Chapter 3

"Quite so. Why, Boy, did we let out the Secrets of the Blue Bag, the contents of Old Nick's Sack, which that 'stupid old snuff-colour'd son of a gun,' Saint Medard 'cut into slits on the Red Sea shore' would be _nothing_ to 'em!"

"Nothink at all, Sir; nothink, wotsomedever!"

"No matter--a time will come, Boy! In Mr. WILLIAM MELMOTH WALTERS's speech I see the dawn of it.

"'The Profession, it is true, does not receive in any great measure those official dignities and rewards which the President claims on its behalf, nor are we quite confident that, if it did, the fact would increase the confidence or the respect of its clients.'

"Well, the _Times_ may not be 'quite confident.' _I_ am! And so would the clients be, I'm sure. Remove that Blue Bag, Boy! Wonder what _Mr. Pickwick's_ opinion of Mr. WALTERS's speech would have been, and that of the _Wellers_, father and son! [_Sings._

"I'll place it in the hand of my Solicitors; I'll have this thing put right. We _may_ make money, But--isn't it funny!-- Few 'dignities' Solicitors delight!"

[_Left considering it._

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FROM DARKEST AFRICA.

Mrs. SHELDON is back from her travels abroad. Were she only a man, we should hail her as manly! As it is, there are some who, in wishing to laud, Are accustomed to call her the feminine STANLEY. But now this adventurous, much-daring she Through such perils has gone, and so gallantly held on, In time that's to come Mr. STANLEY may be Merely known to us all as the male Mrs. SHELDON!

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MOTTO FOR THE OPPONENTS OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.--No noose is good news! (But what will grim Lord GRIMTHORPE say?)

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The Cheapest Insurance Office must be the _Fee-nix_.

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STORICULES.

II.--THE BACK-VIEW.

The boy had gone out to get change.

I was waiting in the studio, listening to the photographer. He was in quite a small way of business, and no one would have expected him to have any change for anything. I was sitting on a rustic stile, with a Greek temple and some wilted Spiræas in the background. He was in the dark room, busy, splashing liquids about, and reminiscent. I still believe that he thought the time of waiting would seem shorter to me if he talked. The whole place seemed to suggest financial difficulties, and smelt of chemicals.

"You remember the Punyer case?" he asked. His voice sounded thin and far-off through the closed door of the dark room.

I did. PUNYER had been a cashier, and had absconded with rather more than the usual amount.

"Well, I had some dealings with PUNYER. As a cashier he was certainly dishonest, but as a man he was absolutely reliable, and nothing would induce him to break his word. I know that to be a fact from my personal experience of the man; indeed, it was through me that he was identified--or, rather, through one of my photographs."

"Really?"

"Yes. On the day that he absconded, a four-wheeler drove up to this house. The driver got off, and sent a message up to the studio that a gentleman in a cab outside wished to speak to me. So, of course, I went out. Inside the cab I found a man wearing a thick green veil. He explained to me that his face had been injured in a railway accident, and that he could not allow it to be seen by any one. He wanted me to photograph the back of his head. He knew that the request was unusual. 'But,' he said, pathetically, 'my few friends have got to know the back of my head, just as they know the faces of others who are--who are less unfortunate than myself. The doctors tell me that I have not long to live, and my friends are eager to have some slight memento of me.' I was much moved, and I agreed to photograph him at once."

"The man was PUNYER?"

"Of course. The photograph of the back of his head turned out admirably--clear and full of character."

"But why did he get photographed at all?"

"You shall hear; it all came out afterwards. I have already told you that PUNYER, in his private capacity, was a man of his word. It appears that he was engaged to a Miss MIRANDA BUDE. Indeed, it was to her that I was to send the photographs when they were finished. He had promised her that he would have his photograph taken for her on his birthday; and the day on which he absconded happened to be his birthday. He could not break his promise. What was he to do? At first he disguised himself as far as he could; he shaved off his luxurious beard and moustache; he had his long fair hair closely cropped and stained black. But there was on his face one certain mark of identification which he could not alter nor remove. It was a slight scar, extending diagonally across his forehead; when he was a child he once fell into the fender, and the mark had remained ever since. At last the bright idea occurred to him that he might have the back of his head photographed instead of his face, and so keep his promise to MIRANDA. It was really a brilliant idea. For there was absolutely nothing in the view of the back of his head by which he _could_ be identified."

"But you told me just now that he actually _was_ identified by your photograph."

"So he was;--I was just going to explain. I was sitting in my studio one day, touching up the photographs of the back-view of PUNYER, when in came a detective from Scotland Yard. From his appearance, a detective was the last thing on earth that you would have taken him to be."

"They generally say that in the detective stories," I said, meditatively.

"If you think I'm making this up--"

"No, no,--not at all. Go on."

"Well, he told me his business, and I at once showed him one of the photographs, telling him under what circumstances they were taken. He examined it carefully. 'Ah!' he said, 'if I only could prove that this was PUNYER, I should be able to complete my case, and my advancement would be certain. In my own mind I am convinced of it, but at present I cannot prove it. PUNYER had a scar on his face. It was like his devilish cunning to have only the back of his head photographed!' He was just leaving, when suddenly a new idea seemed to flash across him. He seized the photograph, and rushed across to the mirror. You know that if anything is written backwards, you can read it by holding it up to a looking-glass. So, of course, the detective, by holding up the photograph of the back-view, saw the full-face reflected. The scar showed just above the green veil, and consequently--"

At this point the boy returned with my change. The photographer had locked himself into the dark room, and I could not get at him; the law gives a man no redress under such circumstances, and so I came away.

I might have got over the story, perhaps; but my change, I found afterwards, was sixpence short, and that is not so easy to forgive.

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"ENTERTAINMENT."

["People of this high class (Royal Highnesses, &c.) are said to 'entertain' visitors, but that is an inversion of the actual fact; their object is to be entertained. And quite right too. Nothing can surely be more delightful than to have one's house full of friends at will, and then be able to turn them out at a moment's notice (as a life-boat gets rid of superfluous water) by that simple mechanism of a Chamberlain. When the Social System attains its acmé, all of us will have a Chamberlain and be entertained."--JAMES PAYN.]

_Host_ (_concerning Guest_):--

The twenty-first day, and no signs of a budge!-- And it isn't for want of "suggestion." I begin to suspect Hospitality's fudge, Meaning--mutually ruined digestion! He _is_ such a bore, and his wife is _so_ fat, And as fond of her bed as a dormouse. My girls say--in confidence--_she_ is a cat; I'm sure he's a prig and a poor-mouse. I fancied he'd "influence," which he might use For DICK, our third son, who's a duffer. It doesn't come off, and I really refuse In DICK's interests longer to suffer. PAYN's right, and a Chamberlain would be a boon. Ah! I know so precisely what PAYN meant. What! Be entertained--by one's guests? I'd as soon From a locust-swarm seek--Entertainment!

_Guest_ (_concerning Host_):--

Hah! He wants to get rid of us, currish old cub! But, although it's by no means amusing, My only alternative now is the Club. Confound Mrs. JONES for refusing McMUNGO's "invite" into Scotland. She thought This crib was as swell, and more cosy. She hoped, too, to meet that young MAGNUS MCNAUGHT, Who once seemed so sweet on our ROSIE. We're bored to extinction, and BLOGGS is a "foots"; If we're late down to breakfast, he snorts at us. He worries our lives out with pic-nics and shoots, And will flourish his Clarets and Ports at us. My wife likes her ease and her breakfast in bed; I hate cellar-swagger and scurry. Entertainment indeed! We're as lumpish as lead When we're not on the whirl or the worry. But turn out to-morrow, my BLOGGS? No, not me, Though I know what your "little hints" signify. Your "dear DICK" forsooth! Such a noodle as he The title of "duffer" would dignify You've given up hope about him, and so now You would have us "make room." Not precisely! Till the Tenth, when we're due at Dunclacket, somehow "The Doldrums" will do pretty nicely. PAYN's right. With "high rank and no manners," a man His guests may "evict" at his pleasure; But BLOGGS--till he hits on some "Chamberlain" plan-- Must leave 'em to flit at their leisure. I made up my mind when I came to this place; For a month, at the least, to remain meant. Though now my amusement at BLOGGS's wry face Is nearly my sole "Entertainment."

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