Chapter 2

"_What?_" I yelled, and dashed aside the two varieties of constabulary. Yes, it was all true. The strong light at the back of the house--a wobbly one--was rapidly becoming a glow in the heavens, as they say in journalese. I stood and looked at it, staggered for the moment, when I heard a cheer and saw the engines coming. I dashed for my front-door, but found myself forcibly dragged back. It was the Special, who seemed to be having the time of his life.

"No one allowed to enter a burning building," said he importantly.

"But I must," I cried; "there are some valuable papers----"

"No one allowed to enter," he repeated firmly--he seemed to have learned it by heart--"except the firemen and police."

"Well, you go in and get them then. I'll----"

"Pass along, please," he said quite suddenly, as a new phase of his duties seemed to occur to him, and I found myself edged back towards the crowd.

Now I had to have those papers, and an idea occurred to me, so I stopped. "I say, how about your dinner? You'll miss it altogether. I don't want to keep you. Perhaps if you hurry off at once----"

"Dinner," he cried indignantly, gripping me fiercely by the arm--"what is dinner compared with duty? Do you know, man, I've been doing this bally Special business for over two years and never had a case yet, and now that I've got a real fire--and this is my own fire, mind you, my very own----"

"I thought it was mine," I ventured.

"You talk to me of dinner! Pass right along, please;" and I found myself back among the crowd, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it.

There was a small cheer just then as the flames came through the roof. Of Jones and his wife I saw nothing, but supposed they must have stayed on to enjoy their saddle of mutton, and wondered if they had kept mine hot for me. I could have kept it hot in my own house, I reflected rather miserably.

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The fire had been extinguished. As the crowd dispersed I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was the elderly constable, note-book in hand. "You are Mr. Brown, Sir, of Myrtle Villa?" he inquired patiently. "I haven't had your name and address yet, Sir, for showing an unguarded light at the rear of the premises at 8 P.M."

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"Plain Cook (good). Wanted for country house; six kept."--_Devon and Exeter Gazette_.

Too many; sure to spoil the broth.

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"The Irish Party cars are placarded with posters calling on the electors to vote for 'Unity and Party,' and there are the cryptic words, '1/8 Up. M'Kenna.'"--_Daily Paper_.

But as the result of the election Mr. MCKENNA went to a slight discount.

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A CHÂTEAU IN FRANCE.

Artists reared it in courtly ages; WATTEAU and FRAGONARD limned its walls; Powdered lackeys and negro pages Served the great in its shining halls; Minstrels played, in its salons, stately Minuets for a jewelled king, And radiant gallants bowed sedately To lovely Pompadours curtseying.

Pigeons cooed in its dovecots shady; Down in the rose-walk fountains played; Many a lovelorn lord and lady Here in the moonlight sighed and strayed; Here was beauty and love and laughter, Splendour and eminence bravely won; But now two walls and a blackened rafter Grimly tell the tale of the Hun.

My lady's chamber is dust and ashes; The painted salons are charred with fire; The dovecot pitted with shrapnel splashes, The park a tangle of trench and wire; Shell-holes yawn in the ferns and mosses; Stripped and torn is the avenue; Down in the rose-walk humble crosses Grow where my lady's roses grew.

Yet in the haunted midnight hours, When star-shells droop through the shattered trees, Steal they back to their ancient bowers, Beau Brocade and his Belle Marquise? Greatly loving and greatly daring-- Fancy, perhaps, but the fancy grips, _For a junior subaltern woke up swearing That a gracious lady had kissed his lips._

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COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

From a butcher's advertisement:--

"TOUGH & INDIFFERENT MEAT IS DEAR AT ANY PRICE. TRY ------ & Sons And prove it for yourselves."

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"A certain amount of discussion took place, and it was acknowledged that the number of horses in training had been exagggerated."--_Daily Chronicle_.

Nevertheless there is certainly one gee too many.

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The _Lokalanzeiger_ publishes an appeal for a new German National Anthem. We understand that the best composition that has been sent in up to the time of going to press begins as follows:--

Who is WILLIAM? What is he That all our swine adore him?

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ROYAL ACADEMY DEPRESSIONS.

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THE JOLLY BARGEMAN.

I've put the old mare's tail in plaits, now ain't she lookin' gay? With ribbons in 'er mane as well--you'd think it First o' May; For why? we're under Government, though it ain't just plain to me If we're in the Civil Service or the Admiralitee.

An' it's "Gee-hup, Mabel," oh, we'll do the best we're able, For we're servin' of our country an' we're 'elpin' 'er to win; An' when the War is over then we'll all lie down in clover, With a drink all together at the "Navigation Inn"!

I brought the news to Missis, an' to 'er these words did say, "Just chuck yon old broom-'andle an' a two-three nails this way, We're bound to 'ave a flagstaff for our old red-white-and-blue, For since we're under Government we'll 'ave our ensign too."

The Navy is the Navy, an' it sails upon the sea; The Army is the Army, an' on land it 'as to be; There's the land an' there's the water, 'an the Cut comes in between, And I don't know what you'd call me if it ain't an 'Orse Marine.

The Missis sits upon the barge the same's she used to sit, But they'll 'ave 'er in the papers now for doin' of her bit; An' I walk upon the tow-path 'ere as proud as anything-- If I 'aven't got no uniform I'm serving of the KING.

An' it's "Gee-hup, Mabel," an' we'll do the best we're able, For the country's been an' called us, an' we've got to 'elp to win; An' when the War is over, oh, we'll all lie down in clover, With a drink all together at the "Navigation Inn."

C.F.S.

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THE OPEN DOOR.

Mr. Punch has thought that some of his hospitable readers might be glad to have the opportunity of giving the welcome of their houses, in however simple a way, to Australian soldiers on leave, who would greatly appreciate the chance of seeing something of English home life. An "Invitation Bureau" has been opened at the "Anzac" Buffet, 94, Victoria Street, where offers of entertainment should be addressed.

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"The Military Representative appealed against the exemption of William Blake, aged 35, unmarried, a slaughterman in the employment of Mr. George Rigg, pork butcher. The Military Representative suggested that Mr. Rigg should slaughter himself. Mr. Rigg stated that he could not slaughter himself."--_Carlisle Journal_.

Compare _The Mikado_:--

_Koko_. "Besides, I don't see how a man could cut off his own head."

_Pooh-Bah_. "A man might try."

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, May 7th_.--The Royal House has found an unexpected defender in Mr. OUTHWAITE. He alone has perceived the hidden danger underlying the recent proposal of the Lower House of Convocation to restore KING CHARLES I. to his old place in the Church Calendar. This, he considers, is a direct encouragement to the persons who seek the restoration of the Stuart dynasty, and would make Prince RUPPRECHT of Bavaria heir-apparent to the British Throne. The House was relieved to hear from Mr. BRACE that there was no immediate danger of this contingency. Indeed, Prince RUPPRECHT has had so much trouble already with his prospective subjects that he has probably no desire for their closer acquaintance.

Sir LEO CHIOZZA MONEY is ordinarily a chirpy little person, quite able to take care of himself. But he was obviously depressed by his inability to furnish a plausible reason why two food-ships, having arrived safely in home ports, should have been sent away undischarged, with the result that they were torpedoed and their cargoes lost. The statement that he was "still inquiring" brought no comfort to the House of (Short) Commons. Why doesn't the SHIPPING CONTROLLER organise a Flying Squadron of dock-labourers?

_Tuesday, May 8th_.--The official reticence regarding the names and exploits of our airmen was the subject of much complaint. Mr. MACPHERSON declared that it was quite in accordance with the wishes of the R.F.C. themselves. But Sir H. DALZIEL was still dissatisfied. He knew of a young lieutenant who had brought down forty enemy machines and been personally congratulated by the Commander-in-Chief, and yet his name was not published. It is obvious that praise even from Sir DOUGLAS HAIG is not the same thing as a paragraph in _Reynolds' Newspaper_.

A request for an increased boot-allowance to the Metropolitan Police met with a dubious reception from Mr. BRACE, who explained that it would involve an expenditure of many thousands of pounds. It is rumoured that the Home Office is considering the recruitment of a Bantam Force, with a view to reducing the acreage of leather required.

_Wednesday, May 9th_.--If the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER should be accused of having taken advantage of his knowledge of the Budget-proposals to lay in a secret hoard of tobacco he will have no one to blame but himself. He solemnly assured the House that nothing has been brought to his notice to show that the trade is making undue profits. It is clear, therefore, that he has not had occasion to go into a tobacconist's and ask for his favourite mixture, only to find that his three-half-penny tax has sent the price up by twopence.

By prohibiting the manufacture of starch the Government has done something to please Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING. The hon. Member, who has always affected the "soft shirts that Sister Susie sews," is flattered to think that he has set a fashion which must now become universal. When Captain BATHURST, falling into his humour, assured him that even BEAU BRUMMEL would accept the position with patriotic resignation, Mr. BILLING felt that he had found his true vocation as an arbiter of taste.

In moving a Vote of Credit for the unexampled sum of five hundred millions, Mr. BONAR LAW apologised for a slight error in his Budget statement. He had then estimated the expenditure of the country at five and a half millions a day. Owing to fortuitous circumstances, the amount for the first thirty-five days of the financial year had turned out to be seven and a half millions a day. Mr. MCKENNA, conscious of some similar lapses in calculation during his own time at the Exchequer, handsomely condoned the mistake. Still one felt that it strengthened the stentorian plea for economy made by Mr. J.A.R. MARRIOTT in a maiden speech that would perhaps have been better if it had not been quite so good. The House is accustomed to a little hesitation in its novices and does not like to be lectured even by an Oxford don.

The debate produced a number of speeches more suitable for the Secret Session that was to follow. Our enemies will surely be heartened when they read the criticisms passed by Mr. GEORGE LAMBERT, an ex-Minister of the Crown, upon our Naval policy, and by Mr. DILLON on the Salonika Expedition; and they will not understand that the one is dominated by the belief that no Board of Admiralty that does not include Lord FISHER can possibly be efficient; and that the other is congenitally unable to believe anything good of British administration in Ireland or elsewhere.

For once Mr. BONAR LAW took the gloves off to Mr. DILLON, and told him plainly that more attention would be paid to his criticism if he was himself doing something to help in the prosecution of the War.

_Thursday, May 10th_.--I gather from Mr. SPEAKER'S report of the Secret Session that nothing sensational was revealed. The PRIME MINISTER'S "encouraging account of the methods adopted to meet the submarine attack" was not much more explicit, I infer, than the speech which Lord CURZON was making simultaneously, _urbi et orbi_, in the House of Lords, or Mr. ASQUITH would not have observed--again I quote the official report--that "hardly anything had been said which could not have been said openly."

That none of the Nationalists should have addressed the House was perhaps less due to their constitutional reticence than to the depressing effect of the South Longford election, where their nominee was defeated by the Sinn Fein candidate--one MCGUINNESS, and evidently a stout fellow. But it is odd to find that the debate was conducted without the assistance of Messrs. BILLING, PRINGLE and HOGGE. Their eloquent silence was a protest, no doubt, against the eviction of the reporters. Mr. CHURCHILL was probably suffering equal anguish, but with patriotic self-sacrifice he refused to deprive his fellow-legislators of the privilege of hearing once again his views on the conduct of War.

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JILL-OF-ALL-TRADES AND MISTRESS OF MANY.

[_The Daily Chronicle_, writing on women farmers, quotes the tribute of HUTTON, the historian, to a Derbyshire lady who died at Matlock in 1854: "She undertakes any kind of manual labour, as holding the plough, driving the team, thatching the barn, using the flail; but her chief avocation is breaking horses at a guinea per week. She is fond of Pope and Shakespeare, is a self-taught and capable instrumentalist, and supports the bass viol in Matlock Church."]

Though in the good old-fashioned days The feminine factotum rarely Was honoured with a crown of bays When she had won it fairly; She did emerge at times like one For manual work a perfect glutton, Blue-stocking half, half Amazon, As chronicled by HUTTON.

But now you'll find her counterpart In almost every English village-- A mistress of the arduous art Of scientific tillage, Who cheerfully resigns the quest Of all that makes a woman charming, And shows an even greater zest For gardening and farming.

She used to petrify her dons; She was a most efficient bowler; But now she's baking barley scones To help the FOOD CONTROLLER; Good _Mrs. Beeton_ she devours, And not the dialogues of PLATO, And sets above the Cult of Flowers The Cult of the Potato.

The studious maid whose classic brow Was high with conscious pride of learning Now grooms the pony, milks the cow, And takes a hand at churning; And one I know, whose music had Done credit to her educators, Has sold her well-beloved "Strad" To purchase incubators!

The object of this humble lay Is not to minimize the glory Of women of an earlier day Whose deeds are shrined in story; 'Tis only to extol the grit Of clever girls--and none work harder-- Who daily do their toilsome "bit" To stock the nation's larder.

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ONE OF OUR DIFFICULTIES.

Under this title I refer to a lady whom I will call Mrs. Legion, for there are many of her all over the country, bless her conservative old heart. She has been in service as cook or cook-housekeeper most of her life (she is now getting on in years), and constant preoccupation with kitchen affairs has somewhat narrowed her outlook, so that the circumvention of the butcher, whose dominant idea (she believes) is to provide her with indifferent joints, is more to her than the defeat of HINDENBURG; and so far as she is concerned the main theatre of the War is neither Europe nor the Atlantic, but the coal merchant's yard, which disgorges its treasure so grudgingly. Not only is her first thought for her cooking, in order--the transition to her second thought is automatic--that her employer or employers may be comfortable; but it is her last thought too.

With such singleness of purpose to crystallize her, she cannot absorb even the gravest of warnings; not from unwillingness or stupid obstinacy, but from sheer inability to grasp any novelty. That her beloved master and mistress--either or both--should not have the best of everything and plenty of it is, at this advanced stage in her career, unthinkable. Even though she read it in print she would disregard it, for her attitude to them papers is sceptical; even Lord NORTHCLIFFE, with all his many voices, dulcet or commanding, has wooed in vain.

I imagine that the milkman, from whom she heard of the War and whom she thinks (for his class) a sagacious fellow, has warned her against the Press. Anyway she has refused--and will, I fancy, never relent--to allow any extreme idea of food shortage to disturb her routine.

"Look here, Mrs. Legion," you say, "really, you know"--you don't like, or you have lost the power, to be too firm with her after all these years of friendliness--"really we mustn't have toast any more."

"Not toast!"

"No, not any more. In fact"--a light laugh here--"I'm going to do without bread altogether directly."

"Do without bread!" This with much more alarmed surprise than if you had declared your intention of forswearing clothes.

"Yes; the Government want us to eat less bread. In fact we must, you know; and toast is particularly wasteful, they say."

"There's no waste in this house, Sir [or 'M]." This with a touch of acerbity, for Mrs. Legion is not without pride. "No one can ever accuse me of waste. I'm not vain, but that I will say."

"No, no," you hasten to reply, "of course not; but things have reached such a point, you know, that even the strictest economy and care have got to be made more strict. That's all. And toast has to be stopped, I'm afraid."

"Very well, Sir [or 'M], if you wish it. But I can't say that I understand what it all means."

And that evening, which is meatless and is given up largely to asparagus (just beginning, thank God!), you certainly see no toast in the rack, but find that the tender green faggot reposes on a slab of it large enough to feed several children.

Mrs. Legion may go to church, but her real religion is concerned far more with her employers' bodies than with her own soul; and among the cardinal tenets of her faith is the necessity for dinner to be hot. You may have a cold lunch, but everything at dinner must have been cooked especially for that meal, all circling about the joint, or a bird, like satellite suns.

How to cleave such a rock of tradition? How to bring the old Tory into line with the new rules and yet not break her heart?

"And, Mrs. Legion," you say, not too boldly, and at the end of some other remark, "we'll have yesterday's leg of mutton for dinner to-night, with a salad."

"Cold mutton for dinner?" she replies dully.

"Yes--now the weather's getting warmer it's much nicer. It will save coal too. Just the mutton and a salad. No potatoes."

"No potatoes!" Surely the skies are falling, says her accent. You have been eating mashed potatoes, done with cream and a dash of beetroot in it, with cold meat, at lunch, for years.

"No, no--we mustn't eat potatoes any more. Haven't you heard?"

"I heard something about it, yes. But aren't we to eat those we've got?"

"No, we must give them away. Remember, just cold mutton and salad. And no toast." You are getting more confidence. "Never toast any more"--another light laugh--"never any more!"

And at dinner there are the cold mutton and salad all right; but to your horror you are asked first to eat a slice of salmon with two boiled potatoes.

"Good heavens!" you say, "what's this?"

"Well, Sir [or 'M], the fishmonger called, and as I felt sure the cold meat couldn't be enough for you...."

Summoning all your courage you protest again, adding, "And another thing, Mrs. Legion; you mustn't make any more pastry. The flour can't be spared. It's not only bread we've got to be careful about, but everything made with flour."

"Then what's the flour for?"

"That's all right. But it's got to be saved."

"I don't understand, Sir [or 'M]. I can't see why it shouldn't be used if we have it."

"No. The idea is that every one should go without flour as much as possible, and then there will be more and it will last longer. More for other people."

"My duty is to this house, Sir [or 'M]. But the flour's so coarse and brown it's hardly worth using, anyhow. I never saw such stuff. It's a scandal. But I'm truly sorry if I've disappointed you. All I want to do is my duty."

"You have, Mrs. Legion, you have. You've been splendid; but the time has come now to eat less and to eat more simply. Is that clear?"

"Well, I hear you right enough, Sir [or 'M], but I can't say I understand it. War or no war, I don't hold with folks being starved."

And there it breaks off, only, of course, to begin again.

That is Mrs. Legion!--one of the hardest nuts that Lord DEVONPORT has to crack. She doesn't hold with Lords poking their noses into people's kitchens, anyway. That's not her idea of how Lords ought to behave. Lords not only ought to be gentlefolk, and be fed and waited upon and live in affluent idleness, but super-gentlefolk. But then she doesn't hold with many modern things. She doesn't (for one) hold with the War.

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AT THE PLAY.

"WANTED A HUSBAND."