Chapter 3

I never liked Buttinbridge. I considered him a vulgar and pushful fellow. He had thrust himself into membership of my club and he had forced his acquaintance upon me.

I was sitting in the club smoking-room the other day when Buttinbridge came in. His behaviour was characteristic of the man. He walked towards me and said in a loud voice, "Cheerioh, old Sport!"

I drew the little automatic pistol with which I had provided myself in case of just such an emergency, took a quick aim and fired. Buttinbridge gave a convulsive leap, fell face downwards on the hearthrug and lay quite still. It was a beautiful shot--right in the heart.

The room was fairly full at the moment, and at the sound of the shot several members looked up from their newspapers. One young fellow--I fancy he was a country member recently demobilised--who had evidently watched the incident, exclaimed, "Pretty shot, Sir!" But two or three of the older men frowned irritably and said, "Sh-sh-sh!"

Seeing that it was incumbent upon me to apologise, I said, in a tone just loud enough to be audible to all present, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen." Then I dropped the spent cartridge into an ash-tray, returned the pistol to my pocket and was just stretching out my hand to touch the bell when old Withergreen, the _doyen_ of the club, interposed.

"Pardon me," he said, "I am a little deaf, but almost simultaneously with the fall of this member upon the hearthrug I fancied I heard the report of a firearm. May I claim an old man's privilege and ask if I am right in presuming a connection between the two occurrences, and, if so, whether there has been any recent relaxation of our time-honoured rule against assassination on the club premises?"

Shouting into his ear-trumpet, I said, "I fired the shot, Sir, which killed the member now lying upon the hearthrug. I did so because he addressed me in a form of salutation which I regard as peculiarly objectionable. He called me 'Old Sport,' an expression used by bookmakers and such."

"Um! Old Port?" mumbled old Withergreen.

"OLD SPORT," I shouted more loudly. Then I stepped to the writing-table, took a dictionary from among the books of reference, found the place I wanted and returned to the ear-trumpet.

"I find here," I said, for the benefit of the room at large, for all were now listening, though with some impatience, "that in calling me a '_sport_' the deceased member called me a plaything, a diversion. If he had called me a _sportsman_, which is here defined as 'one who hunts, fishes or fowls,' he would have been not necessarily more accurate but certainly less offensive."

At this point there stood up a member whom I recognised as one of the committee. "I am sure, Sir," he said, "that all present are agreed that you fired in defence of the purity of English speech, and that the incident was the outcome of an unfortunate attempt to relieve the financial embarrassment of the club by relaxing our former rigorous exclusiveness. Speaking as one of the committee, I have no doubt that the affair will be dismissed as _justifiable homicide_."

Having bowed my acknowledgments I rang the bell. When the waiter appeared I bade him "Bring me a black coffee and then clear away the remains of Mr. Buttinbridge."

* * * * *

Then I was awakened by the voice of Buttinbridge yelling, "Wake up, old Sport!"

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THE PECULIAR CASE OF TOLLER.

Toller first floated into public notice on the fame of Rodman, who by an irony of fate is now all but forgotten. Rodman, it may be remembered, was a promising young poet during the first decade of this century. Out of a scandalous youth whose verses made their appearance in slim periodicals that expired before their periodicity could be computed, he was evolving into a reputable poet who was given a prominent position facing advertising matter in the heavy magazines when he met with his regrettably early end. Apart from his poems he left no literary remains, except a few letters too hideously ungrammatical for publication. The sole materials for a biography lay in the memory of Toller, who by a stroke of luck happened to have known him intimately.

By an equal piece of good fortune Toller had taken a course of mind training and his memory was exceptionally retentive. His _Life of Rodman_ achieved instant success, a far greater than _Rodman's Collected Works_. The undomesticities of a poet's life naturally excite greater interest in the cultured than his utterances on Love, Destiny and other topics on which poets are apt to discourse. Toller, until then a struggling journalist, became all at once a minor literary celebrity, much in demand at conversaziones and places where they chatter. Sympathy for Rodman aroused curiosity which only Toller could satisfy.

His memory, continually stimulated by questions, gained further in strength. The more he was asked the more he remembered, and so on in a virtuous circle. His Rodmaniana provided him with a comfortable income. He removed from Earl's Court to luxurious chambers off Jermyn Street, from which he poured out article after article on the deceased poet.

Then suddenly, without warning, probably from overstrain, his memory gave way. Everything in the past, Rodman included, vanished from his mind. A greater calamity one could not conceive. It was as though a violinist had lost a hand, a popular preacher his voice. His livelihood was gone. Much as his babble about Rodman had bored me I could not but feel some sorrow for him, fallen from his little pinnacle of fame and affluence. Judge, then, of my surprise when I passed him about a fortnight ago faultlessly dressed and wearing an air of great prosperity. He showed of course not the smallest recollection of me.

"How does Toller manage to live?" I asked Cardew, who knows him better than I do.

"He still writes," was the reply.

"What--without a memory?"

"Yes, he finds it an advantage. You see, since the fusion of the old parties and the formation of new ones, the possession of a memory is often a source of considerable embarrassment to a leader writer. Toller now does the political articles for a prominent morning paper. The proprietors consider him a wonderful find."

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BUCKLER'S.

To acquire an estate is, even in these days of inflated prices and competitive house-hunters, an easy matter compared with finding a name for it when it is yours. It is then that the real trouble sets in.

Take the case of my friend Buckler.

A little while ago he purchased a property, a few acres on the very top of a hill not too far from London and only half-a-mile from his present habitation, and there he is now building a home. At least the plans are done and the ground has been pegged out. "Here," he will say, quite unmindful of the clouds emptying themselves all over us--with all an enthusiast's disregard for others, and an enthusiast, moreover, who has his abode close by, full of changes of raiment--"here," setting his foot firmly in the mud, "is where the dining-room will be. Here," moving away a few yards through the slush, "is the billiard-room." Then, pointing towards the zenith with his stick, "Above it"--here you look up into the pitiless sky as well as the deluge will permit--"are two spare rooms, one of which will be yours when you come to see us." And so forth.

He then leads the way round the place, through brake fern wetter than waves, to indicate the position of the tennis-courts, and in course of time you are allowed to return to the dry and spend the rest of the day in borrowed clothes.

Everyone knows these Kubla Khans decreeing pleasure domes and enlarging upon them in advance of the builders, and never are they so eloquent and unmindful of rain and discomforts as when their listeners are poor and condemned to a squalid London existence for ever.

But that is beside the mark. It is the naming of these new country seats that leads to such difficulties.

That night at dinner the question arose again.

"As it is on the top of the hill," said a gentle wistful lady, "why not call it 'Hill Top'? I'm sure I've seen that name before. It is expressive and simple."

"So simple," said Buckler, "that my nearest neighbour has already appropriated it."

"I suppose that would be an objection," said the lady, and we all agreed.

"Why not," said another guest, "call it 'The Summit'? or, more concisely, just 'Summit'?"

"Or why not go further," said a frivolous voice, "and suggest hospitality too--and Buckler's hospitality is notorious--by calling it 'Summit-to- Eat'?"

Our silence was properly contemptuous of this sally.

"If you didn't like that you might call it 'Summit-to-Drink,'" the frivolous voice impenitently continued. "Then you would get all the Americans there too."

The voice's glass having been replenished (which, I fancy, was its inner purpose) we became serious again.

"As it is on the top of the hill," said the first lady, "there will probably be a view. Why not call it, for example, 'Bellevue'? 'Bellevue' is a charming word."

"A little French, isn't it?" someone inquired.

"Oh, yes, it's French," she admitted. "But it's all right, isn't it? It's quite nice French."

We assured her that, for a French phrase, it was singularly free from impropriety.

"But of course," she said, "there's an Italian equivalent, 'Bella Vista.' 'Bella Vista' is delightful."

"I passed a 'Bella Vista' in Surbiton yesterday," said the frivolous voice, "and an errand-boy had done his worst with it with a very black lead pencil."

"What could he do?" the gentle lady asked wonderingly, with big violet eyes distended.

"It is not for me to explain," said the frivolous voice; "but the final vowel of the first word dissatisfied him and he substituted another. The capabilities of errand-boys with pencil or chalk should never be lost sight of when one is choosing a name for a front gate."

"I am all at sea," said the lady plaintively. Then she brightened. "Is there no prominent landmark visible from the new house?" she asked. "It is so high there must be."

Our hostess said that by cutting down two trees it would be possible to see Windsor Castle.

"Oh, then, do cut them down," said the lady, "and call it 'Castle View.' That would be perfect."

During the panic that followed I made a suggestion. "The best name for it," I said, "is 'Buckler's.' That is what the country people will call it, and so you may as well forestall them and be resigned to it. Besides, it's the right kind of name. It's the way most of the farms all over England once were named--after their owners, and where the owner was a man of character and force the name persisted. Call it 'Buckler's' and you will help everyone, from the postman to the strange guest who might otherwise tour the neighbourhood for miles searching for you long after lunch was finished."

"But isn't it too practical?" the first lady asked. "There's no poetry in it."

"No," I said, "there isn't. The poetry is in its owner. Any man who can stand in an open field under a July rainstorm and show another man where his bedroom is to be in a year's time is poet enough."

E.V.L.

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TO ISIS.

Isis, beside thine ambient rill How oft I've snuffed the Berkshire breezes, Or, prone on some adjoining hill, Thrown off with my accustomed skill The weekly fytte of polished wheezes; How oft in summer's languorous days, With some fair creature at the pole, I Have thrid the Cherwell's murmurous ways And dared with lobster mayonnaise The onslaughts of Bacillus Coli?

Once--it was done at duty's call-- My labouring oar explored thy reaches; They said I was no good at all And coaches noting me would bawl Things about "angleworms and breeches;" But oh! the shouts of heartfelt glee That rang on thine astonished marges As we bore (rolling woundily) Full in the wake of Brasenose III. And bumped them soundly at the barges.

That night on Oxenford there burst A sound of strong men at their revels, And stroke, in vinous lore unversed, Retired, if you must know the worst, On feet that swam at different levels, Nor knew till morning brought its cares That, while the cup was freely flowing, He'd scaled a flight of moving stairs And commandeered his tutor's chairs To keep the college bonfire going.

Immortal youth it was that bound Us twain together, beauteous river; And, though these limbs just crawl around That once would scarcely touch the ground, And alcohol upsets my liver, Still, in a punt or lithe canoe I can revive my vernal heyday, Pretend the sky's ethereal blue, The golden kingcups' cheery hue, Spell my, as well as Nature's, Mayday.

The evening glows, the swallow skims Between the water and the willows; The blackbirds pipe their evening hymns, A punt awaits at Mr. Tims' With generous tea and lots of pillows, And of all girls the first, the best To play at youth with this old fossil; Then Isis, as we glide to rest Upon thy shadow-dappled breast, We'll pledge thee in a generous wassail.

ALGOL.

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* * * * *

ENGLAND UNBENDS.

REPORTS FROM SPA AND SHORE.

SCARGATE.--This famous Yorkshire Spa is now in a condition of hectic activity and offers a plethora of attractions. A recent analysis of the waters shows that the proportion of sapid ovaloid particles and sulphuretted trinitrotoluene is larger than ever. Lieutenant Platt- Stithers' stincopated anthropoid orchestra plays four times daily--in the early morning and at noon for the relief of the water-drinkers, and in the afternoon and evening in the rotating Jazz Hall. Special attractions this week include cinema lectures daily on the domestic life of the Solomon Islanders by Mr. Nicholas Ould; a recital on the Bolophone on Thursday by Mr. Tertius Quodling, and, at the Grand Opera House, _Pope Joan_ and _The Flip-Flappers_. On Saturday the Stridcar Golf Club will hold a series of competitions in rational fancy dress for the benefit of the Phonetic Spelling Association.

FALLALMOUTH.--Visitors to this romantic resort are offered a wide field of entertainment and moral uplift. The steamer excursions embrace trips up the lovely river Fallal to Gongor, famous for the prehistoric remains of the shrine of Saint Opodeldoc, and to beauty spots in the harbour like Glumgallion, Trehenna and Pangofflin Creek. There are also excursions in armed motor-char-à-bancs to Boscagel, Cadgerack and Flapperack. To-day visitors can view the gardens at Poljerrick, where many super-tropical plants, including man-eating cacti, are growing in the most unbridled luxuriance. There is a fine sporting nine-hole golf-course on the shingle strand at Grogwalloe, where the test of niblick play is more severe than on any links save those of the Culbin Sands near Nairn. Among other attractive features are the brilliant displays of aurora borealis over the Bay, which have been arranged at considerable cost by the Corporation in conjunction with the Meteorological Society.

BORECAMBE.--The demand for bathing-machines and tents continues to increase, though the shopkeepers are complaining of a decreasing spending power on the part of the visitors and a disinclination to pay more than a shilling a head for shrimps. The practice of dispensing with head-gear is also much resented by local outfitters, but otherwise the situation is well in hand. On Monday last Mr. Silas Pargeter, an old resident, caught a fine conger-eel, weighing fifty-six pounds, which he has presented to the Museum. As Borecambe is a good jumping-off ground for the Lake District there are daily char-à-banc excursions to the land of WORDSWORTH and RUSKIN, each passenger being supplied with a megaphone and a pea-shooter.

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DOWN CHANNEL.

The chime of country steeples, The scent of gorse and musk, The drone of sleepy breakers Come mingled with the dusk; A ruddy moon is rising Like a ripe pomegranate husk.

The coast-wise lights are wheeling White sword-blades in the sky, The misty hills grow dimmer, The last lights blink and die; Oh, land of home and beauty, Good-bye, my dear, good-bye!

PATLANDER.

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HOW TO BE LONELY THOUGH MARRIED.

"Lonely Officer (married, with three children) wants Sealyham Terrier Dog."--_Times._

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MY DROMEDARY.

I see by _The Times_ that dromedaries are on sale at sixty-five pounds apiece.

In these days, when commodities of all kinds are so expensive, one cannot afford to overlook bargains of whatever nature they may be. And it seems to me that a dromedary at sixty-five pounds is really rather cheap.

For after all sixty-five pounds to-day is little more than thirty pounds in pre-war times. Considering their trifling cost I am surprised that more people do not possess dromedaries. Most of my neighbours during the past two years have built garages, but not one, so far as I am aware, has built a dromedary-drome.

I think I shall buy one of these attractive pets if my pass-book encourages me. Cheaper than a motor-car and far more intelligent and responsive to human affection, a dromedary will add distinction to my establishment and afford pleasant occupation for my leisure. It brings no attendant annoyance from the Inland Revenue authorities; there are no tiresome registration fees or regulations as to the dimensions of a number-plate.

As long as I can remember I have lived in a state of uncertainty as to whether a dromedary has two humps and a camel one, or a camel two humps and a dromedary one. With one of these exotic quadrupeds tethered only a few yards away from the kitchen door that condition of doubt need not exist in the future for more than a few moments. In a good light it should be perfectly easy to count the humps or hump. Then again a dromedary will come for a walk on a fine evening without involving one in a dog-fight. It will provide quiet yet healthful exercise for the two children. If it turns out that the type possesses two humps it will be able to convey Edgar and Marigold at one and the same time, thus saving delay and inconvenience.

It will be a protection to the house. When we have gone to bed the faithful creature will lie on guard in the hall, and no amount of poisoned liver thrust through the letter-box will assuage its ferocity or weaken its determination to protect the hearth and home of its master against marauders. For the dromedary is not only a strict teetotaler and non- smoker, but a lifelong vegetarian. Famous for its browsing propensities, a dromedary about the garden will save untold labour and expense, keeping the lawn trimmed and the hedges clipped. And indoors its height will serve me admirably in enabling me, while seated on its hump or one of its humps, to attend in comfort to a little whitewashing job which will not brook further postponement.

I will look at my pass-book to-morrow.

* * * * *

FLOWERS' NAMES.

COLT'S FOOT.

When the four Horses of the Sun Were little leggy things, When they could only jump and run And hadn't grown their wings, The Sun-God sent them out to play In a field one July day.

Oh, the four Horses of the Sun They galloped and they rolled, They leapt into the air for fun And felt so brave and bold; And when they'd done their gallopings They'd grown four splendid pairs of wings.

The Sun-God fetched them in again To draw his car of gold; But you can still see very plain Where each one leapt and rolled; For from each hoof-mark, every one, There sprang a little golden sun, And that same little golden flower People call Colt's Foot to this hour.

* * * * *

"The stove will stand by itself anywhere. It omits neither smoke nor smell."--_Provincial Paper._

We know that stove.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Not every regiment has the good luck to find for chronicler one who is not only a distinguished soldier but a practical and experienced man of letters. This fortune is enjoyed by _The Gold Coast Regiment_ (MURRAY) in securing for its historian Sir HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G., from whose book you may obtain a vivid picture of a phase of the Empire's effort about which the average Briton has heard comparatively little. The very strenuous compaigns of the G.C.R., the endurance and achievements of its brave and light-hearted troops, and the heroism and fostering care of its officers, make an inspiring story. Almost for the first time one gains some real idea of the difficulties of the East African campaign, that prolonged tiger hunt, in which every advantage of mobility, of choice of ground, ambush and the like lay with the enemy; and over very tough physical obstacles, as, for example, rivers so variable that, in the author's incisive phrase, they "can rarely be relied upon, for very long together, either to furnish drinking-water or to refrain from impeding transport." It is interesting to note that Sir HUGH, while giving every credit to the remarkable personality of the German commander, entirely demolishes the theory, so grateful to our sentimentalists, that the absence of surrenders on the part of the enemy's black troops was due to any devotion to VON LETTOW-VORBECK as leader; the explanation being the characteristic German dodge of creating from the natives a military caste so highly privileged, and consequently unpopular with their fellows, that surrender, involving return to native civilian life, became a practical impossibility.

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