Chapter 3

We'll borrow a leaf from Havana; We'll cultivate yuccas and yams; The Curragh shall be our savannah, Swept clear of all soldiers and shams; And then to the cry of "Majuba" We'll shatter the enemy's yoke, When Ireland is governed like Cuba And grows her own smoke.

* * * * *

DEAD SEA FRUIT.

To-day the telephone has been installed. The members of our staff are going about their duties in a dazed fashion, and I, to whose single-handed tenacity the achievement is due, find myself unable in these first full moments of triumph to concentrate on my every-day affairs.

I can still remember that fresh summer morning when with springy step I set out to call upon the District Contract Agent for the first time. Innocently enough I expected to arrange for the installation of a telephone within the next two or three days. But I recollect that as I ascended the steps of his premises I became depressed by that House of Usher foreboding, and then, when I witnessed the way in which an imperturbable official discomfited a tempestuous gentleman who was giving tongue to a long list of his wrongs, my carefully rehearsed and resolute address shrivelled on my lips and I found myself asking tamely for a form.

This form, _plus_ the information that telephones were more speedily installed where ex-Service men were employed, was the net result of my first encounter.

And now, as I turn in reminiscent mood to a dusty file, I pause before one of my early letters to the District Contract Agent: "... If you saw our staff, who are without exception ex-soldiers, you would say at once that they are a remarkably fine body of men and deserving of a telephone. They mark their possessions with their initials in indelible pencil. Between them they have seen service on every front, from Mespot to Ireland. Some have been mentioned in despatches, many have figured in Cox's Book of Martyrs, and our cashier _says_ that he once opened a tin of bully with the key provided for that purpose. One of our juniors, Major Bays Waller, O.B.E., who came to us from a Control Office and who advises us on our filing, says that it is like coming from a home to a home. You must come round and have a chat with him; you would have _so_ much in common.

"Trusting that you will expedite the little matter of our telephone installation, and assuring you that the spirit of our staff continues to be excellent, etc...."

Although this letter was signed "Henry Thomas, James & Sons," the District Contract Agent's vague reply on the file before me commences: "Sir (or Madam);" and I feel now, as I did then, that it is not in the best of taste for him to brag as he does about his telephone and his "Private Branch Exchange" on the very paper on which he writes to baffled applicants for installation.

From this time the correspondence is marked by an increasing bitterness on my side and a level colourlessness on his. Only once did he assume the offensive, which took the shape of a demand for four pounds for possible services to be rendered at some period in the future. At Yuletide I hoped that "during this season of goodwill he would see his way to give instructions for the installation of our telephone," and in the New Year I played once more the ex-Service employees' card:--"... Whatever views you may hold on the policy of the withdrawal of British troops from Russia, we are convinced that you will sympathise with our desire to extend a hearty welcome to a member of our staff on his return to this office from Murmansk; and we feel that, since he served with the R.E. Signals, it would be a graceful compliment to him if we had the telephone installed. We therefore cordially invite your co-operation so that this may take place before his arrival.... The idea of installing a telephone in this office is not in itself a novel one, as you may recollect that the suggestion has cropped up in the correspondence that has passed between us...."

* * * * *

And now, as I have said, the telephone is installed. The instrument is fashioned in a severe style (receiver and mouth-piece mounted on an ebonite column of the Roman Doric Order), and it stands for all to see as a symbol that in the seclusion of our offices we are in touch with the world at large. But as a symbol only it must remain, for the voices of the outer world that call us up as they search for other friends or obstruct us when we in turn are, as it were, groping after ours, have already frayed the temper of our staff. It was inevitable that under such constant irritation these ex-Service men of ours would one day burst into strong military idiom, so we have disconnected our telephone in order to avoid the calamity of losing our lady-typist.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Man Wanted to lift 1,200 square yards of Turf at once--_Provincial Paper._

Before applying for the job our young friend Foozle would like to know whether he will be required to replace the divot.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"JUST LIKE JUDY."

If the author of _Just Like Judy_ will look into that commodious classic, _Mrs. Beeton's Cookery Book_, he will find a formula for light pastry. And if he will proceed to the (for him) enlivening adventure of essaying a tartlet, he will find that most fatal among a host of fatal errors will be any failure to preserve the due proportion of ingredients. I do not suggest that there is as rigid a formula for light comedy. But certainly Mr. DENNY threw in too many unnecessary mystifications and crude explanations in proportion to the wit, wisdom and lively incident of his confection. In particular he was constantly making some of his characters tell the others what we of the audience either already knew or quite easily guessed. To exhaust my tedious-homely metaphor, if you put in a double measure of water the mixture will refuse to rise. And that I imagine is essentially what happened to _Just Like Judy_.

Irish _Judy_, a charmingly pretty busybody, outwardly just like Miss IRIS HOEY, comes to _Peter Keppel's_ studio and hears that this casual youth has got into a deplorable habit of putting off his marriage with her friend _Milly_. She (_Judy_) will see to that! She assumes the _rôle_ of a notorious Chelsea model, whom proper _Peter_ has never seen. _Peter_ knocks his head on the mantelpiece, just where a shrapnel splinter had hit him, and is persuaded that she, _Judy McCarthy_, affecting to be _Trixie O'Farrel_, is his wife. It all seems very horrible to him, but, shell-shock or no shell-shock, he sets to work to paint her portrait in a business-like way, and at the end of four hours it doesn't seem at all horrible. And by the time it is explained that it was all a joke (some people do have such a nice sense of humour) he is all for rushing off to the registry-office, _Judy_ agreeing.

Not that _Judy_ is a minx. She did her level best to make two people who obviously didn't love one another fulfil their engagement, instead of, like a sensible woman, accepting the inevitable, which was, as it happens, so congenial to her. What puzzled me was _Peter's_ indignation with poor _Milly_ when he found that she really didn't love him (but, on the contrary, a bounder called _Crauford_), yet couldn't bear to cause him unhappiness, and was sacrificing herself for him. As that was his attitude precisely, I suppose he felt annoyed by this lack of originality. If we men are like that, it wasn't nice of Mr. DENNY to give us away.

At any rate I am sure Mr. DONALD CALTHROP didn't believe in _Peter_ all the time. When he did he was very good indeed. When he didn't he was horrid. Did Miss IRIS HOEY believe in _Judy_? I am not so sure. I suspect not. Did I believe in either? I did not.

I was a little surprised that Miss JOAN VIVIAN-REES should so overplay her _Trixie_. Her work is certainly in general not like that, and I conjecture the influence of some baleful autocrat of a producer. It seemed to me that Miss MILDRED EVELYN'S _Milly_ was, all things considered, a capable and consistent study of a desperately unsympathetic character, a more difficult and creditable feat than is commonly supposed.

T.

"WILD GEESE."

I should hesitate to accuse Mr. RONALD JEANS of originality in the design of his musical trifle at the Comedy. The idea of a company of women that bans the society of men is at least as old as the Attic stage. But it is to his credit that though the theme invited suggestiveness he at least avoided the licence of _The Lysistrata_. Indeed there were moments when his restraint filled me with respectful wonder. Thus, though the Pacific Island to which the Junior Jumper Club retired--with no male attendant but the Club porter--clearly indicated a bathing scene, yet we had to be satisfied with an occasional glimpse of an exiguous _maillot_ with nobody inside it.

In fact, the fun throughout had a note of reserve and was never boisterous. Mr. JACK BUCHANAN'S quiet methods in the part of the _Hon. Bill Malcolm_, universal philanderer, lent themselves to this quality of understatement. In a scene where he tried to extricate himself from a number of coincident entanglements with various members of the Club he was quite amusing without the aid of italics. Mr. GILBERT CHILDS, again, as _Weekes_--Club porter and _Admirable Crichton_ of the island--though a little broader in his style, was too clever to force the fun.

The other sex, as was natural with women who affected a serious purpose, had fewer chances, and Miss PHYLLIS MONKMAN spoilt hers by a bad trick of hunching her shoulders and waggling her arms as if she were out for a cake-walk on Montmartre.

There were touches of humour in Mr. CUVILLIER'S tuneful music and in the limited movements of the best-looking chorus that I have seen for a long time.

As for the plot, it had at least the merit of continuity and conformed to the logic, seldom too severe, of this kind of entertainment, as distinct from the so-called _revue_. Nearly everything was well within my intelligence, the chief exception being the title; for never surely did a wild-goose chase offer such easy sport. The birds were just asking to be put into the bag. I should myself have preferred, out of compliment to the chorus, to call the play "Wild Ducks," only, of course, IBSEN had been there before. Not that this would have greatly troubled an author who showed so little regard for the proprietary rights of ARISTOPHANES and Sir JAMES BARRIE.

O.S.

* * * * *

WITCHES.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "'tis born in 'em maybe, The same as fits an' freckles an' follerin' the sea, An' ginger hair in some folks--an' likin' beer in me.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "an' powerful strong ones too; They'll whistle a wind from nowhere an' a storm out o' the blue 'Ud sink this here old hooker an' all her bloomin' crew.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin, "An' some counts witchcraft bunkum, an' some a deadly sin, But--there ain't no harm as I see in standing well with a Finn."

C.F.S.

* * * * *

OUR CYNICAL PRESS.

"Mr. ----, M.P., is leaving home for a fortnight's rest."--_Scotch Paper._

* * * * *

PROTECTION FROM BURGLARS.

FOR IDEAL AND OTHER HOMES.

* * * * *

THE INCORRIGIBLE.

Ernest was a sprightly youth With a passion for the truth, Who, the other day, began His career as midshipman. 'Twas not in the least degree Vulgar curiosity Urging him to ask the reason Why, both in and out of season; 'Twas but keenness; all he lacked Was a saving sense of tact.

Once the Lieut. of Ernie's watch, Dour, meticulous and Scotch, Thought he'd show the timid snotty (Newly joined) exactly what he Wanted when inspecting men. Closely Ernest watched, and then Said, saluting, "Sir, I note Several creases in your coat, And I see upon your trouser Signs of paint-work; yet just now, Sir, Did you not think fit to blame One poor man who had the same?"

Ere that outraged Lieut. replied Suddenly our hero spied Coming aft, his labours done, Our benignant Number One (_Most_ abstemious is he, And, in fact, a strict T.T., But--it shows how Fate can blunder-- No one could be rubicunder. Ernest, after one swift glance, Said, "Excuse my ignorance, But, Sir, can you tell me why You are always red, while I, Even when I drink a lot, Only flush if I am hot?"

Just as Number One grew pale And collapsed against the rail, Striving grimly not to choke, Ernest heard the busy Bloke Calling loudly, "Let her go!" To a seaman down below; "Fool! the cutter's bound to ram you, Push the pinnace forrard, damn you!" Ernest shook his youthful head And he very gently said Into his Commander's ear, "You forget yourself, I fear. May I ask what you would do If I used that word to _you_? Is it worthy, Sir, of an Officer and gentleman?"

Aft ran little Ernest, only Pausing when he saw a lonely Figure bright with golden lace Who appeared to own the place. "Ah!" thought Ernie, "I know you; You're the luckless Captain who (Though you hadn't then a beard) Most unwillingly appeared But a year ago or less In the Illustrated Press." "Tell me, Sir," the youngster cried, Crossing to the Captain's side Of the sacred quarterdeck-- "How did you contrive the wreck Of the cruiser you commanded When she bumped the beach and stranded?"

You may say, "He is so brave he Ought some day to rule the Navy." Certainly he _ought_, but still I'm afraid he never will; For they talked to him so gruffly And they handled him so roughly That, when he was fit to drop And the kindly Bloke said, "Stop! Or you'll make him even madder; He is wiser now and sadder," Ernest simply answered, "Ay, Sir, You have _made_ me sad; but why, Sir?"

* * * * *

ÆQUAM MEMENTO.

"I wonder," said Mary for the third time, "if we shall catch the tram at the other end."

"Calmness," I told her--this for the second time--"is the essence of comfortable travel. Meeting trouble half-way--"

"It isn't half-way," she said indignantly. "We're nearly there."

We were on a bus whose "route" terminated some five miles from home, which we proposed to reach by a tram, and, the hour being late, it was our chances of catching a car that were worrying Mary.

"Never get flurried," I went on. "If people would only go ahead calmly and steadily.... What causes half our traffic congestion? Flurry. What makes it so difficult to move quickly in the streets? Flurry. What is it clogs the wheels of progress everywhere?"

"Don't tell me," she implored. "Let me guess. Flurry."

"Exactly," I said, and at this point we reached our terminus. Two trams were waiting, one behind the other, some thirty yards away, and, as we descended the steps of the bus, the bell of the first one rang warningly. Mary would have started running, but I detained her.

"Flurrying again," I said indulgently. "Here are two trams, but of course you must have the first one, however full it is," and I led her towards the second. As I expected, it was quite empty, and I was still using it to point my moral when its conductor began juggling with the pole. It was then that I realised that, though on the down lines, this car was going no further. It was, in fact, turning round for its journey back to London, while in the distance the rear lights of our last down tram seemed to wink a derisive farewell.

There was nothing for it but to go ahead calmly and steadily, and we did so. It was somewhere about the end of the fourth mile that Mary asked suddenly:--

"What was it you said clogged the wheels of progress everywhere?"

"Flurry," I said feebly.

"Well, _I_ think it's blisters," she said.

* * * * *

FILM NOTES.

Those who are still inclined to question whether the cinema is to be regarded as a serious force in the realm of Art should not only read the frequent contributions to _The Times_ and other newspapers on this department of the drama, but should bear in mind that quite recently it has been stated that both the Rev. SILAS K. HOCKING and Mr. JACK DEMPSEY have taken part in photo-plays. It cannot be doubted that the peculiar talent required for making the heart of the people throb is being revealed in the most unlikely places.

* * * * *

If proof were needed that the art of the film is a dangerous rival to that of the stage, we would point to the five-reel drama, _The Call of the Thug_, of which a private trade view was given last week. Miss Flora Poudray, who is here featured--her name is new to us--proves to be a screen actress of superb gifts. We have seen nothing quite so subtly perfect as her gesture of dissent when the villain proposes that he and she together should strangle the infant heir to the millionaire woollen merchant on the raft during the thunder-storm. Patrons of the cinema will do well to look out for this delicate yet moving passage. The film will be released as early as November, 1921.

* * * * *

"MR. BALFOUR ON OUR WAR CRIMINALS LIST."--_Daily Paper._

We simply can't believe it.

* * * * *

"The amount of coal available for home consumption last year was 4,385 tons per head of the population."--_Evening Paper._

Then somebody else must have collared our share.

* * * * *

"LIVE STOCK AND PETS.

GENERAL, family 2; liberal wages and outings."--_Liverpool Paper._

The difficulty with "pets" of this kind is that they are hard to get and almost impossible to keep.

* * * * *

"An Englishman usually finds it about as difficult to produce an R from his thoat as to produce a rabbit from a top-hat--both feats require practice."--_Provincial Paper._

In this case we fear it can't be done, even with practice.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The publishers of _Peter Jackson: Cigar Merchant_ (HUTCHINSON) seem in their announcements to be desperately afraid lest anyone should guess it to be a War book. It is, they suggest, the story of the flowering of perfect love between two married folk who had drifted apart. It is really an admirable epitome of the War as seen through one pair of eyes and one particular temperament. I don't recall another War novel that is so convincing. The almost incredible confusions of the early days of the making of K.'s army; the gradual shaping of the great instrument; the comradeship of fine spirits and the intrigues of meaner; leadership good and less good; action with its energy, glory and horror; reaction (with incidentally a most moving analysis of the agonies of shell-shock and protracted neurasthenia) after the long strain of campaigning--all this is brought before you in the most vivid manner. Mr. GILBERT FRANKAU writes with a fierce sincerity and with perhaps the defects of that sincerity--a bitterness against the non-combatant which was not usual in the fighting- man, at least when he was fighting; or perhaps it was only that they were too kind then to say so. Also as "one of us" he is a little overwhelmed by the sterling qualities of the rank-and-file--qualities which ought, he would be inclined to assume, to be the exclusive product of public-school playing-fields. I haven't said that _Peter Jackson_ gave up cigars and cigarettes for the sword, and beat that into a plough-share for a small-holding when the War was done. A jolly interesting book.

* * * * *

I found the arrangement of _The Clintons and Others_ (COLLINS) at first a little confusing, because Mr. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL, instead of keeping his _Clinton_ tales consecutive, has mixed them democratically with the _Others_. Our first sight of the family (and incidentally the most agreeable thing in the volume) is provided by "Kencote," a brightly- coloured and engaging anecdote of Regency times, and of the plucking of an honoured house from the ambiguous patronage of the First Gentleman in Europe. I found this delightful, spirited, picturesque and original. Thence we pass to the _Others_, to the theme (old, but given here with a pleasant freshness of circumstance) of maternal craft in averting a threatened mésalliance, to a study of architecture in its effect upon character, to a girls' school tale; finally to the portrait of a modern _Squire Clinton_, struggling to adjust his mind to the complexities of the War. This last, a character-study of very moving and sympathetic realism, suffers a little from a defect inherent in one of Mr. MARSHALL'S best qualities, his gift for absolutely natural dialogue. The danger of this is that, as here in the bedroom chatter of the Squire's daughters, his folk are apt to repeat themselves, as talk does in nature, but should not (I suppose) in art. Still this is a small defect in a book that is sincere in quality and convincingly human in effect. _The Clintons and Others_ is certainly miles away from the collections of reprinted pot-boilers that at one time brought books of short stories into poor repute. Mr. MARSHALL and Others (a select band) will rapidly correct this by giving us in small compass work equal to their own best.

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