Chapter 2

Man comes And goes. What then? Who knows?

Here we have the whole philosophy of life and the life hereafter summed up. If he never writes another line Mr. Pinmoney is by this assured of a permanent place in the anthology of post-bellum poetry.

* * * * *

"Replying to the toast of his health, Mr. Lloyd George said it was a great boon that a large industrial community should have been founded amongst these lovely surroundings, a boon not only for the workers, but also for their little children, who would have the advantage of being reared in georgeous mountain air."--_Daily Paper._

Lloyd-Georgeous, in fact.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE "FIRST HUNDRED" OF LOEB.

[The Loeb Classical Library, founded by a munificent American millionaire, Mr. JAMES LOEB (_prononcez_ "Lobe"), and edited by Dr. E. CAPPS, Mr. T. E. PAGE and Dr. W. H. D. ROUSE, has now reached its hundredth volume.]

When ways are foul and days are damp, When agitators rage and ramp, And SMILLIE, with the aid of CRAMP, Threatens to rend the globe; When margarine is scarce, or beef, And drinks are dear and few and brief, I find refreshment and relief And comfort in my LOEB.

Good print, good company, a text By no vain annotations vexed Which call from students sore perplexed The patience of a Job; And, page by page, a first-rate crib, Neither too faithful nor too glib-- That, without fulsomeness or fib, Is what we get in LOEB.

Let scientists on various fronts Indulge in their atomic stunts, Or harness to our prams and punts The puissant radiobe; Me rather it delights to roam Across the salt Ægean foam With old Odysseus, far from home, And bless the name of LOEB.

To soar with PLATO to the heights; To find in PLUTARCH'S kings and knights The human touch that more delights Than crown or regal robe; To taste the fresh Pierian springs, To see CATULLUS scorch his wings With the fierce flame that sears and stings-- For this I thank thee, LOEB.

I've made no fortune out of beer; I'm not a plutocrat or peer, Nor yet a bloated profiteer, An OM or e'en an OBE; But if I'd thirty pounds to spare I'd go and blow them then and there Upon the Hundred Books that bear The sign and seal of LOEB.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A NEWSPAPER SCOOP.

(_With the British Army in France._)

"I spotted him by the fountain-pen stains on his vest and the thunderbolts sticking out of his pockets," said Frederick. "So I went up to him and said, 'You are Wuffle of _The Daily Hooter_, the man who wiped-up Whitehall and is now engaged in freezing-out France?"

"What did he say?" asked Percival.

"Whipped out a note-book and asked me to tell him all about it. I said I was pining for the white cliffs of Albion and that the call of the counting-house and cash-box was ringing in my ears, but that I couldn't get demobilised because the Colonel's pet Pomeranian had conceived a fancy for me and wouldn't take its underdone chop from anyone else. I also hinted that I and a few friends could tell him things that would make his biggest journalistic scoops look like paragraphs in a parish magazine, so he invited me to bring you round this afternoon to split an infinitive with him."

"Wuffle?" said Binnie. "That's the man who wrote about 'gilded subalterns loafing luxuriously in cushioned cars in a giddy round of useless and pampered ease'?"

"Well, I won't say he wrote it, but he signed it. No single man living could write all the stuff Wuffle signs. It's turned out as they turn out cheap motor-cars. One man roughs it out, passes it to the adjective department, thence to the punctuation-room, where they sprinkle it with commas and exclamation marks, and then Wuffle touches it up, fits it with headlines and signs it. Oh, I forgot. Before it goes to press the libel expert looks it over to see that it isn't actionable."

"Anyway, he's the responsible party," said Binnie, "and I would fain have converse with the Wuffle. That 'gilded subaltern' bit was ringing in my head like a dirge the other night when I was wearily trudging the seven kilometres from St. Denis camp because there was no one to give me a lift."

That afternoon Frederick introduced his friends to Wuffle.

"Sorry we're late," he said, "but Percival and Binnie here have been engaged with the Pioneer-Sergeant discussing the best method of converting a whippet-tank into a roller for the tennis-courts."

At that moment a motor-lorry rumbled by, and Binnie, recollecting a passage in Wuffle's latest article about "motor-lorries rushing madly about with apparently no purpose in view," jumped excitedly to the door.

"'Magneto Maggie' leading," he shouted, "and 'The Sparking Spitfire' is just behind. Care to double your bet on 'Maggie' at evens, Percival?"

"Not yet," replied Percival cautiously. "It's only the first lap yet, and 'Maggie' sometimes jibs a bit when she passes the Remount Depôt."

Wuffle had his fountain-pen at the alert and looked inquiringly at Frederick.

"I suppose it _is_ another example of deliberate waste," said the latter. "But we've got the lorries eating their heads off in the garages and the petrol is simply aching to be evaporated, so we give the drivers exercise and ourselves some excitement over organising these Area Circuit Steeplechases."

"Why not trans-ship the lorries?" suggested Wuffle.

"That would never do, old prune," said Frederick. "The troops would have nothing to guard."

"Send the men home," persisted Wuffle.

"Come, my willowy asparagus," replied Frederick in horrified tones, "we must have troops to find us work to do. Of course it's sometimes difficult to keep the men employed, and then we have to make dumps of empty biscuit tins and things for them to guard."

"I fixed up a real beauty at Le Glaxo, not ten kilometres from here," chipped in Percival. "If you'd like to see it there's a train going in about twenty minutes."

Wuffle jumped up with alacrity.

"I'd be awfully glad to get a snapshot of it," said he, disappearing in search of his hat and coat.

Frederick took the opportunity to make a few scathing remarks to Percival.

"It's just like you, you mouldy old citron," he said. "I start a little experiment in _tirage de jambe_, and you put your heavy hoof in and spoil the whole business. You know jolly well that Le Glaxo was completely closed down months ago."

"Oh, put another penny in your brain-meter and try to realise that you aren't the only one who's grown up," replied Percival impatiently. "Your brain-waves move about as quick as G.P.O. telegraph messages. I'd got the scheme worked out while you were putting over your old musical-comedy gags."

Since the departure of the British, Le Glaxo's only excitement is the arrival of its one train per day. Ignoring the sensation caused by the detraining of four persons simultaneously, Percival led his party along a muddy rough lane.

"The dump is about four kilometres away and the road gets rather bad towards the end," he said, maliciously edging Wuffle into a bit of swamp. "Sorry; I was going to warn you about that."

Wuffle scraped mud from his trousers and followed the leader over a rough wall into a hidden ditch. A breathless climb up a hill and a steady trudge over plough-land found Wuffle still game, but, after he had got his camera ready for action on the cheerful assurance that they were nearing their quarry, a disappointed cry from the leader dashed his hopes.

"Hang it!" said Percival, "I forgot. The dump was moved to Pont Antoine last Tuesday. Come along; it's only three kilometres away."

Strangely enough, Pont Antoine was also a blank. Binnie suggested trying Monceau, two kilometres further on; but when they arrived there, fatigued and dirty, a thin drizzle was falling and it was almost dark. Percival confessed himself baffled.

"I'm awfully sorry," said he to Wuffle; "I can't find it now, and the point is how are we going to get back? There isn't a railway for miles."

"Don't any of our lorries or cars pass here?" asked Wuffle.

"Oh, yes. But they won't give _you_ a lift. The orders are dead strict against civilians riding in W.D. vehicles."

"It's the result of the articles in the papers about waste," said Frederick sympathetically. "But I don't suppose there would be any objection to your hanging on and running behind."

Wuffle looked round disconsolately. In the gloom the lighted windows of the tiny Hôtel de l'Univers blinked invitingly.

"I think I'll stop here for the night," he said, "and telephone for a car to fetch me to-morrow."

"Right-o!" said Percival. "And when it's thoroughly light you might--you _might_ be able to find the dump. So long."

As they rumbled uncomfortably home on a fortuitous three-ton lorry, Percival looked round for applause.

"_C'est bien fait, mon vieux_," chuckled Binnie. "I'll bet the Wuffle won't go dump-hunting again in a hurry. And he won't be able to do any damage from that little estaminet for a day or two."

* * * * *

The well-advertised series of articles in _The Daily Hooter_ commenced a few days later. The conspirators studied them diligently in gleeful anticipation of finding their contribution to journalistic enterprise. It came at the end, in a brief paragraph.

"When I had collected my material for this powerful indictment, etc., etc." (ran the article), "I met a party of irresponsible subalterns bent on the old, old army pastime of leg-pulling. For the sake of exercise and amusement I permitted them to conduct me on a wild-goose chase after an imaginary dump, which luckily led me to a sequestered little hotel where I was able to write my articles in peace and quietude. But to return to the main question. I unhesitatingly affirm..."

Percival, who was reading aloud, let the paper fall limply from his hand.

"Frederick," he said, "put your biggest boots on and kick me. The word-merchant was laughing at us all the time."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The letter about the Bloomsbury cat that bought her own cat's meat in your issue of December 6th is interesting."

_A Correspondent in "The Spectator."_

The cat would, however, have shown more regard for the feelings of our justly-esteemed contemporary if it had wrapped up its purchase in some other publication.

* * * * *

"In his defence, ---- said that he had really intended marrying the girl, but that he came to the realization that she was extremely ejaljoujs, hence his bjreach.

jThe court found that this was sufficient ground to justify jjjustify jujjjj jstjijfjy his breach of promise."--_Canadian Paper._

It is evident, however, that the Court did not arrive at this decision without considerable hesitation.

* * * * *

More Headaches for Historians.

"The revellers passed the time in dancing and singing until St. Paul's clock struck midnight. Then 'Auld Lang Syne' was sung with enthusiasm and, after repeated cheers, the crowd dispersed."--_Times._

"It was typical of the largest crowd that has watched round the cathedral the passing of the year that at the moment when midnight struck it should be engaged in one tremendous jostle and push, rough and tumble, and that no one thought to strike up the tune--traditional to the occasion--of 'Auld Lang Syne.'"--_Star._

"The gigantic Hindenburg figure of Militarism in the centre of the room melted away with the appearance of the Peace Angel, reputed to be the fairest lady in Chelsea, who had climbed a ladder within his leviathan bulk."--_Times._

"When twelve o'clock struck The God of War _should_ have collapsed gracefully to give place to the most beautiful artist's model in Chelsea, draped as the Goddess of Peace. But something went wrong with the ropes, and the God of War floated a yard or two into the air, just sufficiently high to show us the feet and knees of the Goddess of Peace."--_Evening Standard._

* * * * *

"The famous flood-test of the Parisian, the stone ouave on the Bridge of Alma, is in water up to his waist."--_Provincial Paper._

Surely an understatement. The "ouave" seems to have had his Z washed away.

* * * * *

From a _feuilleton_:--

"James put his cold hands in his pockets and buttoned up his coat collar before turning out to his work."--_Weekly Paper._

This is not so easy as it sounds.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WORDS OF WISDOM.

"Come, all you young seamen, take heed now to me, A hard-case old sailorman bred to the sea, As sailed the seas over afore you was born, An' learned 'em by heart from the Hook to the Horn.

"Don't hold by the ratlines when going aloft (Which I've told you afore but can't tell you too oft), Or you'll strike one that's rotten as sure as you live, And it's too late to learn when you've once felt it give; If you don't hit the bulwarks you'll sure hit the sea, For them rotten ratlines--they're the devil," says he.

"Now if you should see, as you like enough may, When tramping the docks for a ship some fine day, A spanking full-rigger just ready for sea, And think she's just all that a hooker should be, Take 'eed you don't ship with a skipper that drinks-- You'd better by half play at fan-tan with Chinks!-- For that'll mean nothing but muddle an' mess, It may be much more and it can't be much less, What with wrangling and jangling to drive a man daft, And rank bad dis-cip-line both forrard and aft, A ship that's ill-found and a crew out of 'and, And a touch-and-go chance she may never reach land, But go down in a squall or broach to in a sea, For them drunken skippers--they're the devil," says he.

"And if you go further and pause to admire A ship that's as neat as your heart could desire, As smart as a frigate aloft and alow, Her brasswork like gold and her planking like snow, Look round for a mate by whose twang it is plain That his home port is somewhere round Boston or Maine, With a jaw that's the cut of a square block of wood, And beat it, my son, while the going is good! There'll be scraping and scouring from morning till night To keep that brass shiny and keep them decks white, And belaying-pin soup both for dinner and tea, For them smart down-easters--they're the devil," says he.

"But if by good fortune you chance for to get A ship that ain't hungry or wicked or wet, That answers her hellum both a-weather and lee, Goes well on a bowline and well running free, A skipper that's neither a fool nor a brute, And mates not too free with the toe of their boot, A sails and a bo'sun that's bred to their trade, And a slush with a notion how vittles is made, And a crowd that ain't half of 'em Dagoes or Dutch, Or Mexican greasers or niggers or such, You stick to her close as you would to your wife, She's the sort that you only find once in your life; And ships is like women, you take it from me, That, if they _are_ bad 'uns, they're the devil," says he.

C. F. S.

* * * * *

"With regard to prison labour, it is stated that the manufacture of war stories had continued to employ every available inmate."

_Christian Science Monitor._

We had wondered where some of them came from.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE QUESTIONABLE ALIEN.

William, my hitherto unventuresome friend William, is going abroad. I cannot be certain why. Perhaps he no longer feels his heroism equal to the strain of living in a country fit for heroes. It may be that he has unwittingly incubated a bacillus which figures in novels as the "Call of the Wild." Anyhow, William is going abroad--so much so that, if he went any farther, he would be on his way home again.

I need not say that I felt called upon to help William through this trying period, and our preparations proceeded satisfactorily until the clever geographers who arrange these things nowadays discovered that William could fetch the Far East by way of the Far West. Then the international complications set in. First, William's passport--a healthy enough document at the start--had to be carried round the diplomatic quarter of London until it broke out into a thick rash of supplementary _visas_. Next we sought out the moneychangers in their dens, to transmute William's viaticum bit by bit into four foreign currencies. Then a Great Power through whose territory William will have to pass apparently was nervous of his approach and instituted a grand inquisition into the status and antecedents of the Alien (William).

We unfolded the paper on our table and stared at it aghast. Its area was rather less than a square yard; in colour it favoured the yolk of bad eggs; while all over its broad expanse were ruled compartments, half of them filled with questions that no gentleman would ask another, the other half left blank for William's indignant replies. We managed with great difficulty to squeeze into the panel provided all his baptismal titles--there are four of these besides "William"--and then attacked the first real poser:--

_Are you in possession of 100 dollars, or less? If less, by how much?_

William groaned. "Reach me down Todhunter's Arithmetic, will you?" said he.

I did so, and turned up the Money Market page of our daily paper. Nothing was heard for the next five minutes but grunts and sighs of despair. We then gave it up on the understanding that William must make a point of winning heavily at bridge--or would it be euchre?--on the way across.

_Have you ever been in the territory of the Great Power before?_

"No," breathed William devoutly, "and, please Heaven, it shan't occur again!"

_What is your reason for coming now?_

"I suppose I'd better tell the truth," he said; "they'll never believe me if I say I've come to put DEMPSEY up to that right drive of CARPENTIER'S."

_Were you ever in prison, an almshouse, or an institution for the treatment of the insane? If so, which?_

"Take your time, William," I said; "think carefully."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Do they want to know _all_ the gaols and asylums I've been in," he asked, "or only the more recent?"

_Are you a polygamist?_

William turned deathly pale. He then fixed me with a terrible stare of accusation and reproach.

"No, no, William," I protested frantically, "I assure you on my honour that _I_ haven't been talking."

This assurance calmed him somewhat. Bit by bit the colour came back to his cheeks and at length he was able to remark more hopefully: "Well, there's this to be said for it, most of my wives are sportswomen. I don't _think_ they'll give me away."

_Are you an anarchist?_

"No," answered William frankly, "but I possess a brother-in-law who has leanings towards Rosicrucianism. Next, please."

The next was a very searching, legally-worded inquiry. It demanded at great length to be informed whether William was a person who advocated the overthrow by force or violence of the Government of the Great Power, or all forms of Law, or believed in the propriety of assassinating any or every officer of the Great Power because of his official character.

William took up the paper-knife with an expression of sheer animal ferocity. "Yes," he hissed, "the whole lot. Torturing them, too!"--and fell back into his chair with peal upon peal of maniacal laughter.

* * * * * * *

William was practically a wreck before the inquisition came to an end. He had not even sufficient spirit left to fly at me for entering his distinguishing marks as "a general air of honesty, tempered by a slight inward squint."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The Board of Trade have awarded a silver cup to Mr. John Bruce, D.S.C., skipper of the steam drifter _Pansy_, of Wick, in recognition of the promptitude and ability with which he rescued the domestic servant, Strawberry Bank, Hardgate, pleaded guilty to having bemusic, stolen a gold safety pin, a fountain pen, two pairs of gloves, two blouses and several other articles of clothing."--_Fishing News._

We never believe these fishing stories.

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE HOME.

II.--THE DIAGNOSIS.

When Jimmy, our small but significant son, Is prey of a temper capricious and hot, And tires of a project as soon as begun, And wants what he hasn't, and hates what he's got, A dutiful father, I ponder and brood, Essaying by reason and logic to find The radical cause of the juvenile mood In the intricate growth of the juvenile mind.

But women and reason were never allies; The rule of a mother is logic of thumb; The trouble concerns, she is quick to surmise, His rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

O woman (though angel in moments of pain, When angels of pity are most _à propos_), Why, why won't you listen when husbands explain The things they have thought and the knowledge they know? And why do you smile when they beg to repeat? And why are you bored when they make it all clear? And why do you label their emphasis "heat," And bid them "Be careful; the servants may hear"?

The argument leaves me, though ever more sure, Reproachful and angry and sullen and dumb: It leaves her reforming my diet, to cure _My_ rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

HENRY.

* * * * *

ANIMAL HELPS.

(_By a Student of Domestic Economy._)

Living in a remote country district, where the difficulty of obtaining servants is at present insurmountable--the nearest "pictures" are twelve miles off--I have been much impressed and encouraged by two letters in recent issues of _The Spectator_. One describes a Bloomsbury grocer's cat that bought her own cat's-meat; another recounts the exploits of a spaniel belonging to a house painter and glazier at Yarmouth (Isle of Wight), which, if given a penny, would immediately amble off to a grocer's shop and purchase a cake.

Viewed in their true perspective, these exhibitions of animal intelligence seem to indicate fruitful possibilities of the employment of our dumb friends to assist us in these trying times. Many years ago I remember reading of a baboon which discharged the duties of a railway porter at a station in Cape Colony with great efficiency. I have unfortunately mislaid the reference, but so far as I can remember no mention was made of wages or tips; consequently the importation and employment of skilled simian labour on a large scale might go a long way towards reducing the expenses of our railway system.