, though affected by statisticians and Government publishers, has a traditional connection with the expression of sentiments of an antinomian and heterodox character. At all costs the sobriety and dignity of fiction should be maintained, and sparing use should be made of the brighter hues of the spectrum. He had forgotten a good deal of his Latin, but there still lingered in his memory the old warning: "_O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori_."

Miss DAISY ASHFORD, another of our "best sellers," demurs to the view that a gaudy or garish exterior is needed to catch the public eye. The enlightened child-author scorned such devices. Books, like men and women--especially women--ought not to be judged by their backs, but by their hearts. She confessed, however, to a weakness for "jackets" as a form of attire peculiarly consecrated to youth.

Madame MONTESSORI cables from Rome as follows:--"The colour of book-covers is of vital importance in education. I wish to express my strong conviction that, where books for the young are concerned, no action should be taken by publishers without holding an unfettered plébiscite of all children under twelve. Also that the polychromatic series of Fairy Stories edited by the late Mr. ANDREW LANG should be at once withdrawn from circulation, not only because of the reckless and unscientific colour scheme adopted, but to check the wholesale dissemination of futile fables concocted and invented by irresponsible adults of all ages and countries."

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE HOME.

III.--THE GUEST.

I have a friend; his name is John; He's nothing much to dote upon, But, on the whole, a pleasant soul And, like myself, no paragon.

I have a house, and, then again, An extra room to take a guest; And in my house I have a spouse. It's good for me; I don't protest.

By her is every virtue taught; Man does as he is told, and ought; He has to eat his own conceit, So, "Just the place for John!" I thought.

The unsuspecting guest arrives; But (note the worthlessness of wives) Does he endure the kill-or-cure Refining process? No, he thrives.

He's led to think that he has got The very virtues I have not; Her every phrase is subtle praise And oh! how he absorbs the lot.

She finds his wisdom full of wit And listens to no end of it; And if he dash tobacco-ash On carpets doesn't mind a bit.

All that the human frame requires, From flattery to bedroom fires, Is his; and I must self-deny To satisfy his least desires.

I have a friend; his name is John; I tell him he is "getting on" And "growing fat," and things like that.... He pays no heed. He's too far gone.

HENRY.

* * * * *

"PUPILS wanted for Pianoforte and Theory.--J.G. Peat, Dyer and Cleaner."--_New Zealand Herald._

"That strain again! It had a dying fall."--_Twelfth Night_, Act I., Sc. 1, 4.

* * * * *

"The lowest grade of porter is the grade from which railway employees in the traffic departments gravitate to higher positions."--_Daily Paper._

The EINSTEIN theory is beginning to capture our journalists.

* * * * *

There was a Society Sinner Who no longer was asked out to dinner; This proof of his guilt So caused him to wilt That he's now emigrated to Pinner.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

In the war-after-the-war, the bombardment of books that is now so violently raging upon all fronts, any contribution by a writer as eminent as Lord HALDANE naturally commands the respect due to weapons of the heaviest calibre. Unfortunately "heavy" is here an epithet unkindly apt, since it has to be admitted that the noble lord wields a pen rather philosophic than popular, with the result that _Before the War_ (CASSELL) tells a story of the highest interest in a manner that can only be called ponderous. Our ex-War Minister is, at least chiefly, responding to the literary offensives of BETHMANN-HOLLWEG and TIRPITZ, in connection with whose books his should be read, if the many references are properly to be understood. As every reader will know, however, Lord HALDANE could hardly have delivered his apologia before the accuser without the gates and not at the same time had an eye on the critic within. Fortunately it is here no part of a reviewer's task to obtrude his own political theories. With regard to the chief indictment, of having permitted the country to be taken unawares, the author betrays his legal training by a defence which is in effect (1) that circumstances compelled our being so taken, and that (2) we weren't. On this and other matter, however, the individual reader, having paid his money (7_s_. 6_d_. net), remains at liberty to take his choice. One revelation at least emerges clearly enough from Lord HALDANE'S pages--the danger of playing diplomat to a democracy. "Extremists, whether Chauvinist or Pacifist, are not helpful in avoiding wars" is one of many conclusions, double-edged perhaps, to which he is led by retrospect of his own trials. His book, while making no concessions to the modern demand for vivacity, is one that no student of the War and its first causes can neglect.

* * * * *

It is not Mr. L. COPE CORNFORD'S fault that his initials are identical with those of the London County Council, nor do I consider it to be mine that his rather pontifical attitude towards men and matters reminds me of that august body. Anyone ignorant of recent inventions might be excused for thinking that _The Paravane Adventure_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is the title of a stirring piece of sensational fiction. But fiction it is not, though in some of its disclosures it may be considered sensational enough. In this history of the invention of the Paravane Mr. CORNFORD hurls a lot of well-directed bricks at Officialdom, and concludes his book by giving us his frank opinion of the way in which the Navy ought to be run. It is impossible, even if one does not subscribe to all his ideas, to refrain from commending the enthusiasm with which he writes of those who, in spite of great difficulties, set to work to invent and perfect the Paravane. If you don't know what a Paravane is I have neither the space nor the ability to tell you; but Mr. CORNFORD has, and it's all in the book.

* * * * *

A stray paragraph in a contemporary, to the effect that the portrait of the heroine and the story of her life in Baroness VON HUTTEN'S _Happy House_ (HUTCHINSON) is a transcript of actual fact, saves me from the indiscretion of declaring that I found _Mrs. Walbridge_ and her egregious husband and the general situation at Happy House frankly incredible. Pleasantly incredible, I should have added; and I rather liked the young man, _Oliver_, from Fleet Street, whom the Great Man had recently made Editor of _Sparks_ and who realised that he was destined to be a titled millionaire, for is not that the authentic procedure? Hence his fanatical obstinacy in wooing his, if you ask me, none too desirable bride. I hope I am not doing the author a disservice in describing this as a thoroughly wholesome book, well on the side of the angels. It has the air of flowing easily from a practised pen. But nothing will induce me to believe that _Mrs. Walbridge_, putting off her Victorian airs, did win the prize competition with a novel in the modern manner.

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