Chapter 3

"Indigestion," I said promptly.

"Everybody," he said, ignoring my _jeu d'esprit_, "feels like a fish out of water, and discontent is rife. The newly-poor man wishes he had in him the stuff of which millionaires are made, and the profiteer sighs for a few pints of the true ultramarine Norman blood, as it would be so helpful when dealing with valets, gamekeepers and the other haughty vassals of his new entourage. And that is where my scheme comes in. There are oceans of blue blood surging about in the veins and arteries of dukes and other persons who have absolutely no further use for such a commodity, and I'm sure lots of it could be had at almost less than the present price of milk. So what is to prevent the successful hosier from having the real stuff coursing through the auricles and ventricles of his palpitating heart, since transfusion is such a simple stunt nowadays?"

"And I suppose," I said, "that you would bleed him first so as to make room for the new blood?"

"There you touch the real beauty of my idea," said Perkins. "The plebeian sighs for aristocratic blood to enable him to hold his own in his novel surroundings; the aristocrat could do with a little bright red fluid to help him to turn an honest penny. So it is merely a case of cross-transfusion; no waste, no suffering, no weakness from loss of blood on either side."

I gasped at the magnitude of the idea.

"I'm drawing up plans," Perkins continued, "for a journal devoted to the matter, in which the interested parties can advertise their blood-stock for disposal, a sort of 'Blood Exchange and Mart.' The advertisements alone would pay, I expect, for the cost of production. See," he said, handing me a slip of paper, "these are the sort of ads. we should get."

This is what I read:--

"Peer, ruined by the War, would sell one-third of arterial contents for cash, or would exchange blood-outfits with successful woollen manufacturer.--5016 Kensington Gore, W.

"To War Profiteers. Several quarts of the real cerulean for disposal. Been in same family for generations. Pedigree can be inspected at office of advertiser's solicitor. Cross-transfusion not objected to. Address in first instance, BART., 204, Bleeding Heart Yard, E.C.

"Public School and University Man of Plantagenet extraction would like to correspond with healthy Coal Miner with view to cross-transfusion. Would sell soul for two shillings.--A. VANE-BLUDYER, 135, Down (and Out) Street, West Kensington, W."

"Makes your blood run cold," I said, handing back the paper.

"Not it," he said, detaching himself from the strap as the train drew into King's Cross; "not if the operation's properly performed."

* * * * *

A TRAGEDY IN BIRDLAND.

I.

Percy is a partridge bold Who in Autumn, so I'm told, Dwells among the turnip roots And assists at frequent shoots, Really I have seldom heard Of a more precocious bird; Possibly his landlord's not What you'd call a first-rate shot, And his pals, though jolly chaps, Are not quite so good perhaps; Still, he thinks their aim so trashy That, I fear, he's getting rash. He Even perches on the end Of the gun my poor old friend Bill employs for killing game. True he's very blind and lame, And he's well beyond the span Meted out to mortal man, And his gout is getting worse (Meaning Bill, of course, not Perce); Still, if he won't mend his ways, One of these fine Autumn days I'm afraid there's bound to be Quite an awful tragedy. He'll be shot--I'm sure he will (Meaning Percy now, not Bill).

II.

Weep, ye lowering rain-swept skies! In the dust our hero lies. Weeping-willow, bow thy head! Our precocious fowl is dead. Sigh, thou bitter North Wind, for Perce the Partridge is no more!

Now, as long as he was ready Just to sit, sedate and steady, On the barrel of the gun Little mischief could be done; But on that sad morn a whim Suddenly seized hold of him; 'Twas the lunatic desire To observe how shot-guns fire; So he boldly took his stand Where the barrel ended, and, All agog to solve the puzzle, Poked his napper up the muzzle.

Well, the weapon at the minute Chanced to have a cartridge in it, And it happened that my friend Bill was at the other end, Who with calm unflurried aim Failed (at last) to miss the game.

With the tragic tale of Percy's Death I meant to close these verses, But we see quite clearly there, too, Other ills that Bird is heir to. He has also lost, you see, Individuality; Perce the Partridge, named and known, With an ego all his own, Disappears; and in his place There remains but "half-a-brace."

* * * * *

* * * * *

=Situations to Suit all Ages.=

"Lady-Typist (aged 1920) required for invoicing department of West End wholesale firm."--_Daily Paper._

"Wanted, capable Person, about 3 years of age, to undertake all household duties, country residence."--_Scottish Paper._

* * * * *

"DICK WHITTINGTON, 1920.

And, last of all, here is Dick WPhittington, otherwise known as Alderman Roll, Lord Mayor of London."--_Evening Paper._

But for the headline we should never have recognised him.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BEAU BRIMACOMBE.

"Well, Uncle Tom," I said, leaning over the gate, "and what did you think of London?"

On Monday morning Uncle Tom Brimacombe had driven off in his trap with his wife to the nearest station, five miles away, and had gone up to London for the first time in his life, "to see about a legacy."

"Lunnon! mai laife. It's a vaine plaace. Ai used 'think Awkeyampton was a big town, but ai'm barmed if Lunnon dawn't beat un.

"As you knaw, Zur, us 'ad to get up and gaw off 'bout three in th' morn'n, and us got upalong Lunnon 'bout tain. Well, the waife knew 'er waay 'bout, laike; 'er 's bin to Plymouth 'fore now. Zo when us gets out of the traain us gaws inzaide a sort er caage what taakes us down a 'awl in the ground. Ai was fraightened out 'me laife. 'Yer,' ai sez, 'wur be us gwaine then?'

"'Dawn'ee axno questions, me dyur,' sez the waife, 'or ai'll vorget ahl what the guard in the traain tawld us.'

"Well, baimbai the caage stops gwaine down and us gets out, and ai'm blawed if us wadn't in a staation ahl below the ground! Then a traain comes out of anither 'awl, and befwer us 'ad zat down proper inzaide un, 'er was off agaain, 'thout waitin' vur watter nor noth'n'. Well, we zat us down and thur was tu little maids a-vaacin' us what 'adn' mwer'n lef' school a yer'tu, and naw zinner do they zet eyes on me than one of 'n whispers zimmat to tither and they bawth starts gazin' at my 'at and laaf'n'.

"Well, ai stid it vur some taime and at laast ai cuden' a-bear it naw longer, so ai says to the waife, 'Fur whai they'm laaf'n' then? What's wrong wi' my 'at?'

"'Dawn'ee taake naw nawtice of they,' 'er says. 'The little 'uzzies ought to be at 'awm look'n' aafter the chicken, 'staid of gallivantin' about ahl bai thursalves. Yure 'at's all raight.'

"Ai was wear'n' me awld squeer brown bawlerat what ai wears to Laanson market on Zat'dys.

"Well, zune us gets out, though ai caan't tall'ee whur tu 'twas, and ai caan't tall'ee what us did nither, vur me 'aid was gwaine round an' round and aachin' vit to burst. But us vound the plaace us was aafter and saigned ahl the paapers wur the man tawld us tu. Then, when us gets outsaide, the waife, 'er says, 'Look'ee, me dyur, thur's a bit of graass and some trees; us'll gawn zit down awver there and eat our paasties.'

"Maighty pwer graass 'twas tu, but thur was seats, so us ait our paasties thur, and us bawth started crai'in when us bit into un. They zort 'er taasted of 'awm, laike.

"Then ahl't once the waife, 'er says, 'Pon mai word, thur's a man taak'n our vottygraff.' And thur 'e was, tu, with a black tarpaulin awver 'is 'aid! 'Come away, me dyur,' says she; 'ai'm not gwaine to paay vur naw vottygraffs. Ai 'ad one done at Laanson 'oss shaw when ai was a gal, and it faaded clean away insaide a twelve-month.' Zo us gaws back along the staation agaan and comes 'awm just in taime to get the cows in.

"Well, next evenin' ai went down along 'The Duke' to tall 'em ahl 'bout Lunnon, but when ai gets insaide they ahl starts shout'n' and bangin' thur mugs and waav'n the paaper at me. 'What's come awver yu?' ai axes un; 'yume ahl gone silly then?'

"'Theym bin and put yure vottygraff in the paaper, Uncle,' says John Tonkin, and 'awlds un out vur me to look. And thur, sure 'nuff, 'twas, with the waife in tu! So ai gets un to let me cut'n out and keep'n. Yur 'tis if 'eed laike to see un."

Uncle Tom fumbled in his pocket, drew out a cutting and handed it to me. There surely enough was a photo of him and "the waife," sitting on a public garden-seat eating pasties and underneath the legend--

"SUITS YOUNG AND OLD ALIKE.

An old couple snapped in Hyde Park. The gentleman, smart though elderly, is seen wearing a brown model of _The Daily Mail_ hat."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE CYNOSURE.

Among the passengers on the boat was a tall dark man with a black moustache and well-cut clothes who spent most of his time walking the deck or reading alone in his chair. Every ship has such recluses, who often, however, are on the fringe of several sets, although members of none. But this man remained apart and, being so determined and solitary, he was naturally the subject of comment and inquiry, even more of conjecture. His name was easy to discover from the plan of the table, but we knew no more until little Mrs. King, who is the best scout in the world, brought the tidings.

"I can't tell you much," she began breathlessly; "but there's something frightfully interesting. Colonel Swift knows all about him. He met him once in Poona and they have mutual friends. And how do you think he described him? He says he's the worst liver in India."

There is no need to describe the sensation created by this piece of information. If the man had set us guessing before, he now excited a frenzy of curiosity. The glad news traversed the ship like wind, brightening every eye; at any rate every female eye. For, though the good may have their reward elsewhere, it is beyond doubt that, if public interest is any guerdon, the bad get it on earth.

Show me a really bad man--dark-complexioned, with well-cut clothes and a black moustache--and I will show you a hero; a hero a little distorted, it is true, but not much the less heroic for that. Show me a notorious breaker of male hearts and laws and--so long as she is still in business--I will show you a heroine; again a little distorted, but with more than the magnetism of the virtuous variety.

For the rest of the voyage the lonely passenger was lonely only because he preferred to be, or was unaware of the agitation which he caused. People walked for hours longer than they liked or even intended in order to have a chance of passing him in his chair and scrutinising again the features that masked such depravity. For that they masked it cannot be denied. A physiognomist looking at him would have conceded a certain gloom, a trend towards introspection, possibly a hypertrophied love of self, but no more. Physiognomists, however, can retire from the case, for they are as often wrong as hand-writing experts. And if any Lavater had been on board and had advanced such a theory he would have been as unpopular as JONAH, for the man's wickedness was not only a joy to us but a support. Without it the voyage would have been interminable.

What, we all wondered, had he done? Had he murdered as well as destroyed so many happy homes? Was he crooked at cards? Our minds became acutely active, but we could discover no more because the old Colonel, the source of knowledge, had fallen ill and was invisible.

Meanwhile the screw revolved, sweepstakes were lost and won, deck sports flourished, fancy-dress dances were held, concerts were endured, a Colonial Bishop addressed us on Sunday mornings and the tall dark man with the black moustache and different suits of well-cut clothes sat in his chair and passed serenely from one OPPENHEIM to another as though no living person were within leagues.

It was not until we were actually in port that the Colonel recovered and I came into touch with him. Standing by the rail we took advantage of the liberty to speak together, which on a ship such propinquity sanctions. After we had exchanged a few remarks about the clumsiness of the disembarking arrangements I referred to the man of mystery and turpitude, and asked for particulars of some of his milder offences.

"Why do you suppose him such a blackguard?" he asked.

"But surely----" I began, a little disconcerted.

"He's a man," the Colonel continued, "that everyone should be sorry for. He's a wreck, and he's going home now probably to receive his death sentence."

This was a promising phrase and I cheered up a little, but only for a moment.

"That poor devil," said the Colonel, "as I told Mrs. King earlier in the voyage, has the worst liver in India."

E. V. L.

A VACILLATING POLICY.

(_A Warning against dealing with Disreputable Companies._)

When the Man of Insurance made his rounds I "covered" my house for a thousand pounds; Then someone started a fire in the grounds At the end of a wild carouse. The building was burnt; I made my claim And the Man of Insurance duly came. Said he, "Always Our Company pays Without any fuss or grouse; But your home was rotted from drains to flues; I therefore offer you as your dues Seven hundred pounds or, if you choose, A better and brighter house."

I took the money; I need not say What abuse I hurled at his head that day; But, when he began in his artful way To talk of Insurance (Life), And asked me to take out a policy for My conjugal partner, my _cordium cor_, "No, no," said I, "If my spouse should die We should enter again into strife; You would come and say at the funeral, 'Sir, Your wife was peevish and plain; for her I offer six hundred or, if you prefer, A better and brighter wife.'"

* * * * *

THE HAPPY GARDENER.

(_Extracts from a Synthetic Diary à la mode._)

_November 11th._--Now is the time to plant salsify, or the vegetable oyster, as it has been aptly named from its crustacean flavour so dear to herbaceous boarders. This may be still further accentuated by planting it in soil containing lime, chalk or other calcareous or sebaceous deposits.

Hedgehogs are now in prime condition for baking, but it is desirable to remove the quills before entrusting the animal to the oven. But the hedgehog cannot be cooked until he is caught, and his capture should not be attempted without strong gloves. Those recently invented by Lord THANET are far the best for the purpose. It is a moot point among culinary artists whether the hedgehog should be served _en casserole_ or in _coquilles_; but these are negligible details when you are steeped in the glamour of pale gold from a warm November sun, and mild air currents lag over the level leagues where the water is but slightly crimped and the alighting heron is lost among the neutral tints that envelop him....

Though the sun's rays are not now so fervent as they were in the dog-days, gardening without any headgear is dangerous, especially in view of the constant stooping. For the protection of the _medulla_ nothing is better than the admirable hat recently placed on the market by the benevolent enterprise of a great newspaper. But an effective substitute can be improvised out of a square yard of linoleum lined with cabbage-leaves and fastened with a couple of safety-pins.

As the late Sir ANDREW CLARK remarked in a luminous phrase, Nature forgives but she never forgets. The complete gardener should always aim (unlike the successful journalist) at keeping his head cool and his feet warm; and here again the noble enterprise of a newspaper has provided the exact _desideratum_ in its happily-named Corkolio detachable soles, which are absolutely invaluable when roads are dark and ways are foul, when the reeds are sere, when all the flowers have gone and the carrion-crow from the vantage of a pollard utters harsh notes of warning to all the corvine company round about....

Shod with Corkolio the happy gardener can defy these sinister visitants and ply the task of "heeling over" broccoli towards the north with perfect impunity.

The ravages of stag-beetles, a notable feature of late seasons, and probably one of the indirect but none the less disastrous results of the Land Valuation policy of the PRIME MINISTER, can be kept down by leaving bowls of caviare mixed with molasses in the places which they most frequent. This compound reduces them speedily to a comatose condition, in which they can be safely exterminated with the aid of the patent hot-air pistolette (price five guineas) recently invented by a director of one of the journals already alluded to.

But _tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe_; and while the kingfisher turns his sapphire back in the sun against the lemon-yellow of the willow leaves, and the smouldering russet of the oak-crowns succeeds to the crimson of the beeches and the gold of the elms, we shall do well to emulate the serene magnanimity of Nature and console ourselves with the reflection that the rural philosopher, if only assured of a sympathetic hearing in an enlightened Press and provided with a suitable equipment by the ingenuity of its directors, may contemplate the vagaries of tyrannical misgovernment with fortitude and even felicity.

* * * * *

A SARTORIAL TRAGEDY.

["To be fashionable one must have the waist so narrow that there is a strain upon the second button when the jacket is fastened."

_Note on Men's Dress._]

Garbed in the very height and pink of fashion, To-day I sallied forth to greet my fair, Nursing within my ardent heart a passion I long had had a craving to declare; Being convinced that never would there fall so Goodly a chance again, I mused how she Was good and kind and beautiful, and also Expecting me to tea.

And after tea I stood before her, feeling Now was the moment when the maid would melt, My buttoned jacket helpfully revealing The graces of a figure trimly svelte, But, all unworthy to adorn a poet Who'd bought it for a fabulous amount, Just as I knelt to put the question, lo, it Popped on its own account.

The button, dodging my attempts to hide it, Rolled to her very feet and rested there, And when I laid my loving heart beside it She only smiled at that incongruous pair-- Smiled, then in contrite pity for the gloomy Air that I wore of one whose chance is gone, Promised that she would be a sister to me And sew the button on.

* * * * *

A Test of Endurance.

"The dancing will commence at 9 p.m. and conclude at 2 p.m. Anyone still wanting tickets may procure same at the Victoria."

_East African Paper._

For ourselves, after seventeen hours' continuous dancing, we shall not want any more tickets.

* * * * *

From a parish magazine:--

"A nation will not remain virulent which destroys the barriers which protect the Sunday."

We are all for protecting the Sunday, but we don't want to remain virulent. It is a terrible dilemma.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

In looking at the title-page of _John Seneschal's Margaret_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) no lover of good stories but will be saddened by the reflection that the superscription, "by AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE," is there seen for the last time. The double signature, herald of how much pleasure in the past, is here attached to a cheerfully improbable but well-told tale of the after-war about a returned soldier who was mistaken for his dead fellow-prisoner and hailed as son, heir and _fiancé_ by the different members of the welcoming group in the home that wasn't his. The descriptions of this home, by the way--a house whose identification will be easy enough for those who know the beautiful North-Dorset country--are as good as any part of the book. If you protest that the resulting situation is not only wildly improbable but becoming a stock-in-trade of our novelists, I must admit the first charge, but point out that the authors here secure originality by making the deception an unintended one. _John Tempest_, who in the hardships of his escape has lost memory of his own identity, never ceases to protest that he is at least not the other _John_ for whom the members of the _Seneschal_ family persist in taking him--a twist that makes for piquancy if hardly for added probability. However, the inevitable solution of the problem provides a story entertaining enough, though not, I think, one that will obliterate your memory of others, incomparable, from hands to which we all owe a debt of long enjoyment.

I read _Inisheeny_ (METHUEN), as I believe I have read every story by the same hand, at one sitting. Whose was the hand I will ask you to guess. Characters: one Church of Ireland parson, drily humorous, as narrator; one lively heroine with archæological father, hunting for relics; one schoolboy; one young and over-zealous R.I.C. officer on the look-out for concealed arms; poachers, innkeepers, peasants, etc. Action, mostly amphibious, passes between the mainland of Western Ireland and a small islet off the coast. Will the gentleman who said "GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM" kindly consider himself entitled to ten nuts? I suppose it was the mention of an islet that finally gave away my simple secret. Mr. "BIRMINGHAM" is one of the too few authors who understand what emotion an island of the proper size and right distance from the coast can raise in the human breast. _Inisheeny_ delightfully fulfilled every condition in this respect; not to mention sheltering an illicit still and being the home of Keltic treasure. Precisely in fact the right kind of place, and the sort of story that hardly anyone can put down unfinished. I am bound to add that, perhaps a hundred pages from the actual end, the humour of the affair seems to lose spontaneity and become forced. But till the real climax of the tale, the triumphant return of the various hunters from _Inisheeny_, I can promise that you will find never a dull page.

* * * * *