Chapter 2

At this moment the Americans came in and asked us to quit arguing and attend while they told us how they had unearthed the great plot.... When together we reckoned up the Italian juggler's net takings we realised that it is an ill revolution which brings no one any good.

Yours ever, HENRY.

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

CUBBIN' THRO' THE RYE.

[Suggested by a recently reported incident in the Midlands, when a pack divided, one part getting out of hand and running among standing crops.]

Gin a body meet a body Cubbin' thro' the rye, Gin a body tell a body, "Seed 'em in full cry," Useless then to blame the puppies, Useless too to lie; Whippers-in can't _always_ stop 'em, Even when they try.

Gin a body meet a body Cubbin' thro' the rye, What a body calls a body Dare I say?--not I; Farmers get distinctly stuffy, Neither are they shy, And Masters, when they're really rattled, Sometimes make reply.

* * * * *

BRAVE NEWS FOR PUSSYFOOT.

"A good many Church-people at home have been pressing teetotalism, and are now pressing Prohibition, and it is possible that they may succeed about the time when the moon grows cold."--_Weekly Paper._

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THE MYSTERY OF THE APPLE-PIE BEDS.

(_Leaves from a holiday diary._)

I.

An outrage has occurred in the hotel. Late on Monday night ten innocent visitors discovered themselves the possessors of apple-pie beds. The beds were not of the offensive hair-brush variety, but they were very cleverly constructed, the under-sheet being pulled up in the good old way and turned over at the top as if it were the top-sheet.

I had one myself. The lights go out at eleven and I got into bed in the dark. When one is very old and has not been to school for a long time or had an apple-pie bed for longer still, there is something very uncanny in the sensation, especially if it is dark. I did not like it at all. My young brother-in-law, Denys, laughed immoderately in the other bed at my flounderings and imprecations. He did not have one. I suspect him....

II.

Naturally the hotel is very much excited. It is the most thrilling event since the mixed foursomes. Nothing else has been discussed since breakfast. Ten people had beds and about ten people are suspected. The really extraordinary thing is that numbers of people seem to suspect _me_! That is the worst of being a professional humourist; everything is put down to you. When I was accompanying Mrs. F. to-day she suddenly stopped fiddling and said hotly that someone had been tampering with her violin. I know she suspected me. Fortunately, however, I have a very good answer to this apple-pie bed charge. Eric says that his bed must have been done after dinner, and I was to be seen at the dance in the lounge all the evening. I have an alibi.

Besides I had a bed myself; surely they don't believe that even a professional humourist could be so bursting with humour as to make himself an apple-pie bed and not make one for his brother-in-law in the same room! It would be too much like overtime.

But they say that only shows my cleverness....

III.

Then there is the question of the Barkers. Most of the victims were young people, who could not possibly mind. But the Barkers had two, and the Barkers are a respected middle-aged couple, and nobody could possibly make them apple-pie beds who did not know them very well. That shows you it can't have been me--I--me--that shows you I couldn't have done it. I have only spoken to them once.

They say Mr. Barker was rather annoyed. He has rheumatism and went to bed early. Mrs. Barker discovered about her bed before she got in, but she didn't let on. She put out the candle and allowed her lord to get into his apple-pie in the dark. I think I shall like her.

They couldn't find the matches. I believe he was quite angry....

IV.

I suspect Denys and Joan. They are engaged, and people in that state are capable of anything. Neither of them had one, and they were seen slipping upstairs during the dance. They say they went out on the balcony--a pretty story....

V.

I suspect the Barkers. You know, that story about Mrs. B. letting Mr. B. get into his without warning him was pretty thin. Can you imagine an English wife doing a thing of that kind? If you can it ought to be a ground for divorce under the new Bill. But you can't.

Then all that stuff about the rheumatism--clever but unconvincing. Mr. Barker stayed in his room all the next morning _when the awkward questions were being asked_. Not well; oh, no! But he was down for lunch and conducting for a glee-party in the drawing-room afterwards, as perky and active as a professional. Besides, the really unanswerable problem is, who could have _dared_ to make the Barkers' apple-pie beds? And the answer is, nobody--except the Barkers.

And there must have been a lady in it, it was so neatly done. Everybody says no _man_ could have done it. So that shows you it couldn't have been me--I--myself....

VI.

I suspect Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Winthrop is fifty-three. He has been in the hotel since this time last year, and he makes accurate forecasts of the weather. My experience is that a man who makes accurate forecasts of the weather may get up to any devilry. And he protests too much. He keeps coming up to me and making long speeches to prove that he didn't do it. But I never said he did. Somebody else started that rumour, but of course he thinks that I did. That comes of being a professional humourist.

But I do believe he did it. You see he is fifty-three and doesn't dance, so he had the whole evening to do it in.

To-night we are going to have a Court of Inquiry....

VII.

We have had the inquiry. I was judge. I started with Denys and Joan in the dock, as I thought we must have somebody there and it would look better if it was somebody in the family. The first witness was Mrs. Barker. Her evidence was so unsatisfactory that I had to have her put in the dock too. So was Mr. Barker's. I was sorry to put him in the dock, as he still had rheumatics. But he had to go.

So did Mr. Winthrop. I had no qualms about him. For a man of his age to do a thing like that seems to me really deplorable. And the barefaced evasiveness of his evidence! He simply could not account for his movements during the evening at all. When I asked him what he had been doing at 9.21, and where, he actually said he _didn't know_.

Rather curious--very few people _can_ account for their movements, or anyone else's. In most criminal trials the witnesses remember to a minute, years after the event, exactly what time they went upstairs and when they passed the prisoner in the lounge, but nobody seems to remember anything in this affair. No doubt it will come in time.

The trial was very realistic. I was able to make one or two excellent judicial jokes. Right at the beginning I said to the prosecuting counsel, "What _is_ an apple-pie bed?" and when he had explained I said with a meaning look, "You mean that the bed was not in _apple-pie order_?" Ha, ha! Everybody laughed heartily....

VIII.

In my address to the jury of matrons I was able to show pretty clearly that the crime was the work of a gang. I proved that Denys and Joan must have done the bulk of the dirty work, under the tactical direction of the Barkers, who did the rest; while in the background was the sinister figure of Mr. Winthrop, the strategical genius, the lurking Macchiavelli of the gang.

The jury were not long in considering their verdict. They said: "We find, your Lordship, that you did it yourself, with some lady or ladies unknown."

That comes of being a professional humourist....

IX.

I ignored the verdict. I addressed the prisoners very severely and sentenced them to do the Chasm hole from 6.0 A.M. to 6.0 P.M. every day for a week, to take out cards and play out every stroke. "You, Winthrop," I said, "with your gentlemanly cunning, your subtle pretensions of righteousness--" But there is no space for that....

X.

As a matter of fact the jury were quite right. In company with a lady who shall be nameless I did do it. At least, at one time I thought I did. Only we have proved so often that somebody else did it, we have shown so conclusively that we can't have done it, that we find ourselves wondering if we really did.

Perhaps we didn't.

If we did we apologise to all concerned--except, of course, to Mr. Winthrop. I suspect him.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MIXED METEOROLOGICAL MAXIMS.

(_By a Student of Psychology._)

When the glass is high and steady For domestic broils be ready. When the glass is low and jerky Then look out for squalls in Turkey. When the air is dull and damp Keep your eye on Mr. CRAMP. When the air is clear and dry On BOB WILLIAMS keep your eye. When it's fine and growing finer Keep your eye upon the miner. When it's wet and growing wetter 'Twill be worse before it's better. When the tide is at its ebb Fix your gaze on SIDNEY WEBB. When the tide is at high level Modernists discuss the Devil. Floods upon the Thames or Kennet Stimulate the brain of BENNETT; While a waterspout foretells Fresh activities in WELLS. When it's calm in the Atlantic Gooseberries become gigantic. When it's rough in the Pacific Laying hens are less prolific. When the clouds are moving _largo_ There is no restraining MARGOT. When their movement is _con brio_ 'Ware CHIOZZA MONEY (LEO)! When the sun is bright but spotty Diarists become more dotty. When the sun is dim and hazy Diarists become more crazy. When the nights are calm and still Faster travels GARVIN'S quill. When the blizzard's blast is hissing REPINGTON is reminiscing.

If you ponder well these lines You can read the weather signs In accordance with the rule Binding both on sage and fool:-- _Anything in mortal ken May befall us anywhen._

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL IMPORTUNITY.

"Services! Dozens other cars available, £1,500 to £50. Call and insult us."

_Motor Journal._

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MORE VISIONS OF THE UNSEEN.

"The roads are peculiarly situated, and are dangerous not only because they are main cross roads, but also on account of the hidden view they afford of each other."--_Local Paper._

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* * * * *

THE DEVOTED LOVER.

["Loiterers will be treated as trespassers."--_Notice on Tube Station._]

No longer laud, my Jane, the ancient wooer Who for the favours of his ladye fayre Would sally forth to strafe the evil-doer Or beard the dragon in his inmost lair; Find it no more, dear heart, a ground for stray tiffs Because, forsooth, you can't detect in me A tendency to go out whopping caitiffs Daily from ten till three.

He proved himself in his especial fashion, Daring the worst to earn a lover's boon, But I, no less than he a prey to passion, Faced risks as great this very afternoon, When at the Tube a long half-hour I waited (In fond obedience to your written beck) Where loiterers, it practically stated, Would get it in the neck.

The liftmen who from time to time ascended To spill their loads (in which you had no part) Regarded me with eagle eyes intended To lay the touch of terror on my heart; But through a wait thus perilously dreary My spirits drooped not nor my courage flinched; "She cometh not," I merely sighed, "I'm weary And likely to be pinched."

You came at last, long last, to end my fretting, And now you know how your devoted bard Faced for your sake the risk of fine or getting An unaccustomed dose of labour (hard); Harbour no more that idiotic notion That love to-day is unromantic, flat; Gave _Lancelot_ such a proof of his devotion, Did _Galahad_ do that?

* * * * *

PAMELA'S ALPHABET.

_Scene._--A DOMESTIC INTERIOR.

Pamela's _father, in one armchair, is making a praiseworthy effort to absorb an article in a review on "The Future of British Finance." In another armchair_ Pamela's _mother is doing some sort of mending._ Pamela _herself, stretched upon the hearthrug, is reading aloud interesting extracts from a picture-book._

_Pamela_ (_in a cheerful sing-song_). A for Donkey; B for Dicky.

_Her Father._ What sort of dicky?

_Pamela_ (_examining the illustration more closely_). All ugly black, bissect for his blue mouf.

_Her Mother_ (_instructively_). Not blue; yellow. And it's a beak, not a mouth.

_Pamela._ I calls it a mouf. He's eating wiv it. (_With increasing disfavour_) A poor little worm he's eating. Don't like him; he's crool. (_She turns the page hurriedly and continues_) C for Pussy; D for Mick.

[_This is the name of the family mongrel. That the picture represents an absolutely thoroughbred collie matters nothing to_ Pamela. _She spends some time in admiring_ Mick, _then rapidly sweeps over certain illustrations that fail to attract._

_Pamela_ (_stopping at the sight of a web-footed fowl, triumphantly_). G for Quack-quack.

_Her Father._ Oh, come, Pamela, that's not a quack-quack; that's a goose. It makes quite a different noise.

[_Anticipating an immediate demand for a goose's noise he clears his throat nervously._

_Pamela_ (_with authority_). This one isn't making any noise. It's jus' thinking. (_Her father accepts the correction and swallows again._) H for Gee-gee. Stupid gee-gee.

_Her Father._ Why stupid?

_Pamela._ 'Acos its tail looks silly.

_Her Father_ (_glancing at the tail, which bears some resemblance to an osprey's feather_). You're right; it does.

_Her Mother._ I wonder whether it's wrong to let children get accustomed to bad drawings?

_Her Father._ Pamela doesn't get accustomed--she criticises. If it weren't for a silly tail here, a stupid face there, her critical faculty might lie for ever dormant.

_Pamela_ (_having turned over four or five pages with one grasp of the hand, as if determined to suppress the unsatisfactory horse_). R for Bunny.

_Her Mother._ No, dear, Rabbit. R for _R_abbit. B for _B_unny.

_Pamela_ (_gently_). No; B is for Dicky. The ugly dicky wiv the blue mouf.

_Her Father_ (_rashly_). The blackbird.

_Pamela_ (_conscious of superior knowledge_). That isn't its name. That's what it looks like, all black; but its name is Dicky. B for Dicky.

_Her Father._ Well, have it your own way. What does S stand for?

_Pamela_ (_turning to the likeness of an elderly quadruped, with great assurance_). Baa-lamb!

_Her Father._ Sometimes we call baa-lambs sheep.

_Pamela._ I don't.

_Her Father._ You will when you grow older.

_Pamela._ I won't be any older, not for ever so long. Not till next birfday. (_Pushing her book away and assuming an air of extreme infancy_) Tired of reading. Want a piggy-back, _please_!

_Her Father_ (_firmly taking up his review again_). Not just now. I'm busy with a picture-book.

[_A reproachful silence falls upon the room._

_Pamela_ (_presently, in a mournful chant_). A for Don-key. B for Dicky--

_The Scene closes._

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FLOWERS' NAMES.

CROW'S-FOOT.

Have you noticed that the splendid dreams, the best dreams that there are, Come always in the darkest nights without a single star? When the moonless nights are blackest the best dreams are about; I'll tell you why that should be so and how I found it out.

There's a bird who comes at night-time, and underneath his wings, All warm and soft and feathery, lie tiny fairy things; He spreads his wings out widely (you see them, not the dark) And you hear the fairies whispering, "Hush! hush!" "I'll tell you!" "Hark!"

The bird is black and feathery, but his feet are made of gold; He chiefly comes in summer-time, for fairies hate the cold; And if the nights are velvet-dark and full of summer airs He lingers till the sun creeps up and finds him unawares.

And so you'll see in summer-time, when all the dew is wet, The footprints of his golden claws maybe will linger yet; The little golden flower-buds will gleam like golden grain, And if you pick and cherish them perhaps you'll dream again.

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HONOURS EASY.

I.

Not very long ago the following advertisements appeared in the same column of _The Southshire Daily Gazette_:

"Lost, a pure black Pekinese dog, wearing a silver badge marked 'Cherub.' Handsome reward offered. F.B., Grand Hotel, Brightbourne."

"Found, a black Pekinese, wearing a silver badge marked 'Cherub.' No reward required. The Limes, Cheviot Road, Brightbourne."

II.

On the same morning the paper was opened and scanned almost simultaneously by Mrs. Frederick Bathurst in the sitting-room which she and her husband occupied at the Grand Hotel, and by Mr. Hartley Friend in the morning-room at "The Limes."

"Oh, Fred," exclaimed Mrs. Bathurst, "Cherub has been found. He's all safe at a house called 'The Limes,' in Cheviot Road. Isn't that splendid?"

"Very good news," said her husband. "I told you not to worry."

"It's a direct answer to prayer," said Mrs. Bathurst. "But--"

"But what?" her husband inquired.

"But I do wish you had taken my advice not to offer any reward. You might so easily have left it open. People aren't so mercenary as all that. It stands to reason that anyone staying at an hotel like this and bringing a dog with them--always an expensive thing to do--and valuing it enough to advertise its loss, would behave properly when the time came."

"I don't know," Mr. Bathurst replied. "Does anything stand to reason? The ordinary dog-thief, holding up an animal to ransom, might be deterred from returning it if no mention of money was made. You remember we decided on that."

"Oh, no, I don't think so. You merely had your way again, that was all. I was always against offering a reward. And the word 'handsome' too. In any case I never agreed to that. You put that in later. Another thing," Mrs. Bathurst continued, "I knew it in some curious way--in my bones, as they say--that the fineness of Cherub's nature, its innocence, its radiant friendliness, would overcome any sordidness in the person who found him, poor darling, all lost and unhappy. No one who has been much with that simple sweet character could fail to be the better for it."

Mr. Bathurst coughed.

"That is so?" his wife persisted.

"Well," said Mr. Bathurst, after helping himself to another egg, "let us hope so, at any rate."

"It's gone beyond mere hope," said his wife triumphantly. "Listen to this;" and she read out the sentence from the second advertisement, "'No reward required.' There," she added, "isn't that proof? I'll go round to Cheviot Road directly after breakfast and say how grateful we are, and bring the darling back."

III.

Meanwhile at "The Limes" Mr. Hartley Friend was pacing the room with impatient steps.

"I do wish you would try to be less impulsive," he was saying to his wife. "Anything in the nature of business you would be so much wiser to leave to me."

"What is it now?" Mrs. Friend asked with perfect placidity.

"This dog," said her husband, "that fastened itself on you in this deplorable way--whatever possessed you to rush into print about it?"

"Of course I rushed, as you say. Think of the feelings of the poor woman who has lost her pet. It was the only kind thing to do."

"'Poor woman' indeed! I assure you she's nothing of the sort. One would think you were a millionaire to be ladling out benefactions like this. 'No reward required.' Fancy not even asking for the price of the advertisement to be refunded!"

"But that would have been so squalid."

"'Squalid!' I've no patience with you. Justice isn't squalor. It's--it's justice. As for your 'poor woman,' listen to this." And he read out the Bathurst advertisement with terrible emphasis on the words "Handsome reward offered." "Do you hear that--'handsome'?"

"Yes, I hear," said his wife amiably; "but that isn't my idea of making money."

"I hope you don't suppose it's mine," said her husband. "But there is such a thing as common sense. Why on earth the accident of this little brute following us home should run us into the expense of an advertisement and a certain amount of food and drink I'm hanged if I can see."

"Well, dear," said his wife with the same amiability, "if you can't see it I can't make you."

IV.

A few minutes later the arrival of "a lady who's come for the Peek" was announced.

"No," said Mr. Friend as his wife rose, "leave it to me. I'll deal with it. The situation is very delicate."

"How can I thank you enough," began Mrs. Bathurst, "for being so kind and generous about our little angel? My husband and I agreed that nothing more charmingly considerate can ever have been done."

At this point Mrs. Friend followed her husband into the room, and Mrs. Bathurst renewed her expressions of gratitude.

"But at any rate," she added to her, "you will permit me to defray the cost of the advertisement? I could not allow you to be at that expense."

Before Mrs. Friend could speak her husband intervened. "No, madam," he said, "I couldn't think of it. Please don't let the mention of money vulgarize a little friendly act like this. We are only too glad to have been the means of reuniting you and your pet."

E.V.L.

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"Rufford Abbey is, of course, a wonderful old place, and all the front, from gable to gable, is genuine tenth-century, built in 1139."

_Sunday Times._

It looks as if the ca' canny idea was not so new as we thought it.

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AT THE PLAY.

"EVERY WOMAN'S PRIVILEGE."

When _Dahlia_ refused the hand of a wealthy middle-aged nut, with faultless knickerbockers and a gift for lucubrated epigrams, preferring to throw in her lot (platonically) with a young and penniless social reformer, we took no notice of those who feared a scandal ("scandals are not what they were," as she said), nor of the girl's assertion that she had no use for the alleged romance of marriage. We were confident that the little god whose image, with bow and arrow, stood in the garden of _Dahlia's_ ancestral home, would put things right for us in the end. Yet we were not greatly annoyed when he made a mess of his business and married her to the wrong man; for in the meantime such strange things had been allowed to occur and the right man had proved such a disappointment that we didn't much care what happened to anybody.