Chapter 3

After twenty minutes of battle the Colonel's area becomes positively draughty, and the sole survivors of his dashing but sanguinary counter-attack, the king and two pawns, have assumed the bored and callous air of a remnant that has fought too long and is called upon to fight again. The Colonel has just unceremoniously pushed his sovereign to the rear with a flick of his nervous irritated little finger. His opponent can obviously bring him to his knees in two moves. Instead of which the Adjutant brazenly commences with massed bands and colours flying to execute a masterly tactical advance with the whole of his command--cavalry, infantry, church and tanks, in order to achieve the destruction of the two bantam bodyguards.

This is not playing the game, and the Colonel fumes inwardly and frets outwardly. In the intervals of pressing down the unlit tobacco in his pipe with an oscillating thumb, he alternately pokes his king out of the corner and pulls it back again; while his transparent impulse is to scrap the board, wreck the ante-room and run amok. The Adjutant continues his innocent amusement until at last the pleasure wanes. The two heroic pawns are carried decently off, and he apologetically whispers his suspicions of a checkmate to his commanding officer.

The Colonel brushes aside the Mess President's tinder-lighter, shatters the mute triumph of the serried black ranks of the hostile forces with one superb elevation of the eyebrows, smashes three matches in quick succession, and proves that all the time his mind has been preoccupied with weightier matters by saying after the manner of all true War Lords, "Umph."

* * * * *

* * * * *

Sweetness and Light.

O MATTHEW ARNOLD! you were right: We need more Sweetness and more Light; For till we break the brutal foe Our sugar's short, our lights are low.

* * * * *

A LUCID EXPLANATION.

It was my task to collect from their relatives particulars as to the whereabouts of the wounded of our neighbourhood, for the purposes of our local report. It wanted five minutes to twelve, the sacred dinner-hour of the British artisan, and one name remained upon my list, against which was a pencilled note, "Reported returning home." Did that mean that he was disabled? And should I manage to gather the necessary information before the clock struck?

I knocked at the door, which was opened by a woman wearing a canvas apron with a very tight string, her head surmounted by hair-curlers and a cloth cap.

"Yes, thanking you kindly," she replied in answer to my question, "me son '_as_ been wounded. 'Eard of it from the War Office. This war's a shocking business."

I expressed my sympathy and asked for particulars.

"Yer see, he was at Gallipoli."

"At Gallipoli? Then it must have been some time ago? I understood--"

"It was this way. Me son, 'e ses to me, 'Mother,' 'e says, 'don't you worry, but I've had a toe took off.' 'E never was one to put up a great shout 'bout hisself, nor nothink of that. They took 'im down to their base 'ospital. Leeharver's the name. Perhaps you know it?"

I cast my mind over the Ægean Islands, from which Mudros sprang up very large, and everything else sank into oblivion. "I'm afraid I don't," I owned apologetically.

"Thought perhaps you might. L-E first word, H-A-V-R-E second--Leeharver."

"Oh-h, to be sure, Le Havre. I mean--yes, now you mention it, I think I have heard of it. And is your son still there?"

Me son, 'e ses the vermin there was something shocking, and they spent all their spare time 'unting theirselves."

"What? _not_ in the hospital? Oh, I see; you mean in the trenches."

"And 'im," she continued, not noticing my remark, 'and 'im that partic'lar 'bout 'is linen; couldn't use a 'andkerchief not unless it was spotless; must 'av a clean one every Sunday as reg'lar as the week come round. It do seem 'ard, don't it? They've pinched his sweater too. S'pose I shall 'av to get 'im another, s'pose I shall; but it's a job to know how to get along these times. And now margarine's up this week, that's the latest."

"But your son," I ventured tentatively--"is his foot still bad?"

"Oh, 'is _foot's_ right enough. It's 'is teeth that's the worry. 'E ses to me, 'Mother,' he ses, 'afore I can do any good I must 'ave me teeth seen to.' Oh, this fighting's cruel work!"

Could he have been wounded in the jaw? The thought was horrible, but I remarked with affected cheerfulness, "Well, come, anyhow he is able to write."

"Oh, 'e can _write_ right enough--got the prize at school for 'rithmatic, 'e did."

"Yes, but I mean if he is able to write he can't be so very bad."

"Oh, 'e didn't _write_ that. That was August come a twelvemonth. The very first thing they done to him was to take out pretty near 'alf 'is teeth. The military authorities do pull you about something shocking."

"And where did he go after Hav--after Leehar--I mean after the hospital?" I was getting rather bewildered.

"Oh, 'e went to the War right enough; but 'is digestion's that bad. They said 'e'd feel a lot better once 'is teeth was was out, but 'e ses, 'Mother,' 'e ses, 'you want a mouth full of teeth to eat this bullet beef what they give us.' Next thing was they set him to drive them machines."

"What machines would those be?" I asked, groping for a little light.

"Why, them motors as they use out there. 'E got meddling with one of 'em, and it was the nearest thing 'e didn't 'ave 'is 'and in a jelly; the machine didn't act proper, or somethink o' that."

"And do you mean that his hand was injured?"

"Not as I've 'eard on," came the prompt reply.

"Well, but I thought you said your son _had_ been wounded."

"Ah, yes, that was 'is toe, yer see; sent 'im down to the base 'ospital, Leeharver."

"Yes, you told me that; but I heard he might be coming home. I was afraid perhaps he was disabled."

"That's right. 'E's coming 'ome right enough. Ought to be 'ere in 'bout five minutes. 'Ope 'is dinner 'asn't spiled time I've stood 'ere talking to you."

"Well, what _is_ the matter with him then?" I asked desperately.

"Dunno there's anything partic'lar wrong with 'im. 'E's going to get married to-morrer, if that's what you mean. 'Ope it won't be the beginning of fresh troubles for 'im. But you never know what's coming next."

I agreed that you never did.

* * * * *

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM MACEDONIA.

III.

Jerry, my lad,--We have lost a dear friend, and with him, alas, the piping days of peace. No, he is not dead, or even moribund, but his friendship for us lives no longer. His name is Feodor, and he is a Bulgar comitadjus, or whatever is the singular of "comitadji," and he lived until lately in No. 2 Dugout, Hyde Park, just over the way.

It is a moot point which delighted us the more, Feodor's charming manner or his exquisite trousers. These two characteristics were the more pleasing because of their perfect contrast; for whereas his manner was refined and retiring, his trousers were distinctly aggressive in their flaunting shameless redness.

Feodor's appearances were at first spasmodic. This was only natural, seeing that he had not yet instilled into us his own attractive habit of _laisser aller_ and _laisser faire_, and that his red trousers offered such a beautiful mark.

He would appear suddenly, smile seraphically towards us, and then disappear before our snipers could get on to him. At first of course we tried to pot him, but gradually our ferocity gave way to amazement and then to tolerance. At last came a day when Feodor climbed on to his parapet and made us a pretty little speech. We cheered him loudly, although we didn't understand much of it. Next day we brought down an interpreter and asked Feodor for an encore. His second performance was even more spirited than the first, and after a graceful vote of thanks to our benefactor we asked the interpreter to oblige.

It appeared that from his boyhood Feodor had been apprenticed to an assistant piano-tuner in Varna. Rosy days of rapid promotion followed, and the boy, completely wrapped up in his profession, soon became a deputy assistant piano-tuner. Then followed the old, old story of vaulting ambition.

The youth, his head turned by material success, sought to consolidate his social position by a marriage above his station, and dared to aspire to the hand of a full piano-tuner's daughter.

The old man tried gentle dissuasion at first, but the obstinate pertinacity of the stripling made him gradually lose patience. He was a hale and hearty veteran, and when the situation came to a climax his method of dealing with it was stern and thorough.

Seizing the hapless Feodor during an evening call he interned him in the vitals of a tuneless Baby Grand, and for three hours played on him CHOPIN'S polonaise in A flat major, with the loud pedal down. On his release Feodor had lost his reason and rushed to the nearest police-station to ask to be sent to the Front immediately. His object, he explained, was to end the War. The Bulgar authorities thought the plan worth trying and sent him off as a comitadjus; and to these circumstances we were indebted for his society.

Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him. As to sniping him now--the idea never entered our beads. Accordingly, while a deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a state of idyllic peace and hatelessness.

Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, and a large and important General asked us--

"But are you being offensive enough to the enemy in front?"

"Offensive to Feodor, Sir? Impossible!"

"You _must_ be offensive," he rejoined. "I don't think there is sufficient hate in this part of the line."

It was this unfortunate moment that Feodor chose to step on to his parapet and call out cheerfully to the Great Man--

"Good morning, John_ee_!"

For one tense moment I thought the General would burst. By an effort he pulled himself together, however, and shouted to my troops in a voice of thunder--

"At That Person in front--fifteen rounds rapid. Fire!"

We had to do it, of course, and, although I think most of our sights were a little high, accidents _will_ happen. Feodor emitted one unearthly shriek, and his time back towards home would, if it had been taken, make a world's championship record.

I don't think he was physically hurt; but his poor trousers were badly punctured!...

Our friend, Jerry, may not be lost, but he is certainly gone behind.

Yours always, PETER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"From the Pentland Firth to Norway, the eyes of the British Fleet are those of Nunquam."--_Yorkshire Post_.

We suppose old _Dormio_ is asleep as usual.

* * * * *

"The clergy will be pleased to hear of parishioners who are sick.".--_Parish Magazine_.

No doubt they mean it kindly, but it sounds rather callous.

* * * * *

"Holders of 15s. 6d. War Savings Certificates and scrip vouchers of the War Loan are acceptable over the Post Office counter at their face value."--_Daily News_.

"'My face is my fortune, Sir,' she said."

* * * * *

"Will anyone give 15/- and a kind home to a nice little brown miniature poodle dog, 3 years, ideal pet and companion?"--_The Bazaar_.

Sixpence more and the little pet could buy a War Savings Certificate.

* * * * *

THE FATE OF UMBRELLAS.

No. I.

_From Arthur Vivian, Bury Street, St. James's, to Mrs. Morton, Dockington Hall, Bucks._

DEAR MRS. MORTON,--Just a line to thank you very sincerely for my delightful visit. It was like old times to see you "all gathered together in hospitable Dockington and to find that the War, terrible as it is, has not altogether abolished pleasant human intercourse in England, in spite of what the Dean said. But then Deans are privileged persons.

I am sorry to say, by the way, that in the hurry of departure this morning I took away the wrong umbrella and left my own. I am sending back the changeling with all proper apologies. Would you mind sending me mine? It has a crook handle (cane) and a plain silver band with my initials engraved on it. Please give my love to Harry and the children.

Yours always sincerely, ARTHUR VIVIAN.

No. II.

_From the Dean of Marchester to Mrs. Morton._

DEAR MRS. MORTON,--I desire to thank you for three most agreeable days spent in congenial company. You have indeed mastered the secret of making your guests feel at home, and Dockington even in war-time is still Dockington. Pray give my warm regards to Mr. Morton and remember me suitably to the dear children. I wish they wouldn't keep on growing up as they do; childhood is so delightful.

I find to my great regret that by some inexplicable mistake I took away with me an umbrella that is not mine. I am sending it back to you, and shall be deeply beholden to you if you will pack up and send to me the one I left. It is an old one, recognisable by its cane handle (crook) and an indiarubber ring round the shaft. Pray accept my apologies for the trouble I am giving you.

Yours very sincerely, CHARLES MELDEW.

No. III.

_From Brigadier-General Barton to his Sister, Mrs. Morton._

DEAR MARY,--You gave me a capital time. There's a slight difference between Dockington and the trenches. I'm not as a rule a great performer with clergymen, but I liked your Dean. By the way, when I dashed off your man put somebody else's umbrella in with me, instead of my own, which is a natty specimen. The one I've got is an old gamp with a stout indiarubber ring to it. I haven't time to send it back. Every moment is taken up, as I cross to France to-night. Besides, how can you pack such a thing as an umbrella? It's much too long. Keep mine till we meet again. Best love to Harry and the kids.

Ever yours, TOM.

No. IV.

_From Arthur Vivian to Mrs. Morton._

DEAR MRS. MORTON,--I wired you this morning asking you to do nothing about my umbrella. The fact is I have found it at my rooms, and I am forced to the conclusion that I never took it with me to Dockington at all. I am awfully sorry to have given you all this trouble. It shall be a lesson to me never to take my umbrella anywhere, or rather never to think I've taken it, when, as a matter of fact, I haven't.

Yours always sincerely, ARTHUR VIVIAN.

No. V.

_Telegram from Mrs. Morton to Arthur Vivian._

Too late. Sent off somebody's umbrella to you yesterday. Please return it to me.

No. VI.

_From Mrs. Morton to her Sister, Lady Compton._

... We had a few friends at Dockington last week, not a real party, but just a few old shoes--Tom, Arthur Vivian and the Dean of Marchester and Mrs. Dean. Since they went away I've had the most awful time with their umbrellas. They all took away with them the wrong ones, and then wrote to me to send them their right ones. Arthur Vivian never brought one, and whose he took away I can't say. In fact I've been exposed to an avalanche of returning umbrellas, and Parkins has spent all his time in doing up the absurd things and posting them. He has just celebrated his seventieth birthday, and these umbrellas have ruined what's left of his temper. Umbrellas still keep pouring in, and nobody ever seems by any chance to get the right one. It's the most discouraging thing I've ever been involved in. As far as I can make out the Dean's umbrella is now in the trenches with Tom. If ever I have a party at Dockington again I shall write, "No umbrellas by request," on the invitations.

* * * * *

THE INN O' THE SWORD.

A SONG OF YOUTH AND WAR.

Roving along the King's highway I met wi' a Romany black. "Good day," says I; says he, "Good day, And what may you have in your pack?" "Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two To make the road go faster." He laughed: "Ye'll find or the day be through There's more nor that, young master. Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet And love is its own reward; But there's that shall stay your careless feet When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword."

"Riddle me, riddlemaree," quoth I, "Is a game that's ill to win, And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try"-- Said he, "Ye shall know at the inn." With that he suited his path to mine And we travelled merrily, Till I was ware of the promised sign And the door of an hostelry. And the Romany sang, "To the very life Ye shall pay for bed and board; Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife? Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword?"

Then I looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear, And the Romany looked at me. Said I, "We ha' come to a parting here And I know not who you be." But he only laughed as I smote on the door: "Go, take ye the fighting chance; Mayhap I once was a troubadour In the knightly days of France. Oh, the feast is set for those who dare And the reddest o' wine outpoured; And some sleep sound after peril and care At the Hostelry of the Sword."

* * * * *

For our "National Lent"--the War Loan.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

When the eminent in other branches of art take to literature, criticism must naturally be tempered with respect. This is much how I feel after reading Sir WILLIAM RICHMOND'S _The Silver Chain_ (PALMER AND HAYWARD). Probably, however, I should have enjoyed it more had not the publishers indulged in a wrapper-paragraph of such unbounded eulogy. If anybody is to call this novel "a work of great artistic achievement," and praise its "philosophy, psychology, delightful sense of humour, subtle analysis" and all the rest, I should prefer it to be someone less interested in the wares thus pushed. For my part I should be content to call _The Silver Chain_ by no means an uninteresting story, the work of a distinguished man, obviously an amateur in the craft of letters, who nevertheless has pleased himself (and will give pleasure to others) by working into it many pen-pictures of scenes in Egypt and Rome and Sicily, full of the glowing colour that we should expect from their artist-author. But the tale itself, the unrewarded love of the middle-aged "Philosopher" for the not specially attractive heroine _Mary_, and the subordinate very Byronic romance of _Herbert_ and _Annunziata_, quite frankly recalls those early manuscripts that most novelists must have burnt before they were quit of boyhood, or preserved to smile over. Still, in these winter days, when only Prime Ministers go to Rome (and then not to bask) and Luxor is equidistant with the moon, you may well find respite in a book so full of sunshine and memories of happy places; but I am bound to repeat my warning that your fellow-travellers will perhaps not be quite such stimulating society as the publishers would have you expect.

* * * * *

Sir THEODORE COOK has already done sound work in dealing with German methods, and in _The Mark of the Beast_ (MURRAY) he pursues his labours a step further. So careful is he to give incontestable proofs for the charges he brings against the Huns that even the most anæmic neutrals must find a difficulty in reading this volume without recognising the truth. Especially he emphasizes the dangers of peace-making with an enemy whose whole policy and programme have been based on lies. And if he insists many times and again upon this point he has his excuse in the fact that some of us are so extraordinarily forgetful and forgiving that we cannot be reminded too often of what the future has in store for us if we do not now remember the past. With such an absolutely flawless case in his hands I find myself wishing sometimes that Sir THEODORE had been less prodigal of the denunciatory language which he hurls at Teutonic heads. Not for a moment would I suggest that the Hun does not deserve vituperation, but I am inclined to think that a less violent manner of attack is more effective. In his own way, however, Sir THEODORE is inimitable, and I can pay no higher praise to his book than to say that I know of no War-literature so admirably calculated to make BETHMANN-HOLLWEG ("more double than his name") really sorry for himself.

The War has not been lacking in fine memorials of the dead. To what extent the Germans have commemorated the fallen I have no notion; but in France and Italy the papers constantly print tender and eloquent tributes, usually to the young. And in England we have the same thing too, touchingly, proudly and generously done. For the most part such tributes are mere records, but now and then they reconstruct; and the most remarkable example of such reconstruction--to the world at large, absolute creation--is the memoir of _Charles Lister_ (UNWIN), which his father, Lord RIBBLESDALE, and some devoted friends have, with perfect biographical tact, prepared. But for CHARLES LISTER'S untimely death, leading his men against the Turks in July, 1915, most of the letters in this book would never have been printed at all; for whatever his career might have become--and he was a man apart and bound for distinction--and however great a record were his, the early years could not be thus liberally illumined. But since death decreed that these early years--he was not quite twenty-eight when he was wounded for the third time and succumbed--should constitute all his career, we have this notable and beautiful book. If one had to put but a single epithet to it I should choose "radiant." At Eton, at Balliol, at the Embassies in Rome and Constantinople, and in the Army, CHARLES LISTER shed radiance. All his many friends testify to this. As for his letters, they are clear and gay and human; and they have also a sagacity that many older and more determined observers of life might envy; while that one to Lady DESBOROUGH upon the death of his great friend, JULIAN GRENFELL, is literature. Every page is interesting, but some are far more than that; and at the end one has almost too moving a concept of an ardent idealistic English gentleman met too late.

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