Chapter 2

THE TAXI-MEN.

What (writes a returned traveller) has happened to London's taxi-drivers? When I went away, not more than three months ago, they occasionally stopped when they were hailed and were not invariably unwilling to convey one hither and there. But now ... With flags defiantly up, they move disdainfully along, and no one can lure them aside. Where on these occasions are they going? How do they make a living if the flag never comes down? Are they always on their way to lunch, even late at night? Are they always out of petrol? I can understand and admire the independence that follows upon overwork; but when was their overwork done? The only tenable theory that I have evolved is that Lord NORTHCLIFFE (whose concurrent rise to absolutism is another phenomenon of my absence) has engaged them all to patrol the streets in his service.

Sometimes, however, a taxi-driver, breaking free from this bondage, answers a hail; but even then all is not necessarily easy. This is the kind of thing:--

_You_. I want to go to Bedford Gardens.

_The Sunbeam_ (_indignantly_). Where's that?

_You_. In Kensington.

_The Sunbeam_. That's too far. I've got another job at half-past four (_or_ My petrol's run out).

_You_. If I gave you an extra shilling could you just manage it?

_The Sunbeam_ (_scowling_). All right. Jump in.

This that follows also happens so frequently as to be practically the rule and not the exception:--

_You_. 12, Lexham Gardens.

_The Sunbeam_. 12, Leicester Gardens.

_You_. No; LEXHAM.

_The Sunbeam_. 12, Lexham Road?

_You_ (_shouting_). No; Lexham GARDENS!

_The Sunbeam_. What number?

_You_. TWELVE!

To illustrate the power that the taxi-driver has been wielding over London during the past week or so of mitigated festivity, let me tell a true story. I was in a cab with my old friend Mark, one of the most ferocious sticklers for efficiency in underlings who ever sent for the manager. His maledictions on bad waiters have led to the compulsory re-decorating of half the restaurants of London months before their time, simply by discolouring the walls with their intensity. Well, after immense difficulty, Mark and I, bound for the West, induced a driver to accept us as his fare, and took our places inside.

"He looks a decent capable fellow," said Mark, who prides himself on his skill in physiognomy. "We ought to be there in a quarter of an hour."

But we did not start. First the engine was cold. Then, that having consented and the flag being lowered, a fellow-driver asked our man to help him with his tail-light. He did so with the utmost friendliness and deliberation. Then they both went to the back of our cab to see how our tail-light was doing, and talked about tail-lights together, and how easy it was to jolt them out, and how difficult it was to know whether they had been jolted out or not, and how jolly careful one had to be nowadays with so many blooming regulations and restrictions and things.

Meanwhile Mark was becoming purple with suppressed rage, for the clock was ticking and all this wasted time should, in a decently-managed world, have belonged to us. But he dared not let himself go. It was a pitiful sight--this strong man repressing impulse. At any moment I expected to see him dash his arm through the window and tell the driver what he thought of him; but he did not. He did nothing; but I could hear his blood boil.

Then at last our man mounted the box, and just at that moment (this is an absolutely true story) it chanced that an errand-boy asked him the way to Panton Street, and he got down from the box and walked quite a little way with the boy to show him. And while he was away the engine stopped. It was then that poor Mark performed one of the most heroic feats of his life. He still sat still; but I seemed to see his hat rising and falling, as did the lid of WATT's kettle on that historic evening which led to so much railway trouble, from strikes and sandwiches to _Bradshaw_. Still he said nothing. Nor did he speak until the engine had been started again and we were really on our way and thoroughly late. "If it had only been in normal times," he said grimly, "how I should have let that man have it. But one simply mustn't. It's terrible, but they've got us by the short hairs!"

No doubt of that.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

WARS OF THE PAST.

(_AS RECORDED IN THE PRESS OF THE PERIOD._)

V.

_FROM "THE PIRÆUS PICTORIAL."_

GET A MOVE ON.

_BY MR. DEMOSTHENES._

[_The brilliant Editor of "Pal Athene," who has been aptly styled "the leading light of the democracy," contributes what is perhaps the most wonderful and powerful article which we have had the pleasure of publishing from his trenchant pen._]

Words won't do it, my friends. We don't want speeches. We want _action_. I ask you to give the Buskers socks. Kick this Chorus of Five Hundred out of the orchestra. Ostrichise the Government! Give them the bird!

If I read my countrymen aright (and who does if I don't?), what they are saying now is, "We must have a definite plan of strong action. We are not going to fight any longer with speeches and despatches." That's the way, Athenians! Good luck to you! Zeus bless you. And the same to you, Tommy Hoplites and Jack Nautes, and many of them! _You_ don't mean PHILIP to be Tyrant of Athens, do you? _You_'re not going to have him turning our beautiful Parthenon into a cavalry stable? _You_'re not going to see the Barbarians hanging up their shields on the dear old statue of Athene. Of course you're not. When I walk through the city and see, as I pass the houses of my humbler brethren, the neat respectable little altars and the good old well-used wine-presses (which I never do without breathing a little prayer, uncantingly, straight from the heart), I say, "It's a foul calumny to pretend that the people are not all right. They are, Zeus bless 'em! All they are waiting for is a lead. And action!"

We've got to have a strong policy, my friends, and my tip to you is--"Trust the Army! Curse the politicians!" It's no use sitting still while ÆSCHINES AND Co. are spouting. You and I, my brothers and sisters, as I'm proud to call you, _we_ don't spout, do we? We mean business! _And PHILIP means business too_! At any moment he may come down on us and devastate our quiet picturesque little demes which we all love so well and get disgustingly drunk on _our_ wine. So give us the word, ÆSCHINES AND Co.--not many words, please, but just _one_ word--and we'll tackle him as he ought to be tackled and put a pinch of Attic salt on his tail. We don't want _this_ PHILIP, but we _do_ want a fillip of our own. Meanwhile, are we downhearted? I _don't_ think.

(_Another powerful philippic by Mr. Demosthenes next week._)

* * * * *

WHAT TO DO WITH OUR PRISONERS.

"Private Jones, V.C., single handed captured 102 Germans; limited number for sale, best offers; proceeds military hospital."--_Bazaar_.

* * * * *

"The towing to Madrid of the Greek steamer _Spyros_ lacks confirmation."--_Daily Telegraph_.

We always had our doubts about the report.

* * * * *

"Nevertheless, though nobody has ever sympathised with the goose that laid the golden eggs, it is now widely recognized that it was bad policy to kill him."--_G.B. Shaw in "The Times_."

Even in War-time, you will notice, "G.B.S." cannot get away from the sex-problem.

* * * * *

FREMDENBLATT.--Mr. Lloyd George will recognise one day that the Allies put their heads in a sling on the day they rejected Germany's terms."--_Daily Paper_.

But we may trust little DAVID to know what to do with a sling.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HIS MASTER'S VOICE.

FOR AMERICAN CONSUMPTION.

I am the White House typewriter! I am the Voice of the People And then some! I speak, and the Western Hemisphere attends, All except Mexico and WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN, Who has a megaphone of his own. I am the soul of a great free people! Hence the _vers libre_ Which breathes the spirit of Democracy Because anybody can do it.

Who secured a second term of office for my master, President WILSON? Was it the War or OSWALD GARRISON VILLARD or General HARRISON GRAY OTIS? It was not. It was I! Though the others helped, especially Gen. OTIS.

I am of antiquated design, as invisible as Colonel HOUSE and nearly as useless as Senator WORKS, But as my master only works me with one thumb (For fear of saying something that might have to be explained away) I do very nicely. And when it comes to throwing the bull I am the real Peruvian doughnuts.

I was new once, but obscure, Wasting my freshness on a _Life of Jefferson_ (extinct) And a _History of the United States_, Which by the kindness of the Democratic party and the MCCLURE Syndicate Is now appearing in dignified segments on the back page of provincial newspapers Along with _Dainty Diapers_ and _Why I Love the Movies_, by MARY PICKFORD.

I am the Defender of Liberties! Never have I hesitated to tell Germany not to do it again; Never have I failed to protest in the severest terms when the British Navy threatened to interfere with business. Next to Mr. LANSING, Who is said to use a Blickensderfer, I am the hottest little protester in Protestville, And in consequence nobody loves me, Neither REVENTLOW nor GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK nor WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST; Nor even _The Spectator_, Which never did like Democrats, anyway.

But now I am the Harbinger of Peace By special request. Imperial Germany, Sated with victory and a shortage of boiled potatoes, Implores me to save the Entente Powers from utter annihilation, And the prayer is echoed By Sir EDGAR SPEYER and the other neutrals. So my keys tap out the glad message Of friendship for all and trouble for none.

I ask them what they are fighting about, And if it is really true that Belgium has been invaded, And propose that we should all get together and talk it over Nice and quietly over tea and muffins And away from all the nasty blood and noise.

Thus I address them, And humane Germany Almost falls on my neck in her anxiety to comply with my request; But the stiff-necked Entente, With an old-fashioned obstinacy reminiscent of the LINCOLN person at his worst, Merely utter joint and several sentiments The substance and effect of which appear to be "Nix!"

ALGOL.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ONLY REGRET.

ONCE UPON A TIME.

Once upon a time a man lay dying.

He was dying very much at his ease, for he had had enough of it all.

None the less they brought a priest, who stretched his face a yard long and spoke from his elastic-sided boots.

"This is a solemn moment," said the priest. "But sooner or later it comes to us all. You are fortunate in having all your faculties."

The dying man smiled grimly.

"Is there any wrong that you have done that you wish redressed?" the priest asked.

"None that I can remember," said the dying man.

"But you are sorry for such wrong as you have done?"

"I don't know that I am," said the dying man. "I was a very poor hand at doing wrong. But there are some so-called good deeds that I could wish undone which are still bearing evil fruit."

The priest looked pained. "But you would not hold that you have not been wicked?" he said.

"Not conspicuously enough to worry about," replied the other. "Most of my excursions into what you would call wickedness were merely attempts to learn more about this wonderful world into which we are projected. It's largely a matter of temperament, and I've been more attracted by the gentle things than the desperate. Strange as you may think it, I die without fear."

"But surely there are matters for regret in your life?" the priest, who was a conscientious man, inquired earnestly.

"Ah!" said the dying man. "Regret? That's another matter. Have I no occasion for regret? Have I not? Have I not?"

The priest cheered up. "For opportunities lost," he said. "The lost opportunities--how sad a theme, how melancholy a retrospect! Tell me of them."

"I said nothing about lost opportunities," the dying man replied; "I said that there was much to regret, and there is; but there were no opportunities that in this particular I neglected. They simply did not present themselves often enough."

"Tell me of this sorrow," said the priest. "Perhaps I may be able to comfort you."

The dying man again smiled his grim smile. "My greatest regret," he said, "and one, unhappily, that could never be remedied, even if I lived to be a thousand, is--"

"Yes, yes," said the priest, leaning nearer.

"Is," said the dying man, "that I have known so few children."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"ABSENTEE ARRESTED.

Sergeant Storr stated that he saw Shann on a lighter in the Old Harbour. He failed to produce his registration card and could offer no reason why he had not reported for service. Subsequently he said he was 422 years of age."--_Hull Daily News_.

Passed for centenarian duty.

* * * * *

"Wanted, strong Boy, about 14, for milk cart; to live in."--_Provincial Paper_.

He will at least have the advantage of living close to his work.

* * * * *

"THE BHAKTHI MARGA PRASANGA SABHA.--At Nagappa Chetty Pillayar Vasantha Mantapam, 322 Thumbu Chetty Street, Georgetown, to-morrow 4 P.M. Bramhasri Mangudi Chidambara Bhagavathar will give a harikatha on 'Pittukkumansuman tha Thiruvilayadal.'" --_Madras Paper_.

We like the words and should be glad to hear the tune.

* * * * *

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.

(SECOND SERIES.)

XII.

CHERRY GARDENS.

Where d'ye buy your earrings, Your pretty bobbing earrings, Where d'ye buy your earrings, Moll and Sue and Nan? In the Cherry Gardens They sell 'em eight a penny, And let you eat as many As ever you can.

Moll's are ruddy coral, Sue's are glossy jet, Nan's are yellow ivory, Swinging on their stems. O you lucky damsels To get in Cherry Gardens Earrings for your fardens Comelier than gems!

XIII.

NEWINGTON BUTTS.

The bung is lost from Newington Butts! The beer is running in all the ruts, The gutters are swimming, the Butts are dry, Lackadaisy! and so am I. Who was the thief that stole the bung? I shall go hopping the day he's hung!

XIV.

NINE ELMS.

Nine Elms in a ring: In One I saw a Robin swing, In Two a Peacock spread his tail, In Three I heard the Nightingale, In Four a White Owl hid with craft, In Five a Green Woodpecker laughed, In Six a Wood-dove croodled low, In Seven lived a quarrelling Crow, In Eight a million Starlings flew, In Nine a Cuckoo said, "Cuckoo!"

* * * * *

"On Sale, 2,300 Oak barrels; edible: offers wanted."--_Manchester Evening News_.

Are these the first-fruits of the new Food Control?

* * * * *

From battalion orders:--

"Men transferred from Command Depôt will be fed up to the day of departure."

Even commanding officers occasionally have a glimpse of the obvious.

* * * * *

"In expressing regret that we had dropped the word 'culture' out of our vocabulary because of Germany, the Archdeacon of Middlesex gave the following definitions:--

'Kultur'--Had for 'Culture.'--A word its god the State, and which describes a was practically spirit of sympathy materialism, the result with all that is beaubeing simply mechanitiful, true, honest, cal efficiency, and pure."--_Liverpool Echo_.

Even now it is not very clear.

* * * * *

* * * * *

CHOKING THEM OFF.

It is reported that, should the measures recently adopted by the railway companies with a view to "discourage unnecessary travelling" prove insufficient, other expedients, of a more stringent character, may be resorted to. By the courtesy of an official we are able to give details of some further innovations that have been suggested.

(I.) The Platform Staff at the chief stations will be specially trained to answer all enquiries from civilian passengers in an ambiguous or quasi-humorous manner.

Thus detailed instructions are to be issued giving the correct form of reply to such questions as, "Can I take this train to Rugby?" The answer in this case will convey a jocular suggestion that the task is best left to the engine-driver; and others in the same style.

In all cases of urgency the formula "Wait and see" to be freely employed for purposes of discouragement.

(II.) In the case of exceptionally popular tickets, such as those to Brighton, a strictly limited number of impressions to be struck off, which will be disposed of by public auction to the highest bidder.

(III.) When stoppages (whether necessary or disciplinary) take place between stations, preference to be given to the interior of tunnels. All artificial light will then be cut off, and the officials of the train will run up and down the corridors howling like wolves.

(IV.) On hearing the declaration of any would-be traveller (as "Margate") it shall be optional for the booking-clerk to reply, "I double Margate"; when his opponent, the public, must either pay twice the already increased fare or forfeit the journey.

(V.) The quality of buns, pastry and sandwiches at the station refreshment-rooms to be drastically revised. A return to be made to the more "discouraging" models of fifty years ago, which will be specially manufactured under the supervision of the Ministry of Munitions.

(VI.) All the too-attractive photographs of agreeable places on the company's service at present exhibited in the compartments to be removed, and in place of them the frames to be filled with such chastening subjects as "Marine Drive at Slushboro' on a Wet Evening," "No Bathing To-day" (Bude), or "Fac-simile of a typical week-end bill at the Hotel Superb, Shrimpville." It is felt that if this last item does not cause people to stop at home nothing will.

* * * * *

ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

"GRIZZLY BEARS AT THE ZOO.

Lieutenant-General Sir W.R. Robertson, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, was unanimously elected an hon. member of the Zoological Society of London at the December general meeting."--_The Times_.

* * * * *

"By a Ministerial decree, chickens can be raised in the courtyards of houses in Rome."--_Daily Express_.

And we are now confidently expecting some "Lays of Modern Rome."

* * * * *

"£5 REWARD,--Lost, on November 28th, in Kensington, BLACK ABERDEEN TERRIER, name 'Cinders' on collar, also Lt.-Col. ---- and badge of S.W.B. Regiment.--Kindly return to Mrs. ----."--_The Times_.

Let us hope the Colonel at least has found his way home.

* * * * *

ULTIMUS.

His shape was domed and his colour brown, And I took him up and I get him down In the lamp's full light, in the very front of it, Ready and glad to bear the brunt of it; And then, having raised my hand and blessed him, I thus in appropriate words addressed him:-- "Oh, soon to be numbered with the dead, Your fortunate brothers, prepare," I said, "Prepare to vanish this very day And go to your doom the silent way. For DEVONPORT's Lord will soon decree, With his eye on you and his eye on me, That you're only a useless luxury; And, since the War on the whole continues, We must tighten our belts and brace our sinews, And give up the things we liked before, And never, like _Oliver_, ask for more. Since this is so and the War endures, I am bound to abandon you and yours, And wherever I meet you I must frown On your sweet white core and your coat of brown. But no, since you are the only one, The last of a line that is spent and done, I shall give myself pleasure once again And set you free from a life of pain. Prepare, prepare, for I mean to punch you, My lonely friend, and to crunch and munch you."

So saying I smiled in a sort of dream On my absolute ultimate chocolate-cream; Then swiftly I reached my hand to get him And popped him into my mouth and ate him.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TACTICS.

"Maman! à quel saint prie-t-on--" began Jeanne. Ah! but no, a recollection flashed across her mind and was reinforced by other memories. "J'en ai fini avec les saints," she mused, proceeding to the other end of the room where, full of intention, she busied herself among some books. Yes, she was now quite disillusioned; that latest blow, on her recent tenth birthday, had confirmed finally her long-growing suspicion--prayer to the saints was unavailing.

After a time; "Maman, pour que Papa vienne en permission à qui faut-il que l'on s'adresse?"

"A son colonel, mon enfant. Mais, ma fi-fille, tu sais...!"

Jeanne, with an air of having something to decide for herself, paid no heed, but resumed the study of her picture-book description of the French Army, murmuring: "Un colonel--est-ce que c'est comme un saint, ou bien est-ce que c'est comme le bon Dieu lui-même?"

Some moments of deep silence spent in intense study ended with a triumphant: "Bon! j'y suis." That was exactly what she had wished to discover, the very source of power. "'Les officiers attachés à un général pour l'exécution et la transmission de ses ordres,'" re-read Jeanne, and commented, "Et tout cela s'appelle l'_é-tat ma-jor_ du général. Bon! c'est bien comme je le pensais; c'est le général qui est à la tête de tout."

Her course was now quite clear. She urged and encouraged herself: "Il faut absolument que Papa vienne en permission. _Je--le--veux!_" And, that her intentions might not be thwarted, absolute secrecy must be maintained, at least in so far as the chapter relating to her terrestrial tactics was concerned; no one would oppose intercession _auprès du bon Dieu_.