Chapter 2

_Mrs. B._ (_with interest_). Can they spare him from the boot-shop?

_Janet_. He's left them. He's writing a play.

_Mrs. B._ (_concerned_). Dear, dear! And he used to be such a steady young fellow.

[_All that matters in their conversation is now finished, but as the play has got to be filled up they continue to talk for some ten minutes longer. At the end of that time_--

_Janet_ (_glancing at clock again_). It's half-past nine, and neither of they men back yet.

[_Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted, the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind. This is called realism._

_Mrs. B._ Listen! Yer feyther's comin' now.

[_A door in the far distance is heard to bang. At the same instant_ John Bullyum _enters quickly. He is the typical British parent of repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a gamekeeper and an undertaker._

_Bullyum_ (_He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks scornfully_). Well, here's a fine thing happened.

_Mrs. B._ What is it, feyther?

_Bully_, (_showing letter_). That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the impudence to write me asking for our Janet. But I've told him off to rights. He's nobbut a boot-builder.

_Janet_ (_in a level voice_). Ye're wrong there, feyther. Bob Inkslinger's a dramatist now.

_Bully_, (_thunderstruck_). What?

_Janet_ (_as before_). He's had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.

_Bully_. Great Powers, a repertory dramatist! And I've insulted him!--me, a town councillor. (_He has grown white to the lips; this is not easy, but can be managed._) There'll be a play about me--about us, this house-- everything. But (_passionately_) I'll thwart him yet. Janet, my girl, do thee write at once and say that I withdraw my opposition to the engagement.

_Janet_ (_dully_). But I don't want the man.

_Bully_, (_hectoring_). Am I your feyther or am I not? I tell you you shall marry him. And what's more, he shan't find us what he looks for. No, no (_with rising agitation_), he thinks that because I'm a town councillor I'm to be made game of, does he? Well, I'll learn him different! (_Glaring round_) This room--it's got to be changed. And you (_to_ Janet) put on a short frock, something lively and up-to-date--d' ye hear? At once!

_Mrs. B._ (_as_ Janet _only stares without moving_). Well, I never.

_Bully_. And let's have some books about the place--BERNARD SHAW--

_Janet_ (_icily_). He's a back number now, feyther.

_Bully_. Well, whoever's the latest. Then you must go to plays and dances, lots of dances. (_Struck with an idea_) Where's David?

[_As he speaks_ David _enters, a tall ungainly youth with spectacles and a projecting brow._

_David_. Here I yam, feyther.

_Bully_. It's close on ten. (_Hopefully_) Have ye been at a night-club?

_David_. I were kept late at evenin' class.

_Bully_. Brr! (_In an ecstasy of fury_) See ye belong to a night-club before the week's out. (_He does his glare again._) I'll establish frivolity and a spirit of modernism in this household, if I have to take the stick to every member of it.

_Janet_ (_springing up suddenly_). Feyther! (_A pause; she collects herself for her big effort._) Feyther, I'm one o' they dour silent girls to whom expression comes hardly, but (_with veiled menace_) when it does come it means fifteen minutes' unrelieved monologue. So tak' heed. We're not wanting these changes, and to be up-to-date, and all that. I'm happy as I am, and so's David. He has his hope of the council, and the bribes and them things. And I've my guild and my friends, with their odd clothes and variable accents. That's the life I want, and I won't change it. I won't--

[_Quite suddenly she breaks from them and rushes out of the room, slamming the door after her. The others remain silent, apparently from emotion, but really to see if there will be any applause. When this is settled in the negative old_ Bullyum _speaks again._

_Bully_, (_slowly and as if with an immense effort_). Why couldn't she wait?... She might have known we wouldn't decide anything--that we never do decide anything--because it would be too much like a rounded climax. Well (_rousing himself_), let's put out the gas. [_He moves heavily towards the conspicuous bracket._

_David_ (_protesting)_. But, feyther, 'tisn't near time for bed yet.

_Bully_, (_grimly_). Maybe; but 'tis more than time play was finished. And this is how.

[_He turns the tap. A few moments later the light is switched off with a faintly audible click, and upon a stage in total darkness the curtain falls._

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE WOBBLER.

My friend, whom for the purpose of concealing his identity I will call Wiggles, opened fire upon me on March 1st (coming in like a lion) with this:

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I have not been well and my doctor thinks it might do me good to come to Cornwall for a few weeks. May I invite myself to stay with you?..."

I accepted his invitation, if I may put it so, and on March 6th received the following:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I am not, as I think I said, at all well, and my doctor considers I had better break the journey at Plymouth, as it is a long way from Malvern to Cornwall. Would you recommend me some hotels to choose from? I hope to start by the middle of the month ..."

I recommended hotels, and on the 12th heard from him again:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I am very obliged to you. In this severe weather my doctor says that I cannot be too careful, and I doubt if I shall be able to start for ten days or so. Has your house a south aspect, and is it far from the sea? I require air but not wind. And could you tell me ..."

I told him all right, though as a guest I began to think him a little _exigeant_. But he was unwell.

On the 17th he answered me:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I understand you live _quite_ in the country. Would you tell me whether a doctor lives near to you and whether you have a chemist within reasonable distance? My doctor, who really understands my case, won't hear of my starting until the wind changes: but I hope ..."

I drew a map showing my house, the nearest chemist's shop, the doctor's surgery and a few other points of interest, such as Land's End and the Lizard. This I sent to him, and on the 22nd he replied:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I acknowledge your map with many thanks. There is one more thing. My doctor insists on a very special diet. Can your cook make porridge? I rely very largely on porridge for breakfast and ..."

I saw myself smiling at Lord DEVONPORT and wired back, "Have you ever known a cook who couldn't make porridge?"

And on the 27th he issued his ultimatum:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I have consulted my doctor and he thinks I ought not to tempt Providence by travelling at present, so I have decided to remain in Malvern. I do hope ..."

To this I replied:--

"DEAR WIGGLES,--Holding as you do the old pagan view of Providence, you are quite right not to tempt it. The loss is mine. I hope you will soon be rather less unwell."

Then I went away for three days without leaving an address, and when I returned it was to learn that Wiggles had arrived on the previous evening. And in my study I found him, together with four wires (two to say he wasn't coming and two to say he was) and a table loaded with prescriptions.

He eats enormously.

* * * * *

INKOMANIA.

(_Suggested by Mr. SIMONIS' recently published volume._)

O Street of Ink, O Street of Ink, Where printers and machinsts swink Amid the buzz and hum and clink; By night one cannot sleep a wink, There is no time to stop or think, One half forgets to eat or drink, One's brains are knotted in a kink, One always lives upon the brink Of "happenings" that strike one pink. One day the dollars gaily chink, The next your funds to zero shrink. And yet I'm such a perfect ninc- Ompoop I cannot break the link That binds me to the Street of Ink.

* * * * *

* * * * *

CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.

VI.

THE CAT AND THE KING.

The cat looked at the King.

She was the boldest cat in the world, but her heart stood still as she vindicated the immemorial right of her race.

What would the King say? What would the King do?

Would he call her up to sit on his royal shoulder? If so, she would purr her loudest to drown the beating of her heart, and she would rub her head against the royal ear. How splendid to be a royal cat!

Or perhaps he would appoint her Mouser to the King's Household, and she would keep the King's peace with tooth and claw.

Or perhaps she would become playmate to the Royal children, and live on cream and sleep all day on a silken cushion.

Or--and this is where her heart ceased to beat--perhaps she would pay the price of her temerity and the Hereditary Executioner would smite off her head.

She had put it boldly to the test, to sink or swim. What would the King do?

The King rose slowly from his throne and passed out to his own apartments, whilst all the Court bowed.

The King had not noticed the cat.

* * * * *

THE RULING PASSION.

"A Russian official accredited to this country, in an interview with a representative of the Morning Post yesterday, said:--Potatoes."-- _Evening Times and Echo_ (_Bristol_).

* * * * *

"I could well enter into the feelings of this lad's colonel when, with a lint in his eye, he descrihimbed as 'a riceless youngster.'"--_Civil and Military Gazette_.

We fear that the insertion of the bandage in the colonel's eye must have prevented him from forming a true appreciation of the young fellow.

* * * * *

Headline to a leading article in _The Evening News_:--

"WATCH ITALY AND RUSSIA."

Extract from same:--

"We ought to keep our eyes fixed on the Western front."

Correspondents should address their inquiries to Carmelite, Squinting House Square.

* * * * *

HERBS OF GRACE.

VI.

ROSEMARY.

Whenas on summer days I see That sacred herb, the Rosemary, The which, since once Our Lady threw Upon its flow'rs her robe of blue, Has never shown them white again, But still in blue doth dress them-- _Then, oh, then_ _I think upon old friends and bless them._

And when beside my winter fire I feel its fragrant leaves suspire, Hung from my hearth-beam on a hook, Or laid within a quiet book There to awake dear ghosts of men When pages ope that press them-- _Then, oh, then_ _I think upon old friends and bless them._

The gentle Rosemary, I wis, Is Friendship's herb and Memory's. Ah, ye whom this small herb of grace Brings back, yet brings not face to face, Yea, all who read these lines I pen, Would ye for truth confess them? _Then, oh, then_ _Think upon old friends and bless them._

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, April 2nd_.--The MINISTER OF MUNITIONS informed the House that, owing to the demand for explosives, there is a shortage of acid for artificial fertilisers. It is rumoured that Mr. SNOWDEN, Mr. OUTHWAITE and Mr. PRINGLE, feeling that it is up to them to do something useful for their country, have placed at Dr. ADDISON'S disposal a selection from the speeches delivered by them during the War, containing an abundant supply of the necessary commodity.

Mr. JOSEPH MARTIN has all the migratory instincts of his well-known family, and flits from East St. Pancras to British Columbia and back again with engaging irregularity. On his rare visits to Westminster he is always ready to impart in a somewhat strident voice (another family characteristic) the political wisdom that he has garnered from the New World and the Old. But somehow the House fails to take him at his own valuation, and when he tried to belittle the Imperial Conference, on the ground that the Dominion Premier and his colleagues would be much better employed at home, I think there was a general feeling that the physician would be none the worse for a dose of his own prescription.

Cheers greeted little Mr. STEPHEN WALSH as he stepped to the Table to give his first answer as Parliamentary Secretary to the Ministry of National Service. There were more cheers (in which, had etiquette permitted, the Press Gallery would have liked to join) when it was found that the new Minister needed no megaphone, every word being audible all over the House. And when finally he gave Mr. PRINGLE a much-needed corrective, by telling him that if he wanted further information he must put a Question down, the House cheered again. So far as a single incident enables one to judge, another representative of Labour has "made good."

Viscount VALENTIA has gone to the Lords, and the Commons will henceforth miss the elegant and well-groomed figure which lent distinction to a Treasury Bench not in these days too careful of the Graces. Happily Oxford City has found another distinguished man to succeed him. Mr. J.A.R. MARRIOTT may indeed be said to have obtained a Parliamentary reputation even before, strictly speaking, he was a Member. Usually the taking of the oath is a private affair between the neophyte and the Clerk, and the House hears nothing more than a confused murmur before the ceremony is concluded by the new Member kissing the Book or--more often in these days--adopting the Scottish fashion of holding up the right hand. Oxford's elect would have none of this. Like the Highland chieftain, "she just stude in the middle of ta fluir and swoor at lairge." Not since Mr. BRADLAUGH insisted upon administering the oath to himself has the House been so much stirred; even Members loitering in the Lobby could almost have heard the ringing tones in which Mr. MARRIOTT proclaimed his allegiance to our Sovereign Lord, KING GEORGE THE FIFTH.

_Tuesday, April 3rd_.--Mr. KING really displays a good deal of ingenuity in his endeavours to get men out of the Army. His latest notion is that all Commanding Officers at home should be ordered to give leave to those men who have gardens so that they may return to cultivate them. There would, no doubt, be a remarkable development of horticultural enthusiasm among our home forces if the War Office were to smile upon the idea; but, though fully alive to the value of food-production, the UNDER-SECRETARY was unable to assent to this wide extension of "agricultural furlough."

A request by the Press Bureau that newspapers would submit for its approval any articles dealing with disputes in the coal-trade gave umbrage to several Members, who saw in it an attempt by the Government to fetter public criticism. Mr. BRACE mildly explained that the object was only to prevent the appearance of inaccurate statements likely to cause friction in an inflammable trade. When Mr. KING still protested, Mr. BRACE again showed that his velvet paw conceals a very serviceable weapon. "Surely the Honourable Member does not believe that inaccurate statements can ever be helpful." Then there was silence.

Mr. BONAR LAW stoutly denied that the National Service scheme was a failure, but admitted that the Cabinet was looking into it with a view to its improvement. Up to the present some 220,000 men have volunteered, but as about half of these are already engaged on work of national importance Mr. NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN is still a long way short of his hoped-for half-a-million ready, like the British Army, to go anywhere and do anything.

A telegram from the British Ambassador at Washington, stating that President WILSON'S War-speech had been very well received, and that Congress was expected to take his advice, gave great satisfaction. As the MINISTER FOR AGRICULTURE observed, "The outlook for early potatoes may be doubtful, but our SPRING-RICE promises excellently."

Mr. PROTHERO has made up his alleged differences with the SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR, and signalized the treaty of peace first by snuggling up to Mr. MACPHERSON on the Treasury Bench, and next by handsomely supporting the new Military Service Bill. In return the UNDER-SECRETARY FOR WAR introduced a much-needed amendment by which men wholly engaged on food-production may be exempted by the Board of Agriculture from the process of "re-combing" now to be applied to the rest of the population.

_Wednesday, April 4th._--Mr. SNOWDEN disapproves of the selection of the two Labour Members who are to form part of a deputation about to proceed to Petrograd to convey to the Russian Government the congratulations of the British people. Possibly the neckties of the proposed envoys are not of a sufficiently sanguinary shade, or their brows are not lofty enough to proclaim them true "leaders of thought." The suggestion that the Member for Blackburn should himself be despatched to Petrograd (without a return ticket) has been regretfully abandoned.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PREPARED FOR THE WORST.

Extract from a Canadian lease-form:--

"Will during the said term keep and at its expiration leave the premises in good repair (reasonable wear and tear and accidents by fire or tempest expected)."

* * * * *

"Gentleman single letterarian sportsman 5 linguages tennant pretty little cottage charmingly situated between Montreux Vevey, complete sanitary accommodations vicinity boat, seabaths, golf-grounds excursions receives PAYING GUEST moderate terms, Prussians and Austro-Germans, alcoholists undesired."-- _Swiss Paper._

We do not quite know what a single letterarian is, but he seems to be a person of discriminating taste.

* * * * *

"AVIARIES, POULTRY AND PETS.

Lady ----'s Teeth Society, Ltd.--Gas 2s., teeth at hospital prices, weekly if desired."--_Daily Paper_.

We are not told under which category Lady ----'s dentures come, but venture to point out that in these days no one should make a pet of them.

* * * * *

MAXIMS OF THE MONTHS.

(_Composed during the recent Spring snowstorm._)

From January's start to close It rains or hails or sleets or snows.

For atmospherical vagaries The palm perhaps is February's.

To say March exits like a lamb Is Falsehood's very grandest slam.

April may smile in Patagonia, But here it always breeds pneumonia.

May, alternating sun and blizzard, Plays havoc with the stoutest gizzard.

No part of England is immune From frost and thunder-storms in June.

Only the suicide lays by His thickest hose throughout July.

August, in spite of dog-days' heat, For floods is very hard to beat.

The equinoctial gales, remember, Are at their worst in mid-September.

Old folk, however hale and sober, Die very freely in October.

November with its clammy fogs The bronchial region chokes and clogs.

December, with its dearth of sun, For sheer discomfort takes the bun.

* * * * *

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.

In the course of a recent search for Italian conversation manuals I came upon one which put so strangely novel a complexion on our own tongue that, though it was not quite what I was seeking, I bought it. To see ourselves as others see us may be a difficult operation, but to hear ourselves as others hear us is by this little book made quite easy. Everyone knows the old story of the Italian who entered an East-bound omnibus in the Strand and asked to be put down at Kay-ahp-see-day. Well, this book should prevent him from doing it again.

But its great attraction is the courageous personality of the protagonist as revealed by his various remarks. For example, most of us who are not linguists confine our conversations in foreign places to the necessities of life, rarely leaving the beaten track of bread and butter, knives and forks, the times of trains, cab fares, the way to the station, the way to the post-office, hotel prices and washing lists. And even then we disdain or flee from syntax. But this conversationalist embroiders and dilates. He is intrepid. He has no reluctances. Where we in Italy would, at the most, say to the _cameriere_, "_Portaci una tazza di caffè_," and think ourselves lucky to get it, he lures the London waiter to invite a disquistion on the precious berry. Thus, he begins: "Còffi is rI-marchêbl fòr iZ vèrE stim-iùlêtin pròpèRtÊ. Du ju nô hau it uòs discòvvaRd?" The waiter very promptly and properly saying, "Nô, Sôr," the Italian unloads as follows: "Uèl, ai uil tèl ju thèt iZ discòvvarê is sêd tu hèv bin òchêsciònt bai thi fòllôin sôrcòmstanZ. Som gôtS, hu brauS-t òp-òn thi plènt fròm huicc thi còffi sîds aR gàthaRd, ueaR òbsèrv-D bai thi gôthaRds tu bi èchsîdinglE uêchful, ènd òfn tu chêpaR èbaut in thi nait; thi pràioR Ôv ê nêbArin mònnastErE, uiscin tu chip his mònchs êuêch èt thèaR mat-tins, traid if thi côffi ud prôdiùS thi sêm èffècht òp-òn thèm, ès it uòs òbsèrv-D tu du òp-òn thi gôtS; thi sòch-sès òv his èchspèrimènt lèd tu thi apprèsciêsciòn òv iZ valliù."

A little later a London bookseller has the temerity to place some of the latest fiction before our chatty alien, but pays dearly for his rash act. In these words did the Italian let him have it:--"Ai du nòt laich nòv-èls èt òl, bicô-S ê nòv-èl is bàt ê fichtisciòs têl stof-T òv sô mènE fantastical dîds ènd nònsènsical wòrDs, huicc òpsèt maind ènd hàRt. An-hêppe thô-S an-uêrE jòngh pèrsòns, hu spènd thèaR prê-sciòs taim in ridin nòv-èls! Thê du nòt nô thèt nòv-èllists, gènnèrallE spichin, aR thi laitèst ènd thi môst huim-sical raittaRs, hu hèv uêstèd ènd uêst thèaR laif in liùdnès."

English people abroad do not, as a rule, drop aphorisms by the way; but our Italian loves to do so. Thus, to one stranger (in the section devoted to Virtues and Vices), he remarks, "Uith-aut Riligiòn ui sciùd bi uòrS thèn bîsts." To another, "Thi igotist spîchs còntinniùallE òv himself ènd mêchs himsèlf thi sèntaR òv èvvèrE thingh." And to a third, a little tactlessly perhaps, "Impólait-nès is disgòstin." He is sententious even to his hatter: "Ê hèt sciùd bi prôpôrsciònD tu thi hèd ènd pèrsòn, fòr it is lâf-èbl tu sî ê laRgg hèt òp-òn ê smòl hèd, ènd ê smòl hèt òp-òn ê laRgg hèd." But sometimes he goes all astray. He is, for instance, desperately ill-informed as to English law. In England, he tells us, and believes the pathetic fallacy, "thi trêns stàrt ènd arraiv vèrE pòngh-ciùAllE, òthaR-uais passèn-giàRs hu arraiv-lêt fòr thèaR bis-nès cud siù thi CompAnE fôr dèm-êgg-S."

He is calm and collected in an emergency. Thus, to a lady who has burst into flames, "Bi not êfrêd, Madam," he says, "thi faiR hès còt jur gaun. Lé daun òp-òn thi flòR, ènd ju uil put aut thi faiR uith jur hèndS." His presence of mind saves him from using his own hands for the purpose. Resourcefulness is indeed as natural to him as to Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN in the famous poem. "Uilliam," he says to his man, "if ènEbòdE asch-s fòr mi, ju uil sê thèt ai scèl bi bèch in ê fòrt-nait."