Chapter 2

"We 'ad two or three fellers in the crowd for'ard that voyage as would 'andle anything as wasn't too 'ot or too 'eavy which explains why I got into a 'abit of slippin' my bits o' vallybles, such as joolery, into a bit of a cache I found all nice and 'andy in the planking' back o' my bunk.

"We 'ad a long passage of it 'ome, a 'undred-and-sixty days from Portland, Oregon, to London River, an' what with thinkin' of the thumpin' lump o' pay I'd have to draw an' one thing an' another, I clean forgot all about the ring I'd left cached in the little place back o' my bunk yonder.

"Well, I drew my pay all right, and after a bit I tramped it to Liverpool, to look out for another ship. An' the first person I met in Liverpool was the young woman I 'ad the ring of.

"'Where's my ring?' she says, before I'd time to look round.

"Now, I never was one as liked 'avin' words with a woman, so I pitched her a nice yarn about the cache I 'ad at the back o' my bunk, an' 'ow I vallied 'er ring that 'igh I stowed it there to keep it safe, an' 'ow I'd slid down the anchor cable an' swum ashore an' left everything I 'ad behind me, I was that red-'ot for a sight of 'er.

"'Ye didn't,' she says quite ratty, 'ye gave it to one o' them nasty yaller gals ye sing about.'

"'I didn't,' I says; 'Ye did,' she says; 'I didn't,' says I. An' we went on like that for a bit until I says at last, 'If I can get aboard the old _Pearl_ again,' I says, 'I'll get the ring,' I says, 'an' send it you in a letter,' I says, 'an' then per'aps you'll be sorry for the nasty way you've spoke to me,' I says.

"'Ho, yes,' she says, sniffy-like, 'per'aps I will, per'aps I won't,' an' off she goes with 'er nose in the air.

"My next ship was for Frisco to load grain; and I made sure of droppin' acrost the _Pearl_ there, for she was bound the same way. But I never did. She was dismasted in the South Pacific on the outward passage, and had to put in to one of them Chile ports for repairs. So she never got to Frisco until after we sailed for 'ome. An' that was the way it went on. She kep' dodgin' me all over the seven seas, an' the nearest I got to 'er was when we give 'er a cheer off Sydney Heads, outward bound, when we was just pickin' up our pilot. The last I 'eard of 'er after that was from a feller that 'ad seen 'er knockin' round the South Pacific, sailin' out o' Carrizal or Antofagasta or one o' them places. I was in the Western Ocean mail-boat service at the time, and so o' course she was off my run altogether.

"I was still in the same mail-boat when she give up the passenger business an' went on the North Sea patrol.

"Well, one day we boarded a Chile barque in the ordinary course o' duty, and I was one o' those as went on board with the lootenant. They generally takes me on them jobs, the reason bein' that I know a deal o' foreign languages. I don't believe there's a country in the world where I couldn't make myself understood, partic'lar when I'm wantin' a drink bad.

"I wasn't takin' that much notice of this 'ere ship at the time (there was a bit of a nasty jobble on the water, for one thing, and we 'ad our work cut out gettin' alongside), except that 'er name was the _Maria de Somethink-or-other_--some Dago name. But while we was waitin' for the lootenant to finish 'is business with Old Monkey Brand, which was the black-faced Chileno captain she 'ad, it come over me all of a suddent.

"'Strike me pink!' I says, 'may my name be Dennis if I 'aven't seen that there bit o' fancy-work on the poop ladder rails before;' which so I 'ad, for I done it myself in the doldrums, an' a nice bit o' work it was, too.

"You'll 'ave guessed by now that she was none other than the _Pearl of Asia_; an' no wonder I 'adn't reckernised 'er, what with the mess she was in alow and aloft, an' allyminian paint all over the poop railin's as would 'ave made our old blue-nose mate die o' rage.

"'You carry on 'ere,' I says to the feller that was with me; 'I'm goin' for'ard a minute.'

"'Arf a minute, an' I was in my old bunk; an' there was the cache all right, just like I left it."

He paused dramatically; I supposed it was for histrionic effect, but it lasted so long that I said, "And so I suppose you sent the ring to the girl after all?"

"Oh! '_er!_" he said, with an air of surprise, "I've forgot 'er name and all about 'er, only that she 'ad a brother in one o' them monkey-boats of ELDER DEMPSTER'S--'e 'ad the biggest thirst I ever struck."

"But the ring?" I said. "I suppose it was there all right?"

He stopped his pipe down with his thumb, with an enigmatical expression.

"That's where the bloomin' coincidence come in," he said; "it weren't."

C.F.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Miss ----, the World-renounced Teacher of Dancing."--_Southern Standard_.

Another victim of the War.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO TOWSER.

No pampered pound of peevish fluff That goggles from a lady's muff Art thou, my Towser. In the Park Thy form occasions no remark Unless it be a friendly call From soldiers walking in the Mall, Or the impertinence of pugs Stretched at their ease on carriage rugs. For thou art sturdy and thy fur Is rougher than the prickly burr, Thy manners brusque, thy deep "bow wow" (Inherited, but Lord knows how!) Far other than the frenzied yaps That emanate from ladies' laps, Thou art, in fact, of doggy size And hast the brown and faithful eyes, So full of love, so void of blame, That fill a master's heart with shame Because he knows he never can Be more a dog and less a man. No champion of a hundred shows, The prey of every draught that blows, Art thou; in fact thy charms present The earmarks of a mixed descent. And, though too proud to start a fight With every cur that looms in sight, None ever saw thee quail beneath A foeman worthy of thy teeth. Thou art, in brief, a model hound, Not so much beautiful as sound In heart and limb; not always strong When nose and eyes impel to wrong, Nor always doing just as bid, But sterling as the minted quid. And I have loved thee in my fashion, Shared with thy face my frugal ration, Squandered my balance at the bank When thou didst chew the postman's shank, And gone in debt replacing stocks Of private cats and Plymouth Rocks. And, when they claimed the annual fee That seals the bond twixt thee and me, Against harsh Circumstance's edge Did I not put my fob in pledge And cheat the minions of excise Who otherwise had ta'en thee prize? And thou with leaps of lightsome mood Didst bark eternal gratitude And seek my feelings to assail With agitations of the tail. Yet are there beings lost to grace Who claim that thou art out of place, That when the dogs of war are loose Domestic kinds are void of use, And that a chicken or a hog Should take the place of every dog, Which, though with appetite endued, Is not itself a source of food. What! shall we part? Nay, rather we'll Renounce the cheap but wholesome meal That men begrudge us, and we'll take Our leave of bones and puppy cake. Back to the woods we'll hie, and there Thou'lt hunt the fleet but fearful hare, Pursue the hedge's prickly pig, Dine upon rabbits' eggs and dig With practised paw and eager snuffle The shy but oh! so toothsome truffle. ALGOL.

* * * * *

"A landslide in Monmouthshire threatens to close the natural course of the River Ebbw, seriously interfering with its ffllww."--_Star_.

It certainly sounds rather diverting.

* * * * *

From a list of gramophone records:--

"Nothing could seem easier in the wide world than the emission of the cascade of notes that falls from the mouth of the horn--which might indeed be Tetrazzini's own mouth."

"The diameter of my own gramophone horn is eighteen inches," writes the sender of the extract.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

TAXIS AND TALK.

Conversation in the streets of London has never been easy; not, at any rate, until the small hours, when the best of it is done. But it becomes even more complex when one of the talkers is pressed for time and wants a taxi, and disengaged taxis are as rare as new jokes in a revue.

Let the following dialogue prove it. I leave open the question whether or not I have reported the real terms of our conversation, merely reminding you that two men together, removed from the frivolity of women, tend, even in the street and when the thermometer is below freezing-point, to a high seriousness rare when the sexes are mingled.

Imagine us facing a wind from the east composed of steel filings and all uncharity. We are somewhere in Chelsea, and for some reason or other, or none at all, I am accompanying him.

_He_ (_looking at his watch_). I've got to be at Grosvenor Gardens by half-past one and there's not a taxi anywhere. We must walk fast and perhaps we'll meet one. Dash this War anyhow. (_He said, as a matter of fact, "damn," but I am getting so tired of that word, in print that I shall employ alternatives every time. Someone really must institute a close season for "damns" or they won't any longer be funny on the stage; and, since to laugh in theatres has become a national duty, that, in the present state of the wit market, would be privation indeed._)

_I_ (_submerged by brain wave_). Perhaps we'll meet one.

_He._ Keep a sharp look out, won't you? I 've got to be there by half-past one, and I hate to be late.

_I._ Those tailors you were asking me about--I think you'll find them very decent people. They----

_He_ (_excitedly_). Here comes one. Hi! Hi!

[_A taxi, obviously full of people, approaches and passes, the driver casting a pitying glance at my poor signalling friend._

_He._ I thought it was free.

_I._ The flag was down.

_He._ I couldn't be sure. What were you saying? Sorry.

_I._ Oh, only about those tailors. If you really want to change, you know, I could----

_He._ Do you mind walking a little faster?

_I_ (_mendaciously_). Not at all. I could give you my card, don't you know. But of course you might not like them. Tastes differ. To me they seem to be first-rate, as tailors go.

_He_ (_profoundly--though he is not more profound than I am_). Of course, as tailors go.

_I._ They 're best at----

_He_ (_excited again_). Here's another. Hi! Hi! Taxi. No, it's engaged.

_I_ (_with a kind impulse_). If you'll ask me, I'll tell you whether the flags are up or not. I think I must be able to see farther than you.

_He._ Do.

_I._ I was always rather famous for long sight. It's----

_He (turning round)_). Isn't that one behind us? Is that free?

_I._ I can't tell yet.

_He._ Surely the flag's up.

[_He steps into the road and waves his stick._

_I._ It's a private car.

_He._ Hang the thing! so it is. They ought to be painted white or something. Life is not worth living just now.

_I._ They're best for trousers, I should say. Their overcoats----

_He_ (_pointing up side-street_). Isn't that one there? Hi, taxi! Good heavens, that other fellow's got it. We really must walk faster. If there isn't one on the rank in Sloane Square, I'm done. If there's one thing I hate it's being late. Besides, I'm blamed hungry. When I'm hungry I'm miserable till I eat. No good to anyone.

_I._ As I was saying----

_He._ What I want to know is, where are the taxis? They're not on the streets, anyway; then where are they? One never sees a yard full of them, but they must be somewhere. It's a scandal--a positive outrage.

_I._ Their overcoats can be very disappointing. I don't know how it is, but they don't seem to understand overcoats. But they're so good in other ways, you know, that really if you are thinking----

_He._ Here's one, really empty. Hi! Hi! Taxi! Hi! Hi!

[_The flag is up but the driver shakes his head, makes a noise which sounds like "dinner" and glides serenely on._

_He._ Well, I'm blamed! Did you ever see anything like it? What's that he said?

_I._ It sounded like "dinner."

_He._ Dinner! Of all the something cheek! Dinner! What's the world coming to?

_I_ (_brilliantly_). Perhaps he's hungry.

_He._ Hungry! Greedy, you mean. Hansom drivers never refused to take you because they were hungry. It's monstrous. Bless the War, anyway. (_Looking at his watch_) I say, we must put a spurt on. You don't mind, do you?

_I_ (_more mendaciously, and wondering why I'm so weak_). Oh, no.

[_We both begin to scuttle, half run and half walk._

_I_ (_panting_). As I was saying, they're not A1 at overcoats, but they've a first-class cutter for everything else. Just tell me if you want to change and I'll introduce you, and then you'll get special treatment. There's nothing they wouldn't do for me.

_He_ (_breathlessly_). Ah! There's the rank. There's just one cab there. How awful if it were to be taken before he saw us. Run like Heaven.

_I_ (_running like Heaven_). I think I'll leave you here.

_He_ (_running still more like Heaven, a little ahead_). Oh no, come on. I want to hear about those tailors. Hi! Hi! Wave your stick like Heaven!

[_We both wave our sticks like Heaven._

_He_ (_subsiding into a walk_). Ah! it's all right. He's seen us. (_Taking out his watch_) I've got four minutes. We shall just do it. Good-bye.

[_He leaps into the cab and I turn away wondering where I shall get lunch._

_He_ (_shouting from window_). Let me know about those tailors some day; if they're any good, you know.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"'The best people are still wearing their own clothes,' said Mr. Williams."--_Star_.

With all respect, Mr. WILLIAMS, the best people are wearing the KING'S.

* * * * *

"DONKEYS.--Wanted to purchase 100 reasonable. Apply M.S." _Advt. in Colonial Paper_.

We have never met this kind of donkey ourselves, but we wish M.S. the best of luck.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"ANTHONY IN WONDERLAND."

It was not till about the middle of the play, and after a narcotic had been administered to him, that _Anthony_ got there; but we were in Wonderland almost from the start, without the aid of drugs. For we were asked to believe that Mr. CHARLES HAWTREY was a visionary, amorous of an ideal which no earthly woman could realise for him. Occasionally he had caught a glimpse of it in the creations of Art--at the Tate Gallery or Madame TUSSAUD'S or the cinema; but in Bond Street never.

And the pity of it was that he had come in for a fortune of seven hundred thousand pounds odd, which would pass elsewhere unless he married by a given date. It was therefore the clear duty of his relatives--a couple of sisters and their husbands--to find a wife for him. After vainly trying him with every pretty woman of their acquaintance they had resort, in desperation, to the black art of a certain _Mr. Mortimer John_ (U.S.A.), an infallible inventor of stunts, who made a rapid diagnosis of the case and at once pronounced himself confident of success.

Briefly--for it is a long and elaborate story--his scheme is to choose a charming girl, and make a film drama round her. _Anthony_, with family, is taken to see the show and occupies the best box in the Prince of Wales's Theatre, from which, after a little critical comment upon us in the audience, he falls in love with the heroine. It is the typical film of lurid life on a Californian ranch, and might almost have been modelled on one of Mr. Punch's cinema burlesques. There are the familiar scenes of a plot to hang the girl's lover, swiftly alternating with scenes of her progress on horseback through the primeval forest, and concluding with her arrival just in time to shoot the villain and untie the noose that encircles her lover's carotid.

On the return of the party from the cinema, _Mortimer John_ describes to _Anthony_ the powers of a drug which induces the most vivid of dreams. He, _John_, had once been in _Anthony's_ pitiful case, and through the services of this drug had achieved his quest of the ideal woman. _Anthony_, greatly intrigued, consents to swallow a sample of the potion. It is a simple narcotic, and under its influence he is conveyed, in a state of coma and a suitable change of apparel, into the heart of Surrey, where at sunrise he is restored to animation and has the scenes of the evening's drama re-enacted before his eyes, as originally filmed for exhibition. Under the impression that this is merely the vivid dream that he had been promised, he himself takes part in the living drama, playing the noble _rôle_ of an exceptionally white man. In the course of it he exchanges pledges of eternal love with _Aloney_ the heroine. Finally, in a spasm of heroic self-sacrifice, he takes poison with the alleged purpose of saving the heroine's life. We never quite gather how his suicide should serve this end, but then the whole atmosphere is charged with that obscurity which is the very breath of the film-drama.

The poison is nothing worse than another dose of the narcotic, and under its spell he is spirited back to London, where, on arrival, he is confronted with the lady of his "dream," and _Mortimer John_ secures a colossal fee. In addition, for he has had the happy thought of selecting his own daughter for the heroine, he secures a plutocrat for his son-in-law.

The worst of a play in which one is conducted out of ordinary life into the regions of improbability by processes of which every step has to be just conceivably possible, is that the conscientious development of the scheme is apt to be tedious. And, frankly, the first scene or two, though lightened by expectation, were on the heavy side.

But the film itself, when we got to it, was excellent fooling, and the reconstruction of the original drama at Dorking-in-the-Wild-West was really delightful. You can easily guess that Mr. CHARLES HAWTREY, as a cinema hero, very conscious of his heroism ("it's a way we have in Montague Square"), but always comfortably aware that in a dream, as he imagines it to be, he can well afford to make the handsomest of sacrifices, had a great chance. And he took it.

As the heroine, who has to play a rather thankless part in the mercenary designs of her parent, Miss WINIFRED BARNES contrived, very naïvely and prettily, to preserve an air of maiden reluctance under the most discouraging conditions. As _Mortimer John_ Mr. SYDNEY VALENTINE had admirable scope for his sound and businesslike methods. Of _Anthony's_ relations, all very natural and human, Miss LYDIA BILBROOKE was an attractive figure, and the part of _Herbert Clatterby_, K.C., was played by Mr. EDMUND MAURICE with his accustomed ease of manner.

If I wanted to find fault with any detail of the construction, it would be in the matter of the ring which _Anthony_ places on the finger of _Aloney_ in the cinema play. This was a spontaneous act not included in the scheme for which _Mortimer John_ was given the credit. Yet as the means by which _Anthony_ identified her on his return to consciousness it went far to bring that scheme to fruition. I think also that he ought to have shown some trace of surprise (I should myself) on finding that he had unconsciously exchanged his spotless evening clothes for the kit of a broncho-buster.

I have hinted already at the comparative dulness of the long introduction to what is the _clou_ of the play--the film and its reconstructed scenes. Why not take a further wrinkle from the cinematic drama and throw upon the screen a succinct résumé of the previous argument? Three or four minutes of steady application to the text, and we might plunge into the very heart of things. I throw out this suggestion not with any hope of reward, but in part payment of my debt for some very joyous laughter. O.S.

* * * * *

"Wanted, Gentlewoman a few days old." _The Lady_.

This is much prettier than "Baby taken from birth."

* * * * *

* * * * *

A SONG OF THE WOODLAND ELVES.

We hear the ruthless axes; we watch our rafters fall; The seawind blows unhindered where stood our banquet-hall; Our grassy rings are trampled, our leafy tents are torn-- Yet more would we, and gladly, to help the English-born.

For, leafy-crowned or frosted, the English oaks are ours; The beeches are our playrooms, the elms our outlook towers; And we were forest rangers before these woods had name, And we were elves in England before the Romans came.

We watched the Druids worship; we watched the wild bulls feed; We gave our oaks to ALFRED to build his ships at need; And often in the moonlight our pricked ears in the wood Have heard the hail of RUFUS, the horn of ROBIN HOOD.

But if our age-old roof-beams can serve her cause to-day, The woodland elves of England will sign their rights away; For none but will be woeful to hear the axes ring, Yet none but would go homeless to aid an English King. W.H.O.

* * * * *

GOOD OLD GOTHIC.

[An agitation for the total disuse of the Latin character, we learn from Press quotations published in _The Daily Chronicle_, is raging through the German Empire, and the Prussian Minister of the Interior has forbidden the use of any other character than German Gothic in the publications of the Statistical Bureau.]

The ways of the Hun comprehension elude, They're so cleverly crass, so painstakingly crude; For, in spite of his cunning and forethought immense, He is often incurably stupid and dense To the point of allowing his patriot zeal To put a large spoke in his own driving-wheel.

An excellent instance of zeal of this sort Is the movement, endorsed by official support, To ban Latin type in the papers that flow From the press of the Prussian Statistics Bureau.