Chapter 3

Little Mrs. Horne is sitting In the neat back-parlour, knitting. Mr. Horne, who hears the din Which I make in coming in, Leaves the shop and says to her: "Martha, here's a customer. From the sound of clinking metal I should judge he wants a kettle."

Mrs. H. shows some surprise At the sight that greets her eyes, And, in answer to her shout, Mr. H. comes running out.

* * * * *

Now, it's something of a strain On the busy human brain Passing through a window-pane To decide what it will do When at last it's safely through. As I gaze around I find-- Horror! why, I must be blind! Blind or dead, I don't know which-- All about is black as pitch; Thick the atmosphere as well With a dank metallic smell....

Guessing that I am not dead I attempt to loose my head From a kettle's cold embrace; And, meanwhile, to save my face (Finding I can't get it out), Say politely--up the spout-- "Lovely morning, is it not, Horne? Think I'll take this little lot, Horne; It is such a perfect fit, And I'm so attached to it That I find I cannot bring My own head to leave the thing. So you will oblige me greatly If you'll pack them separately."

* * * * *

The Housing Stringency.

"House for Sale 12 ft. by 1 ft., suitable for bed-sitting-room."--_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

Commercial Candour.

"We claim that we can do you anything in our line as well, or perhaps a little bit less than you will get it at many other places."

_Advt. in Local Paper._

* * * * *

"ALLEGED WALLET-SNATCHER TAKES TWO OMNIBUSES."

_Evening News._

No wonder there is a shortage in London travelling facilities.

* * * * *

THE WORD-BUILDERS;

A SHORTAGE OF STRAW.

Aitchkin has been doing great things in forage, but prosperity has not spoilt him. Although he must be aware that I remember him in pre-war days, when he used to strap-hang to the City with his lunch in a satchel, nevertheless he often invites me round on those rare occasions when he dines quietly at home.

The other evening, as he toyed with a modest eight-course dinner, I perceived that his cheerfulness was a trifle forced, and I thought that probably he was worrying over the behaviour of his little son, who, tiring that afternoon of his motor scooter, had done incalculable damage to the orchid-house with a home-made catapult.

When we were left alone with our cigars he unburdened his soul. It appears that, ever since the Armistice, ambition has spurred Aitchkin to be something more than the "& Co." of a firm which has become torpid with war profits. He had decided to start in business "on his lonesome," and to make "Aitchkin" and "forage" synonymous terms. Already he had taken over the premises of a sovereign purse-maker at a "reasonable figure." (When Aitchkin is "reasonable" somebody loses money.) But his bargain did not include a Telegraphic Address, and that morning, working from his letter-heading, "Alfred Aitchkin," he had brought himself to compose an appropriate word. To the "Alf" of the Christian name he added "Alpha" representing the initial of the surname (I suspected the assistance of his lady-typist), making the complete word "Alf-Alpha" or, written phonetically, "Alfalfa"--Spanish for lucerne. It was a word which could not fail to fix itself indelibly in the minds of his clients, for it recalled not only Aitchkin's name, but the commodity he dealt in. Full of the pride of authorship he had driven round to the G.P.O. in his touring car.

"But they crabbed it at once," he said sadly. "Telegraphic addresses nowadays have to conform to a lot of rotten new rules."

He handed me a slip of paper on which, over the dead body of "Alfalfa," he had jotted down the following notes:--

(1) Not less than eight, not more than ten letters.

(2) Must not be composed of words or parts of words.

(3) Words or parts of words may be accepted if they appear in the middle.

(4) Must not look like a word.

(5) Must be pronounceable.

(6) Russian names, on account of their unusual spelling might be accepted.

"And what's more," Aitchkin continued, "even when you've got a word which the Department will accept, it has to be submitted to a Committee who take 'ten to fourteen days' to make up their minds."

A faint tinkling of the piano came to our ears. Mrs. Aitchkin was waiting to sing to us. I produced pencil and paper and threw myself heart and soul into Aitchkin's problem.

"Rules 2 and 3 are a little contradictory," I said, "and it will require no slight ingenuity to form a combination of letters which shall be pronounceable (Rule 5) and yet avoid the damnable appearance of a word (Rule 4). The concession about Russian names reminds me of something I have read about shaking hands with murder. In any case it is a barren concession, because, as we have seen, telegraphic addresses must be pronounceable. There is something sinister here," I continued. "This is the work of no ordinary mind. Some legal brain is behind all this."

Love of the bizarre and the latitude of the Russian Rule led me to make my first attempt with the name of that all-round Bolshevik sportsman, BLODNJINKOFF, and I was endeavouring to abridge it to not less than eight and not more than ten letters without spoiling the natural beauty of the name when Aitchkin stopped me rather brusquely. And my next effort, "PLUCROES," he quashed, because he said that the implacable suspicion of the G.P.O. would be at once aroused by the diphthong. I fancy, though, from the narrowing of his eyes that he had some misgivings as to the derivation of the word.

I then set to work with alternate consonants and vowels (which must give a pronounceable word), dealing with difficulties under the other rules as they might arise. Meanwhile Aitchkin, after the manner of an obstructionist official of the worst type, sat over me with the rules, condemning my results. Even "Telegrams: HAHAHAHAHA London," merely caused him to sniff contemptuously.

"You'll like this one," I exclaimed--"ARLEYOTA. This is a combination of the word 'barley' (the 'b' being treated as obsolete like the 'n' in 'norange') and the word 'oat' with the 'a' and 't' transposed."

Aitchkin was interested. Breathing heavily, he tested the word with each rule in turn, while I sat relaxed in my chair. I pictured ARLEYOTA passed by the Department and brought into a hushed chamber before a solemn conclave of experts. How they would probe and analyse it during those momentous ten to fourteen days. And what a sensation there would be when they discovered that ARLEYOTA begins and ends with the indefinite article.

Aitchkin thrust the papers into his pocket and rose abruptly, jamming the stopper more tightly into a decanter with his podgy hand.

"Not too bad, ARLEYOTA," he said loftily; "I'll get them to polish it up at the office to-morrow." (So I _was_ right about the lady-typist).

He opened the door and we passed out.

"But it ends in TA," he shouted against the _Roses of Picardy_ which now came with unbroken force from the drawing-room. "'TA' is a word, you know."

"_You_ may use it as such," I bawled, "but they've never heard of it among the staff of the G.P.O."

* * * * *

THE WANDERER IN NORFOLK.

_A Fantasia on East Anglian Place-Names._

Tired by the City's ceaseless roaring I fly to Great or Little Snoring; When crowds grow riotous and lawless I seek repose at Stratton Strawless; When feeling thoroughly week-endish I hie in haste to Barton Bendish, Or vegetate at Little Hautbois (Still uninvaded by the "dough-boy"). The simple rustic fare of Brockdish Excels the choicest made or mock dish; Nor is there any _patois_ so Superb as that of Spooner Row. PETT-RIDGE'S lively _Arthur Lidlington_ Might possibly be bored at Didlington; And I admit that it would stump SHAW To stir up a revolt at Strumpshaw. The spirits of unrest are wholly Out of their element at Sloley; But even the weariest straphanger Regains his courage at Shelfanger. No taint of Bolshevistic snarling Poisons the atmosphere of Larling, And infants in the throes of teething Become seraphical at Seething.

Nor must my homely Muse be mute on The charms of Guist and Sall and Booton, Shimpling and Tattersett and Stody (Which, be it noted, rhymes with ruddy), And fair Winfarthing, where KING TINO Would seek in vain for a casino Or even a flask of maraschino. For here, far from the social scurry That devastates suburban Surrey, You find the authentic countryside; Here, taking Solitude for bride, The wanderer almost forgets The jazzing crowd, the miners' threats.

* * * * *

"UNAPPROACHABLE

FAMILY ALES & STOUT."

_Advt. in Provincial Paper._

This should please Mr. "PUSSYFOOT."

* * * * *

* * * * *

ON THE WESTERN FRONT.

Once again we are "for it." It is that heavy hour between five and six when the vitality is all too low for the ordeal that awaits us. On either side the far-flung battle line of clustering figures stretches away into the gloom. It is an inspiring sight, this tense silent crowd of men of every class and vocation, united by a common purpose, grimly awaiting the moment when as one man they will hurl themselves into the fray.

Is it the mere lust for fighting that has brought them here? Or is it the thought of the home that each hopes to return to that steels their courage and lends that _élan_ to their resolution without which one enters the struggle in vain?

In the dim half-light I furtively scan the set faces around me and find myself wondering what thoughts those impassive masks conceal. Are they counting the cost? Most of them have been through the ordeal before. Pale faces there are--small wonder when one thinks of what lies before them. Here and there a man is puffing at his beloved "gasper" with the nonchalance that marks your bull-dog breed when stern work is afoot.

Yet one cannot keep one's thoughts from the tremendous possibilities of the next few minutes. Where shall we be a few minutes hence? Some, one knows, will have gone West--and the others? Would they effect a lodgement, or be hurled back baffled and raging and impotent, as, alas! had too often been the case before?

And what of those who were even now maybe preparing against our onslaught? Their intelligence could hardly have failed to warn them of our intentions. The position would be occupied, never fear, and in force, with seasoned men from the East.

At last a stunning roar that seems to shake the very ground, rising to a shriek. Now it is each man for himself. The long line surges forward, looking eagerly for a breach. Now we can see our opponents--hate in their eyes--as they brace themselves for the shock. Now we are into them, fighting silently, with a sort of cold fury save where a muttered curse or the sharp cry of the injured bears testimony to the fierceness of the struggle.

But see, they turn and waver. One more rush and we are through, driving them before us. The position is won.

Breathing hard we look around at the havoc we have wrought, and suddenly the glamour of victory seems to fade and one loathes the whole senseless, savage business. We do not really hate these men. After all, they are our fellow-creatures.

But what would you? One cannot spend the night on Charing Cross District platform.

* * * * *

* * * * *

From a drapery firm's advertisement:

"WE NEVER ALLOW

DISSATISFIED CUSTOMER TO LEAVE THE PREMISES IF WE CAN AVOID IT.

IT DOESN'T PAY!"

_Scotch Paper._

Suspiciously like a case of "Your money or your life!"

* * * * *

BY THE STREAM.

(_Featuring the Premier._)

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE has returned from a visit to the haunts of his youth with renewed health and reinforced Welsh accent. The last day of his holiday was spent in fishing in the company of two friends; but unfortunately the newspapers failed to supply any details of the scene, a lack of enterprise which it is difficult to understand, especially on the part of the journals known to employ Rubicon experts on their staff. Happily we are able to give information which we have reason to believe will not be officially contradicted.

From his childhood Mr. LLOYD GEORGE has known intimately the romantic stream, named, for some unexplained reason, the Dwyfor river. To its musical murmur may be traced the mellifluous cadences of the statesman's voice employed so effectually in his appeals to Labour and the Paris Conference. Who can say what influences this little Welsh river, with its bubbling merriment, the flashing forceful leap of its cascades, its adroit avoidance of obstacles, may have had upon the career of the statesman of to-day, as through the years it has wound its way from the springs to the ocean? The senior fish of the Dwyfor are well known to him, and they gather fearlessly in large numbers to smile at his bait and to point it out to their friends.

Towards the end of the day a humorous incident occurred. A keeper appeared on the opposite bank of the river and excitedly warned the party that they were trespassing, requesting them to retire. To his amazement his demands were ignored, and the trespassers replied to his protests by singing "The Land Song," the PREMIER'S rich tenor voice being easily distinguished above the roar of a neighbouring cascade.

* * * * *

"Lieut ---- proposed that Mr. ----, our present vice-chairman, be elected to the chair until the usual election of officials took place, by that time a capable member would probably be found willing to accept the position.

Mr. ---- thanked the proposer and seconders for their compliment."--_Service Paper._

The new chairman seems to be easily pleased.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Inevitably you will find a sad significance in the title of _Harvest_ (COLLINS), the last story, I suppose, that we shall have from the pen of Mrs. HUMPHREY WARD. It is a quite simple tale, very simply told, and of worth less for its inherent drama than for the admirable picture it gives of rural England in the last greatest days of the Great War. How quick was the writer's sympathy with every phase of the national ordeal is proved again by a score of vivid passages in which the fortunes of her characters are dated by the tremendous events that form their background. The story itself is of two women in partnership on a Midland farm, one of whom, the senior, has in her past certain secret episodes which, as is the way of such things, return to find her out and bring her happiness to ruin. The character of this _Janet_ is well and vigorously drawn, though there is perhaps little in her personality as shown here to make understandable the passion of her past. All the details of life on the land in the autumn of 1918 are given with a skill that brings into the book not only the scent of the wheat-field but the stress, emotional and economic, of those unforgettable months. Because it is all so typically English one may call it a true consummation of the work of one who loved England well. In Mrs. WARD'S death the world of letters mourns the loss of a writer whose talent was ever ungrudgingly at the service of her country. She leaves a gap that it will be hard to fill.

* * * * *

In some ways I think that they will be fortunate who do not read _A Remedy Against Sin_ (HUTCHINSON) till the vicissitudes of book-life have deprived it of its pictorial wrapper, because, though highly attractive as a drawing, the very charmingly-clad minx of the illustration is hardly a figure to increase one's sympathy with her as an injured heroine. And of course it is precisely this sympathy that Mr. W. B. MAXWELL is playing for--first, last and all the time. His title and the puff's preliminary will doubtless have given you the aim of the story, "to influence the public mind on one of the most vital questions of the day," the injustice of our divorce laws. For this end Mr. MAXWELL has exercised all his ability on the picture of a foolish young wife, chained to a lout who is shown passing swiftly from worse to unbearable, and herself broken at last by the ordeal of the witness-box in a "defended action." Inevitably such a book, a record of disillusion and increasing misery, can hardly be cheerful; tales with a purpose seldom are. But the poignant humanity of it will hold your sympathy throughout. You may think that Mr. MAXWELL too obviously loads his dice, and be aware also that (like others of its kind) the story suffers from over-concentration on a single theme. It moves in a world of incompatibles. The heroine's kindly friend is tied to a dipsomaniac wife; her coachman has no remedy for a ruined home because of the expense of divorce, and so on. To a great extent, however, Mr. MAXWELL'S craft has enabled him to overcome even these obstacles; his characters, though you may suspect manipulation, remain true types of their rather tiresome kind, and the result is a book that, though depressing, refuses to be put down. But as a wedding-present--no!

* * * * *

_The Underworld_ (JENKINS) describes life round about and down below a small coal-mine in Scotland something near thirty years ago. Its author, JAMES WELSH, tells us in a simple manly preface that he became a miner at the age of twelve, and worked at every phase of coal-getting till lately he was appointed check-weigher by his fellows, and therefore writes of what he knows at first hand. Here then is a straightforward tale with for hero a sensitive and enthusiastic young miner who draws his inspiration from BOB SMILLIE, loses his girl to the coal-owner's son and his life in a rescue-party. The villain, double-dyed, is not the coal-owner but his "gaffer," who favours his men as to choice of position at the coal-face in return for favours received from their wives. The chief surprise to the reader will be the difference between the status and power of the miner then and now. The writer has a considerable skill in composing effective dialogue, especially between his men; gives a convincing picture of the pit and home life, the anxieties, courage, affections and aspirations of the friends of whom he is "so proud." Nor does he cover up their weaknesses. Purple passages of fine writing show his inexperience slipping into pitfalls by the way, but his work rings true and deserves to be read by many at the present time when miners are so far from being victims of "the block"--the employers' device for starving out a "difficult" man--that they look like fitting the boot to another leg. One is made to realise their anxiety to get rid of that boot.

* * * * *

_How They Did It_ (METHUEN) may be regarded as a novel with a purpose, and, like most such, suffers from the defects of its good intentions. The object is "an exposure of war muddling at home," and it must be admitted that Mr. GERALD O'DONOVAN gives us no half-measure; indeed I was left with the idea that greater moderation would have made a better case. To illustrate it, he takes his hero, _David Grant_, through a variety of experiences. Incapacitated from active fighting through the loss of an arm, he is given work as a housing officer on the Home Front. His endeavours to check the alleged extravagance and corruption of this command led to his being "invalided out"; after which he wanders round seeking civilian war-work (and marking only dishonesty everywhere), and ends up with a post in the huge, newly-formed and almost entirely farcical Ministry of Business. This final epithet puts in one word my criticism of Mr. O'DONOVAN'S method. Everyone admits the large grain of truth in his charges; the trouble is that he has too often allowed an honest indignation to carry him past his mark into the regions of burlesque, and in particular to confuse character with caricature. But as a topical squib, briskly written, _How They Did It_ will provide plenty of angry amusement, with enough suggestion of the _roman à clef_ to keep the curious happy in fitting originals to its many portraits. I should perhaps add that the plot, such as it is, is held together by a rather perfunctory and intermittent love-affair, too obviously employed only to fill up time while the author is thinking out some fresh exposure. This I regretted, as _Mary_, the heroine, is here a shadow of what seems attractive and original substance. I wonder that the author did not invent for her a Ministry of Romance. He is quite capable of it.

* * * * *

Among the writers who have established stable reputations for themselves during the War "KLAXON" is in the very front rank. This is partly due to an easy natural style, but most to a sound judgment and an amazingly clear eye for essentials. To those (not myself) who want to forget the last few years it may seem that we have already been given enough opportunities to read about our submarines. Well, I have read nearly everything that has been written on this subject and could yet draw great delight from _The Story of Our Submarines_ (BLACKWOOD), a most informing and fascinating book. "Whatever happens," says "KLAXON," "the German policy of torpedoing merchant ships without warning must be made not only illegal but unsafe for a nation adopting it.... If these notes of mine serve no other purpose, they will, at any rate, do something towards differentiating between the submarine and the U-boat." By which it will be seen that to his many other claims on our regard "KLAXON" adds the gift, not always found among experts, of modesty.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE VISIT.

When I went to Fairyland, visiting the Queen, I rode upon a peacock, blue and gold and green; Silver was the harness, crimson were the reins, All hung about with little bells that swung on silken chains.

When I went to Fairyland, indeed you cannot think What pretty things I had to eat, what pretty things to drink; And did you know that butterflies could sing like little birds? And did you guess that fairy-talk is not a bit like words?

When I went to Fairyland--of all the lovely things!-- They really taught me how to fly, they gave me fairy wings; And every night I listen for a tapping on the pane-- I want so very much to go to Fairyland again.

R. F.

* * * * *

"Wanted, Bedroom and Sitting room (furnished), with use of bathroom, without attendance."--_Provincial Paper._

We share the advertiser's desire for privacy during ablutions.