Chapter 2

_He retires to his vehicle and resumes his hookah._ PAVLOVA _dances some dances expressive of Spring, of Butterflies, of Flowers, of Unlimited Gold. In the midst of the final passage the driver leaps from his seat, rushes on to the platform, jumps three hundred and eighty-five times into the air, whirls_ PAVLOVA _off her toes and dashes from side to side, carrying her in one hand. He finally flings her into the taxicab and returns to his seat. The luggage is piled upon the roof by dancing porters and tied with many-coloured ribbons. The taxi departs in a cloud of petrol, the driver steering with his toes and manipulating the clutches with his hands. Farewells are waved and finally, surrounded by the rest of the porters, the_ Station Master _and_ Bill _dance a dance of Glad Sacrifice, stab themselves with their hands, and die_.

CURTAIN OF SMOKE.

Mind you, as I said at the beginning, I wasn't there myself, but I helped to steer three boxes to the seaside during the Easter holiday without the blandishments of Art. So I know something.

EVOE.

* * * * *

LABUNTUR ANNI.

TO A CHITAL HEAD ON THE WALL OF A LONDON CLUB.

Light in the East, the dawn wind singing, Solemn and grey and chill, Rose in the sky, with Orion swinging Down to the distant hill; The grass dew-pearled and the _mohwa_ shaking Her scented petals across the track, And the herd astir to the new day breaking-- Gods! how it all comes back.

So it was, and on such a morning Somebody's bullet sped, And you, as you called to the herd a warning, Dropped in the grasses dead; And some stout hunter's heart was brimming For joy that the gods of sport were good-- With a lump in his throat and his eyes a-dimming, As the eyes of sportsmen should;--

As mine have done in the springtime running, As mine in the halcyon days Ere trigger-finger had lapsed from cunning Or foot from the forest ways, When I'd wake with the stars and the sunrise meeting In the dewy fragrance of myrrh and musk, Peacock and spurfowl sounding a greeting And the jungle mine till dusk.

You take me back to the valleys of laughter, The hills that hunters love, The sudden rain and the sunshine after, The cloud and the blue above, The morning mist and creatures crying, The beat in the drowsy afternoon, Clear-washed eve with the sunset dying, Night and the hunter's moon.

Not till all trees and jungles perish Shall we go back that way To those dear hills that the hunters cherish, Where the hearts of the hunters stay; So you dream on of the ancient glories, Of water-meadows and hinds and stags, While I and my like tell old, old stories ... Ah! but it drags--it drags.

H. B.

* * * * *

"MATRIMONY.

Accountant would write up Books, also Tax Returns; moderate charges."

_Liverpool Paper._

This is much more delicate than the usual crude stipulation that the lady must have means.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

PEACE WITH HONOUR.

This is the story of Mr. Holmes, the Curate, and of how he brought peace to our troubled house. The principal characters are John, my brother-in-law, and Margery, my unmarried sister, and, at the bottom of the programme, in large letters, Mr. Holmes, the Curate. I have a small walking-on part. The story will now commence.

John and Margery went out for a walk in the beautiful Spring sunshine as friendly as friendly. They came back three hours later--well, Cecilia (his wife) and I heard them at least two villages away.

They both rushed into the room covered with mud and shouting at the tops of their voices.

"Cecilia," roared John, "order this girl out of my house. She shan't stay under my roof another hour."

"Cecilia," shrieked Margery, "he's an obstinate ignorant wretch, and thank Heaven he isn't _my_ husband."

I put a cushion over my head.

Cecilia kept hers.

"If you will both go out of the room," she said, "take off your filthy boots and come back in your right minds and decent clothing I'll try to understand what you are both talking about."

They crawled out of the room abjectly and I came out into the open once more.

"Good Lord! What a family to be in!" I said.

* * * * *

"Cecilia," said John at tea, "harking back to the question of Hairy Bittercress----"

"Hazel Catkin," said Margery.

"What on earth----?" began Cecilia.

"I'll tell her," said Margery quickly. "Cecilia, we had a competition this afternoon, seeing who could find most signs of Spring. Well, I found a bit of Hazel Catkin----"

"Hairy Bittercress," said John.

"I tell you----" went on Margery.

"If you will calm yourself," interrupted John with dignity, "we will discuss the point."

"There's nothing to discuss. What do you know about botany, I'd like to know?"

"My dear child," said John, "when you were an infant-in-arms, nay, before you existed at all, it was my custom to ramble o'er the dewy meads, plucking the nimble Nipplewort and the shy Speedwell. I breakfasted on botany."

"Talking of botany," I broke in "there was a chap in my platoon----"

John groaned loudly.

"Do you suggest," I asked, "that he was not in my platoon?"

"I suggest nothing," he answered; "I only know that they can't all have been in your platoon."

"All who, John?" asked Cecilia.

"All the chaps he tells us about. Haven't you noticed, since he came home, it's impossible to mention any type or freak or extraordinary individual that wasn't like somebody in his platoon? It must have been about five thousand per cent. over strength."

"I treat your insults with contempt," I said, "and proceed with my story. This chap had the same affliction that has taken Margery and yourself. He spent his life searching for specimens of the Bingle-weed and the five-leaved Funglebid. At bayonet-drill he would stop in the middle of a 'long-point, short-point, jab' to pluck a sudden Oojah-berry that caught his eye. In the end his passion got him to Blighty."

"How?" asked Margery.

"Well," I continued, "it was the morning of the great German attack. My friend--er--I will call him X--and myself were retiring on the village of--er--Y, followed by about six million Germans. Shots were falling all round us, when suddenly X saw a small wild flower at his feet. He bent down to pick it up and--er----"

"That is quite enough, Alan," said Cecilia.

"That is all, Cecilia," I said; "that is how he got to Blighty."

"We will now proceed with the subject in hand," said John after a moment's silence. He produced a small crushed piece of green-stuff from his pocket.

"The question before the house is, as we used to say in the Great War, '_Qu'est-ce-que c'est que ceci?_' Any suggestions that it is of the Lemon species will be returned unanswered. For my part I say it is Hairy Bittercress."

"And I say it's Hazel Catkin," said Margery.

"And what says Hubert the herbalist?" asked John, handing the weed to me.

I examined it carefully through the ring of my napkin.

"Well," I said, "speaking largely, I should say it is either Mustard or Cress, or both as the case may be."

I was howled down and retired.

* * * * *

We heard lots of the weed during the next few days. Each morning at breakfast it sprouted forth as it were.

"And how is the Great Unknown?" I would ask.

"The Hairy Bittercress is thriving, we thank you," John would answer.

"Hazel Catkin," Margery would throw out.

"Catkin yourself," from John, and so on _ad lib_.

They kept it carefully in a small pot in the window, and if one looked at it the other watched jealously for foul play.

"On Saturday," said John, "the Curate is coming to tea. He is a man of wisdom and a botanist to boot--or do I mean withal? On Saturday the Hairy Bittercress shall be publicly proclaimed by its rightful name."

"Which is Hazel Catkin," said Margery.

Saturday came and Saturday afternoon, and, about three o'clock, the Curate. I saw him coming and met him at the door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," I said. "You come to a house of bitterness and strife. Walk right in."

"Indeed I trust not," he said.

"Come with me," I replied; "I will tell you all about it." And I led him on tip-toe to a quiet spot.

"Mr. Holmes," I said, "you know the family well. We have always been a happy loving crowd, have we not?"

"Indeed you have," he said politely.

"Well," I continued, "a weed has split us asunder. My brother-in-law and my younger sister are on the point of committing mutual murder."

I explained the whole situation and drew a harrowing picture of its effect on our family life. "Unless you help us," I said, "this Hazel Catkin or Hairy Bittercress will ruin at least four promising young lives."

"But I hardly see how I am to----" began Mr. Holmes.

I told him what to do.

"But surely," he said, "they will know better than that."

"No, they won't," I said. "Neither of them knows anything about it, really. Come, Mr. Holmes, it is for a good cause."

"Very well," he said. "Perhaps the end justifies the means. We will see what we can do."

"Good man," I said. "Children unborn will bless your name for this day's work."

I took him to the dining-room, where Margery and John were sitting.

"Here is Mr. Holmes," I said.

They both made a dash at him.

"Mr. Holmes," said John, "we seek your aid. You have a wide and deep knowledge of geography--that is botany, and you shall settle a problem that is ruining my home."

"Certainly I will do my best," said Mr. Holmes. And then without a blush: "What is the problem, may I ask?"

"We have found a piece of----" began John.

"Don't tell him," shrieked Margery. "Let him see for himself."

They fetched the weed and handed it reverently to the Curate.

Mr. Holmes looked at it carefully. He breathed on it and moistened it with his finger. At last he looked up.

"This is a very rare specimen indeed," he said; "I never remember to have seen one quite like it. It is in fact a hybrid." He stopped and beamed at us.

"What's it _called_?" shrieked Margery and John together.

Mr. Holmes chose his words carefully.

"It is called," he said, "Hairy Catkin."

There was a pause while Margery and John gazed at each other.

"'Hairy Catkin,'" said John solemnly.

"Then--then we're both right!" said Margery.

They looked at each other again and then did the only thing possible in the circumstances. Each fell on the other's neck.

Mr. Holmes and I shook hands silently.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The Wool Shortage.

"Blankets, guaranteed all wood."

_Provincial Paper._

"Antique Carved Ebony Carpet."

_Another Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

"Within there is the delicious scent of burning logs, and all the fragrance of only a 1-1/2_d._ stamp."--_Daily Paper._

We have tasted the backs of these stamps--a delicious bouquet.

* * * * *

"Berwick Guardians on Euesday favour-tarining in Ireland, was more able to deal receive their vates. The candidate, Mr. D. +opinion. The ballot for position of places+ accompanied feastings and jollification, and sentation what elections were like in the the business of auctioneer."

_North-Country Paper._

Portions of the paragraph are not too clear, but we should say there was no doubt about the jollification.

* * * * *

* * * * *

CHIPPO'S SCENARIO.

(_With the British Army in France._)

It was the Société Grand Guignol de Cinéma's busy day. On the beach at Petiteville cameras were rattling away like machine guns, orders from the producer were hissing through the air with the vicious hum of explosive bullets, and weary supers were marching and counter-marching in a state of hopeless apathy.

At the very height of these operations Chippo Munks wandered into the camera barrage and got firmly entangled in the picture. As "crowd in background" was indicated by the scenario, the producer refrained from killing Chippo out of hand--in fact he invited his co-operation for another crowd a little later on. Thus it was that Chippo earned the right to describe himself as a "fillum actor," with licence to speak familiarly of his colleagues, CHARLES CHAPLIN and MARY PICKFORD, and full powers to pose as the ultimate authority of the camp whenever cinemas were mentioned.

At the Café des Promeneurs it was generally assumed that Chippo was merely waiting for a fat contract from the Société Grand Guignol, and pending its arrival he explained that he was constructing a suitable scenario.

"The public," he said, "is fed up with Texas rancheros in Anzac 'ats and antimacassar trousers playing poker dice with one 'and and keeping a sustained burst of rapid fire against their opponents with the other. They wants something true to life. Now, my fillum opens at the Café de l'Avenir, where a stout old British soldier runs a Crown an' Anchor board at personal loss, but 'appy in the knowledge that 'e is amusing his comrades."

"The same answering to the name of Chippo Munks?" interjected Chris Jones.

"The name on the programme is _Reginald Denvers_," said Chippo firmly. "Acrost the way, at the Café de la Vache Noire, a drunken unprincipled gambler named _Jim Blaney_--which you will also reckernise is an alias--regularly pockets the pay of 'is fellow-soldiers under pretence of a square deal at banker an' pontoon. One night, 'aving sucked 'is victims dry for the time being and also largely taken 'is cawfee _avec_, _Blaney_ goes acrost to the Avenir an' sets 'is stall out there. _Reginald_ remonstrates.

"'I'm the Great White Chief in this 'ostelry,' says he, 'an' we don't want no three-card-trick sharks butting in.'

"'My modest shrinking vi'let,' says _Blaney_, 'I'll play where I blinking well please.'

"_Reginald_ thereupon remarks that sooner than allow 'is innocent patrons to be swindled by a six-fingered thimblerigging son of a confidence trickster 'e'd start in an' expose 'im.

"At this point _Blaney_ swears to be revenged, an' there is a hinterval of a minute while the next part of the fillum is bein' prepared.

"The following scene shows _Blaney_ all poshed up and busy trying to worm 'is way into the confidence of _Suzanne_ (the daughter of the _patron_ of the Café de l'Avenir), who cherishes a secret passion for _Reginald_. 'E kids 'er to drop the contents of a white packet into _Reginald's vang blanc_, telling her it's a love lotion--I should say potion--that will gain 'er _Reginald's_ everlasting affections. _Reggie_, being thirsty, scoffs off the whole issue an' finds to his dismay that 'is voice 'as been completely destroyed. That's a thrilling situation, Chris, a _professeur de_ Crown an' Anchor not being able to do his patter."

"'E might as well shut up shop right away," agreed Chris.

"Jest so. _Reginald_ rushes after _Blaney_ and tells him off good an' proper----"

"'Ow could 'e when 'e'd lorst his voice?" asked Chris.

"Oh! burn it. This is a fillum drama. 'E sees 'is extensive _clientèle_ drifting away to the Vache Noire an' _Blaney_ getting so rich 'e can afford Beaune an' eggs an' chips for 'is supper every night. In the interests of the misguided victims _Reginald_ tells the Military Police that drinking goes on during prohibited hours at the Vache Noire, an' gets the place put out of bounds. All the speckerlaters thereupon return to the Avenir, an' Part II. finishes with _Reginald_ recovering 'is voice an' carolling 'Little Billy Fair-play, all the way from 'Olloway' while he rakes in the shekels with both hands and feet."

"I'm getting the 'ang of this a bit," said Chris; "I recollect there was a chap named Slaney as once did you down on a deal, an' I remember a red-'aired girl at the Avenir. But all this talk about love lotions and voice dope gets me guessing."

"A fillum drama that's true to life ain't bound to be absolutely true as to facts. The trimmings is extra. We opens next with a little slow music an' _Jim Blaney_ meeting _Reginald_ an' telling 'im 'e 's reformed an' given up gambling. Instead 'e's running a very respectable football sweep, the prize to be given to the one as draws the team that scores most goals, an' 'e offers _Reginald_ a commission an' a seat on the drawing committee if he'll recommend it amongst 'is clients. Such is 'is plausibleness that 'e even sells _Suzanne_ a ticket, though she's not rightly sure if Aston Villa is a race-horse or a lottery number. _Reginald_, however, suspects treachery.

"'Take your breath reg'ler,' 'e says, or makes movements to that effect. 'The matches for this sweep is played on Saturday, an' I seems to recollect that you an' a lot of the crowd is due for demob on Wednesday, an' I'm going for leave on Tuesday. What guarantee 'ave we that you weigh out before you go?'

"'I pays out _immédiatemong_ on receipt of the Sunday papers, which will be Sunday night," says _Blaney_. 'That's good enough, ain't it?'

"_Reginald_ therefore invests an' participates in the drawing, though still a bit doubtful. 'Is fears is justified, for on Friday night, 'aving got all the money, _Blaney_ steps outside the _estaminay_ an' hits a Military Police over the ear."

"Whatever for?" asked Chris. "The War's over."

"That's a mystery; but the mystery is solved when they 'ear that _Blaney_ 'as gone to clink to do ten days F.P. No. 2.

"''E's just gauged it to a nicety,' says someone; ''e won't come out till we're demobbed, an' 'e'll be orf before _Reginald_ gets back from leave.'

"It's 'ere the finest scene in the fillum ought to 'appen. Imagine a crowd of defrauded an' infuriated soldiery, led by _Reginald_, marching up to the F.P. compound and demanding that the miserable _Blaney_ an' their stakes should be 'anded over to them.

"'Never!' says the Provost-Sergeant, twirling his moustaches to needle points.

"'As a sportsman I appeal to you,' says _Reginald_, 'or we'll wreck the blinkin' compound.'

"'I'll not give him up while I have breath in my body,' says the Provost-Sergeant. 'I've drawn Chelsea in the sweep.'

"Then should ensue the gloriousest shemozzle that ever was; but this scene is spoiled by some miserable perisher who says it ain't worth while making a rough house till they know who's won. What really happens is that they wait till the Sunday papers arrive, when it is found _Suzanne_ 'as won the sweep, 'er 'aving drawn Sunderland, what was top-scorer with seven goals.

"It is then that _Reginald's_ noble nature shows itself. Instead of telling 'er that she's won an' then disappointing 'er by saying the prize money is in custody, 'e buys 'er ticket for 'alf-price. Then 'e goes to the compound an' bribes the sentry to let 'im talk to _Blaney_ through the barbed wire.

"'There's the winning ticket, _Blaney_,' 'e says; 'now pay out.'

"'Pay out?' says _Blaney_, grinning hideously. 'Why, what do you think I got into clink for?'

"And the end comes with _Reginald_ stalking 'elplessly outside the wire, an' _Blaney_ laughing an' taunting 'im from inside."

"I don't think much of it," said Chris critically. "I know that Slaney--'im what you call _Blaney_--did actually do you down real proper, but as a fillum it ain't a good ending."

"P'r'aps it ain't--as it stands," admitted Chippo, "but when I'm demobilized--when _Reginald_ is demobilized, I should say, an' 'e 'appens to meet that _Jim Blaney_ there'll be the finest fillum finish that's ever been released, if the police don't interfere."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THIS FOR REMEMBRANCE.

[The Government is reported to have three million empty rum jars for sale.]

I've long mused on buying a rifle, A chunk of an aeroplane's gear Or other belligerent trifle By way of a small souvenir; I've thought 'twould be fine (and your pardon I beg if this savours of swank) If the grotto that graces my garden Were topped by a tank.

But only this morn I decided Exactly the thing I preferred To call back the prodigies I did When the call for fatigue men was heard; Though my life is again a civilian's, Martial glories shall come back to view If I buy from these derelict millions A rum jar or two.

Though the spirit's long since been a "goner," Though the uttermost heel-tap be drained, I will give them a place of high honour, Well knowing that once they contained My solace when seasons were rotten, When the cold put my courage to flight, Or the sergeant, perchance, had forgotten To kiss me good-night.

In a world that is apt to be trying, When things are inclined to go ill And I'm sitting despondently sighing, Perhaps they will comfort me still; At the sight of these humble mementoes It may be once more I shall know From the crown of my head to my ten toes That radiant glow.

* * * * *

Journalistic Candour.

"CHANCES MISSED.

By _The Daily Mail_ correspondent recently in France."--_Daily Mail._

* * * * *

"'The Trojan Person in Pink' will fill the bill at the Haymarket."--_Evening Paper._

Is this intended for a description of the lady to whom Paris gave the golden apple?

* * * * *

* * * * *

PRESENCE OF MIND.

Proud is not the word for me When I hear my 8-h.p. Latest model motor-bike, Having dodged the latest strike, Is awaiting me complete At the garage down the street.

Joyfully I take my way (And a cheque-book too to pay The two hundred odd they thought it Right to charge the man who bought it). Still, it is a lovely creature, Up-to-date in every feature, _And_ a side-car, painted carmine-- Joy! to think they really _are_ mine!

Time is short; I don't lose much in Starting, and I let the clutch in; Lest I should accelerate Passing through the garage-gate, Feeling certain as to what'll Happen, I shut off the throttle, When--my heart begins to beat-- I'm propelled across the street In a way I never reckoned, Gathering speed at every second.

Frantic, I apply the brake, Realising my mistake With my last remaining wit: _I've not shut, but opened it!_ In another instant I Hit the curb and start to fly. Aeronautic friends of mine Say that flying is divine; Now I've tried it I confess Few things interest me less, Still, I own that in a sense It is an experience.

These and other thoughts are there As I whistle through the air, And continue till I stop In an ironmonger's shop (Kept by Mr. Horne, a kind Soul, but deaf and very blind). Still--I mention this with pride, For it shows how well I ride-- I have left the bike outside.

* * * * *