Chapter 3

"Your friend Mr. Baldwin is coming to see you to-day at two o'clock," she told him. "No, it is not serious; you are out of danger. Now you have only to be quiet; so when your friend comes you mustn't talk too much."

He lay still and thought, and it all came back to him. "But, good heavens!" was his reflection, "that car must have come _in_ by the '_Out_' gate! In that case," he continued, not without pleasure, "I can claim damages--very severe damages too."

At two o'clock Mr. Baldwin, his grey-bearded friend and partner, entered. "Well, Jenkins," said he, "I'm glad to see you've turned the corner. You've had rather a narrow squeak."

Mr. Jenkins looked at his friend for a moment. "Look here," he said, "I'm not allowed to speak much, but did you know that that car, when it struck me, was coming in through an 'Out' gate, and, as that can be proved, don't you see that I can get pretty good compensation?"

His friend's face remained solemn. "I fear not," he said.

"But I must," said Jenkins. "It's as clear as can be. Scores of people must have seen it."

Mr. Baldwin shook his head horizontally.

"Heavy damages," said Mr. Jenkins, "I repeat."

"I've gone into it," his partner replied, "and it's hopeless."

"Why?" asked the sick man.

"I'll tell you," said Mr. Baldwin. "Because that car belonged to the Duke of Mudcaster."

"The more reason," said Mr. Jenkins, "for heavy damages. Very heavy. The Duke's rolling."

"Maybe he rolls," said Mr. Baldwin. "But that is not all. Listen. The Duke of Mudcaster is the only representative of the Pennecuiks, whose founder had the good fortune to be of some service to KING WILLIAM III. For this service he and his posterity were allowed the privilege of entering places by gates marked 'Out' and leaving by gates marked 'In.'"

Mr. Jenkins sat half up, groaned and subsided again. He said nothing.

"Well, I must say good-bye now," said Mr. Baldwin. "Sorry I've depressed you about compensation, but you never had an earthly. See you again soon. So long."

For some minutes Mr. Jenkins remained as one stunned. Then he began to think again. "I wonder," he said once or twice, for he knew his partner,--"I wonder. Could it have been Baldwin himself in his old Ford? Could it?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

Extract from a schoolboy's letter:--

"Please do not send me a cake this term, or it will go to the Red Cross Soldiers."

* * * * *

"MANAGERESS wanted immediately, small Blouse Factory, Harrogate; able to cut out and control girls."--_Harrogate Advertiser._

She will need to be careful. A girl who has been cut out is apt to be uncontrollable.

* * * * *

HEART-TO-HEART TALKS.

(_The German KAISER and a wounded Belgian Officer, a Prisoner._)

_The Kaiser._ So, then, you are still in arms against me, still persisting in your insane desire for battle and bloodshed? Will nothing content you? Must you compel us to continue in our enmity when by a word peace might be established between us, and Belgium might take her place at the side of Germany as a sister-nation striving with us to promote the cause of true civilisation?

_The Belgian._ It is useless, Sir, to say such things to any Belgian.

_The Kaiser._ Why useless? Do you not wish that death and ruin and misery should cease?

_The Belgian._ Certainly we do. No one more ardently than the Belgians, for it was not we who desired war or began the contest. But when you talk of stopping we must remind you that it was by your deliberate choice that war was treacherously forced on us. What could we do except defend ourselves against the dastardly blow that you aimed at our life? And after that it was not by us that Louvain was destroyed, that old men and women and children were ruthlessly massacred. Do you think such scenes can be wiped out of the memory of a nation, so that her men shall turn round and kiss the bloodstained hand that has tried to throttle them? Surely you expect too much.

_The Kaiser._ You speak too freely. Remember in whose presence you are.

_The Belgian._ There is not much fear that I shall forget. I am in the presence of one who has desired at all costs to concentrate on himself the gaze of the world, caring nothing as to the means by which he accomplished his object. This man, for he is, after all, only a poor human creature prone to anger, suspicion and foolish jealousy--this man has always gone about arrogating to himself the attributes of a god, calling upon his own people to worship him, and on all other peoples to be humble before him. Stung by his own restless vanity and the servile applause of those who are ever ready to prostrate themselves before an Emperor, he has rushed hither and thither seeking to make others the mere foils of his splendour and his wisdom, making mischief wherever he went and striving to irritate and depress his neighbours. This man in peace was a bad neighbour, and in war a base and treacherous foe, sanctioning by his enthusiastic approval such deeds as the meanest villain would have contemplated with shame.

_The Kaiser._ This is too much. I gave you leave to speak, but not to revile me. You must not forget that you are in my power.

_The Belgian._ A noble threat! But it is right and proper that men like you, who think they are infallible because their cringing flatterers tell them so, should sometimes hear the truth. You dare, forsooth, to talk to a Belgian of your magnanimity and your desire for peace. Cannot you realise that our nation has been tempered by outrage and ruin; that exile and the ruthless breaking of their homes only serve to make its men and women more resolute; that even if others were to cease fighting against you, and if her sword were broken, Belgium would dash its hilt in your face till breath and life were driven out of her mangled body; that, in short, we hate you for your cruelty and despise you for your baseness; and that for the future, wherever there is a Belgian, there is one who is the enemy of the thing called KAISER.

_The Kaiser._ Enough, enough. I did not come here to be insulted. If you have suffered, you and your nation, it is because you have deserved to suffer for having dared to set yourself against Germany, whom our good old German god has appointed to lead the way in righteousness to the goal marked out for her.

_The Belgian._ Sir, when you speak like that you are no doubt a marvel in your own eyes, but to others you are a laughing-stock, a mere scare-crow dressed up to resemble a man, a thing of shreds and patches to whom for a time the inscrutable decrees of Providence have permitted a dreadful power. But we are resolute to endure to the end, and your blandishments will avail as little as your threats.

* * * * *

MY WATCH.

The Sage who above a Greek signature nightly Emits a succession of eloquent screeds, Instructing us firmly but also politely How best to supply our material needs, Has specially urged us of late, in a shining Example of zeal for his frivolous flock, With the object of "speed" and "precision" combining To "work with our eye on the clock."

The precept is sound, and its due application Is fraught with undoubted advantage to some, But I'm free to remark that my own situation Represents a recalcitrant re-sidu-um; Clocks I cannot abide with their truculent ticking-- A nuisance I always have striven to scotch-- And I gain very little assistance in sticking To work, if I'm watching my watch.

For my watch, which I treasure with ardent affection-- 'Twas given to me in my juvenile prime-- Exhibits a truly uncanny objection To keeping an accurate count of the time; In the matter of speed it's a regular sprinter; Repairs are a farce; it invariably gains; And in Spring and in Autumn, in Summer and Winter Precision it never attains.

Mathematics to me are a terrible trial, They plague me in age as they floored me in youth, Or I might, when observing the hour on my dial, Allow for the error and guess at the truth. Then why do I keep it? Because it's a mascot, And none of its vices can alter the fact That the very first day that I wore it, at Ascot, Three winners I happily backed.

* * * * *

"The annual meeting of the Court of Governors of the University of Birmingham was held yesterday at the University, Edmund Street. The Pro-Vice-Chancellor said the University had done its share in the present awful state of Europe."--_Birmingham Daily Post_.

We are sorry to hear this.

* * * * *

"The Government have apparently taken infinite pains to so 'cut their coast according to their cloth' as to provide for the least possible inconvenience and suffering to the people of these islands."--_Cork Constitution._

Thanks to this wise provision there is still just enough coast to go round.

* * * * *

From the report of a schoolmasters' conference:--

"That we should spread our education wider, and not allow a boy to spend too much time on specialising is a good idea, but it is rather difficult to carry out in practice. It means switching the boy's mind from one subject to another. The whole day is spent in this way--switching from one subject to another, and therefore it is very difficult."--_United Empire_.

And it sounds painful too.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

It is strange to find the inexhaustible Mr. W.E. NORRIS turning towards the supernatural. Yet there is at least more than a flavouring of this in the composition of _Brown Amber_ (HUTCHINSON), which partly concerns a remarkable bead, having the property of bringing good or evil luck to its various owners. As (after the manner of such things in stories) the charm was for ever being lost, and as the kind of fortune it conferred went in alternations, possession of it was rather in the nature of a gamble. All I have to observe about it is that such hazards consort somewhat better with the world of HANS ANDERSEN or the _Arabian Nights_ than with those quiet and well-bred inhabitants of South-Western London whom one has learnt to associate with the name of NORRIS. Thus, in considering the nice problem of whether _Clement Drake_ (as typical a Norrisian as ever buttoned spats) would or would not escape the entanglements of _Mrs. D'Esterre_, it simply irritated me to suppose that the event might be determined by the machinations of djins. In a word, East is East and S.W. is S.W., and never the twain shall, or should, be mixed up in a novel that pretends to anything more serious than burlesque. I am not sure also that, for different reasons, I did not regret the introduction of the War; though as a grand climax it has, I admit, a lure that must be almost irresistible to the novelist. For the rest, if you do not share my objection to the (dare I say it?) amberdexterity of the plot, you will find Mr. NORRIS as pleasant as ever in his scenes of drawing-room comedy.

A volume of remarkable interest is _In Ruhleben _(HURST AND BLACKETT), into which Mr. DOUGLAS SLADEN has gathered a variety of information concerning the life of the English civilian prisoners in Germany, its many hardships and few ameliorations. The greater part of the book is filled with a series of letters sent by one of these prisoners to his mother. Perhaps (one suspects) the writer of these was not altogether an ordinary young man. From whatever reason, the fact remains that his letters are by no means uncheery reading; his books and study, most of all his friendships (with one fellow-captive especially), seem to have kept him contented and even happy. Of course some part of this may well have been coloured for the maternal eye; it is clear that he was greatly concerned that she should not be too anxious about him. A more impartial picture of the conditions at Ruhleben is given in the second part of the volume, and in a letter by Sir TIMOTHY EDEN, reprinted from _The Times_, on The Case for a wholesale Exchange of Civilian Prisoners. I should add that the book is illustrated with a number of drawings of Ruhleben made by Mr. STANLEY GRIMM, an artist of the Expressionist School (whatever that may mean). These are vigorous and arresting, if, to the unmodern eye, somewhat formless. But they are part of a record that all Englishmen can study with quickened sympathy and a great pride in the courage and resource of our race under conditions needlessly brutal at their worst, and never better than just endurable.

* * * * *

Nothing will ever persuade me that _This Way Out_ (METHUEN) is an attractive title for a novel, however effective it may be as a notice in a railway station. The book itself, however, is intriguing in spite of its gloominess. The grandfather of _Jane_ and _John-Andrew Vaguener_ committed a most cold-blooded murder--this in a prologue. Then, when we get to the real story, we find _Jane_ tapping out popular fiction at an amazing pace, and her brother, _John-Andrew_, living on the proceeds thereof. _Jane_ is noisy, vulgar, and successful in her own line, and gets on _John-Andrew's_ nerves; and when he discovers that she has for once turned aside from tawdry fiction and written a play that is really good he decides that he can stand it and her no longer. While she was pouring out literary garbage he could just manage to endure his position, but the thought that she would be hailed as a genius while he remained an utter failure was the final stroke that turned him from a mendicant into a madman. I am not going to tell you exactly what happened, but _Jane_ found a "way out," and with her departure from this life my interest in the book evaporated. Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY has notable gifts as a descriptive writer, and my only complaint against her is that vulgar _Jane_ was not allowed to live, for in the Army or out of it she was worth a whole platoon of _John-Andrews_. The _Vagueners_, I may add, were not a little mad, but then they were Cornish, and novelists persist in treating Cornwall as if it were a delirious duchy.

* * * * *

I don't think I can honourably recommend Mr. HUGH ELLIOT'S volume on _Herbert Spencer_ (CONSTABLE) as light reading, though the ungodly may wax merry over the philosopher's first swear-word, at the age of thirty-six, in the matter of a tangled fishing-line, and may be kindled at the later picture of a middle-aged sportsman shinning, effectively too, after a Neapolitan who had pinched his opera-glasses. Fine human traits these in a character which will strike the normal man as bewilderingly unlike the general run of the species. The serious-flippant reader, tackling Mr. ELLIOT'S elaborate and acute analyses, may get an impression of an obstinate old apriorist, a sort of White Knight of Philosophyland, with all manner of reasoned-out "inventions" at his saddle-bow (labelled "Homogeneity-Heterogeneity," "Unknowable," "Ghost Theory," "Presentative-Representative"), which don't seem, somehow, as helpful as their inventor assumes. And 'tis certain he took tosses into many of the pits of his dangerous deductive method. I don't present this as Mr. ELLIOT'S view. He is respectful-critical, and makes perhaps the best case for his old master's claim to greatness out of the assumption that SPENCER himself, stark enemy to authority and dogmatism, would have preferred his biographer's critical examination to any mere "master's-voice" reproduction of Spencerian doctrine. I wonder if he would!

* * * * *

Miss F.E. MILLS YOUNG'S newest story has at least this much merit about it, that no one who has seen the title can complain thereafter of having been taken unawares by the course of the narrative. That is perhaps as well, for, having discovered in the opening chapters a sufficiently charming _Pamela_ living in perpetual honeymoon with a partner rich, good-looking and with no particular occupation to interfere with unlimited motor trips and dinner parties, we might have imagined the tale was going to remain a jolly meaningless thing like that all through, and so have been as much shocked as the heroine herself on reading the fatal letter. But, since we knew the book to be called straight out _The Bigamist_ (LANE), we could have no possible difficulty in foreseeing the emergence of that other wife from the buried past ready to pounce down on poor little _Pam_ at her happiest. And of course she duly appeared. Not that such happiness could in any case have lasted long, for the man was, flatly, a cur, not deserving the notice of any of the rather foolish women he managed to attract--there were three of them--and not particularly worth your attention either for that matter. Having said so much I can gladly leave the rest to your perusal, or, better perhaps, your imagination, only hinting that the conclusion has something of dignity that does a little to redeem the volume. But when all is said this is not Miss YOUNG at her best, the characters without exception being unusually stilted, the plot unpleasant, and the South African atmosphere, for which I have gladly praised her before now, so negligible that but for an occasional name and a page or two of railway journey the yarn might as well have been placed in a suburb of London or Manchester as in the land of delectable sunshine.

* * * * *

Mr. JOHN S. MARGERISON, in _The Sure Shield_ (DUCKWORTH) sees to it that our national pride in our Fleet is thoroughly encouraged. Whether he is describing a race against the Germans in times of peace, or a fight against odds with them in these days of war, we always come out top dog. Very good. But, at the same time, I am bound to add that some of his stories compelled me to make considerable drafts on my reserves of credulity before I could swallow them. So improbable are the incidents in one or two of them that I am inclined to believe that they must be founded on fact. However that may be, their author is an expert in his subject, and writes with a vigour that is very bracing and infectious.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Music in Mesopotamia.

Among the songs which have recently exhausted their popularity in the music-halls of Baghdad is:--

"Come into the Garden of Eden, MAUDE."

* * * * *

"The White Star Company, the Dominion Shipping Company, and other Atlantic lines are now arranging to employ a certain number of Sea Scouts on their boats. The shipping companies will certainly be ducky."--_Manchester Guardian._

Or perhaps they may even happen upon a DRAKE.