Chapter 2

That there rumpus i' the village laast Saturday night? Aye, it were summat o' a rumpus, begad! Lor! there aren't bin nothin' like it not since the time when they wuz a-gwain' to burn th' ould parson's effigy thirty-fower year ago (but it niver come off, because 'e up an' offered to contribute to the expenses 'isself, an' that kind o' took the wind out on't).

Ye see, Sir, there's just seven licensed 'ouses i' the village. Disgraceful? Aye, so 'tis, begad!--on'y seven licensed 'ouses--an' I do mind when 'twas pretty nigh one man one pub, as the sayin' is. Howsomever, to-day there's seven, and some goes to one and some goes to totherun.

Well, laast Friday night me an' Tom Figgures an' Bertie Mayo an' Peter Ledbetter an' a lot more on us what goes to Reuben Izod's at The Bell, we come in to 'ave our drink. And, mind you, pretty nigh all on us 'ad a-bin mouldin'-up taters all day, so's to get _them_ finished afore the hay; so us could do wi' a drop. Aye, aye!

Well, fust thing us knowed--no more'n a hour or two after--Mrs. Izod was a-sayin' to old Peter Ledbetter, as 'er set down a fresh pint for 'n, "That's the laast drop o' beer i' the 'ouse," 'er says.

"_Whaat_!" says Peter, though there warn't no call for 'im to voice the gen'ral sentiments, 'coz you see, Sir, 'e'd a-got the laast pint an' us 'adn't.

"There's a nice drop o' cider, though," says Mrs. Izod. "Leastways, when I says a nice drop, there's a matter o' fifteen gallons, I dessay," 'er says.

"I 'ave drunk cider at a pinch," says Bertie Mayo, cautious-like, "and my ould father, I d' mind, 'e'd used to drink it regular."

"Ah, that 'a did!--an' mine too, and 'is father afore 'un," says Tom Figgures; "but I reckon 'tisn't what 'twas in them days."

"Well, you may do as you'm a-minded 'bout 'avin' it," says Mrs. Izod; "but no more ain't beer what 'twas neether, come to that."

"You'm right there, Missus," says all the rest on us.

An' then Bertie Mayo, 'oo's allus a turr'ble far-seeing sort of chap, 'e says, "Reckon the trolley 'ull be along fust thing i' the marnin' from the brewery, Missus?" An' when Mrs. Izod 'er says as 'er didn't know, but 'twas to be 'oped as 'twud, a sort of a blight settled down on the lot on us, which I reckon is a pretty fair way o' puttin' it, for a blight allus goes 'and-in-'and wi' a drought.

Well, either us finished that evenin' up on cider or us finished the cider up that evenin'--there warn't much in it one way or t'other. An' next day--this bit as I'm a-tellin' you now us niver 'eard tell on till arterwards, but I'm a-tellin' it _yeou_ just as it 'appened--next _daay_ (that were Sat'rday, mind) there was a turr'ble to-do in the arternoon, for there warn't nobbut limonade in the house when them timber-haulin' chaps stopped to waater the engin'. Well, you may reckon!...

An' then, when us come 'ome from work, us found the door o' The Bell shut an' locked, an' "Sold Out" wrote on a piece o' cardboard i' the parlour winder by Reuben Izod's second child! Begad, that was sommut if yeou like! Us stud there a-gyaupin' an' a-gyaupin', till at last Peter Ledbetter give a kick at the door and 'ollers out, "Whatten a gammit do 'ee call this 'ere, Reuben Izod? 'Tis drink us waants, not tickets for the Cook'ry Demonstration." (Turr'ble sarcastic 'e do be sometimes, Peter Ledbetter).

"I aren't got none," says Reuben from be'ind the door.

"Well, cider, then," says Bertie Mayo.

"Tall 'ee I aren't got narrun--beer, cider, nor limonade--nary a drop. 'Tiddn' no manner o' good for you chaps to stan' there. You'd best toddle along up to The Green Dragon an' see if Mas'r Holtom've got any."

Well, bein' as no one iver yet 'eard tell o' one publican tellin' ye to go furder a-fild and get sarved by another publican (savin' as 'twas a drunken man as 'e wanted to be shut on), us was struck so dazed-like as us went along the road wi' never a word. But us 'adn't got 'alfway theer afore us met Johnnie Tarplett, Jim Peyton, and a lot more on 'em all comin' along the road towards we.

"Where be gwain'?" says Johnnie Tarplett.

"Us be gwain' along to The Green Dragon to get a drop o' drink," says Tom Figgures.

"The Green Dragon's shut 'owever," says Johnnie Tarplett. "Us was a-gwain' along--"

"Aye, aye!" us sings out. "So's The Bell shut too!"

Well, then us all took and went along to The Reaper, an' _that_ were shut, an' The Dovedale Arms (which is an oncomfortably superior sort of a 'ouse, dealin' in sperrits) was down to ginger-wine, an' The Crown and The Corner Cupboard an' The Ploughman's Rest was all crowded out an' gettin' down to the bottom o' the casks.

An' then, when us took an' thowt as 'twould be 'ay-makin' next week, an' dry weather all round, us stuud i' the road and spak our thowts out.

"Dom the KEYSER!" says Peter Ledbetter, to gie us a start like.

"Niver knowed sich a thing afore in all my born days," says Bertie Mayo. "Niver knowed The Bell shut yet, not since 'twas first opened six years afore th' ould QUEEN come to the throne."

"Reckon sich a thing niver 'appened afore i' the history o' Dovedale parish," says Johnnie Tarplett.

"Niver since WILL'UM CONQUEROR," says Jim Peyton.

"Niver since NOAH 'isself," says Tom Figgures.

"'Tis a nepoch, look you," says Peter Ledbetter. An' though us didn' know what 'a meant no more'n 'a did 'isself, us were inclined to agree wi 'm. Oh, 'tis a Greek word meanin' a stoppage, is it? Well, if what you say be _trew_, Peter Ledbetter was right 'owever, an' them Greeks is at the bottom of all the trouble, as I said in The Bell five nights ago--my son bein' at Salonika, as you do know, Sir.

An' arter a bit us all went along home, all on us tryin' to remember what us knowed about home-brewin'. An' if you gentlefolks doan't get your washin' done praperly this wik 'tis along o' the tubs bein' otherwise engaaged.

W.B.

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COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"By partial dissembling we are able to offer this high-grade Car at a price within the reach of those desiring the best."--_New Zealand Herald_.

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"At Ormskirk rejected army horses sold by auction realised £30 to £60. The average was over £30."--_Sunday Chronicle_.

We always like to have our sums done for us.

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HOW TO UNBOOM OUR HOLIDAY RESORTS.

[In view of the official discouragement of railway-travelling something should be done to eradicate from the minds of the public any favourable impressions created by the posters of the past.]

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THE INCORRIGIBLES.

HOW AN EXASPERATED ADJUTANT WOULD _LIKE_ TO ADDRESS THE NEW GUARD.

"Guard! for I still concede to you the title, Though well I know that it is not your due, Being devoid of everything most vital To the high charge which is imposed on you; Listen awhile--and, Number Two, be dumb; Forbear to scratch the irritable tress; No longer masticate the furtive gum; And, Private Pitt, stop nibbling at your thumb, And for a change attend to my address.

"Day after day I urge the old, old thesis-- To reverence well the man of martial note, Nor treat as mere sartorial caprices The mystic marks he carries on his coat, And how to know what everybody is, The swords, the crowns, the purple-stainéd cards, The Brigadiers concealed in Burberries, And render all those pomps and dignities Which are, of course, the _raison d'être_ of guards.

"With what avail? for never a guard is mounted That does not do some wild abhorrent thing, Only in hushed low tones to be recounted, Lest haply hints of it should reach the KING-- Dark ugly tales of sentinels who drank, Or lost their prisoners while imbibing tea, Or took great pains to make their minds a blank Whene'er approached by gentlemen of rank, And, when reproved, presented arms to me!

"There is no potentate in France or Flanders You will not heap with insult if you can. For lo! a car. It is the Corps Commander's; The sentries take no notice of the man, Or fix him with a not unkindly stare, And slap their butts in an engaging way, Or else, too late, in penitent despair Cry, 'Guard, turn out!' and there is no guard there, But they are in _The Blue Estaminet_.

"Weary I am of worrying and warning; For all my toil I get it in the neck; I am fed up with it; and from this morning I shall not seek to keep your crimes in check; Sin as you will--I shall but acquiesce; Sleep on, O sentinels--I shall not curse; And so, maybe, from sheer contrariness Some day a guard may be a slight success; At any rate you cannot well do worse."

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LIGHT ON THE SITUATION.

"FRONT OF CROWN PRINCE RUPPRECHT.--At night the firing engagement slackened but little, and near Hellwerden it again rose to very great intensity."--_Admiralty, per Wireless Press, July 26th_.

Readers who shared the doubt of _The Times_ as to the existence of "Hellwerden" (which doesn't appear in the maps) will be interested to learn from one of our correspondents, who knows it well, that it exists all right, but is only visible in the very early morning. _The Times_ of July 28th bears out this statement.

Our correspondent adds the information that "Hellwerden" is sometimes spelt Morgendämmerung.

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, July 23rd_.--The country awoke this morning to find itself threatened with a first-class political crisis and possibly a General Election to follow. Members dwelling temporarily on the Western Front had reluctantly torn themselves from their dug-outs on the receipt of a three-line whip, and had repaired post-haste to Westminster.

The trouble was nominally about the agricultural labourer and his minimum wage. Should it be twenty-five shillings, as set down in the Corn Production Bill, or thirty shillings, as proposed by Mr. WARDLE, the Leader of the Labour Party? The Amendment had the assent of the hard-shell Free-Traders, who were glad to snatch at any chance of defeating the proposed bounty to the farmer. They had been further incensed by the appointment of Messrs. MONTAGU and CHURCHILL to the Ministry, and hoped perhaps that some of the extreme Tories would help them to give the PRIME MINISTER a good hard knock.

Mr. PROTHERO made it plain from the outset that the Government meant to stand or fall by the proposal in the Bill; and most of the friends of the agricultural labourer prudently preferred twenty-five shillings in the hand to thirty shillings in the bush; with the result that the amendment was defeated by 301 to 102.

Mr. HOGGE called attention to the anomalous position occupied by Dr. ADDISON. The late Minister for Munitions and future Minister for Reconstruction is for the moment only an ordinary Member. Ought he not therefore to be re-elected before taking up his new appointment? Mr. SPEAKER'S judicious reply, "I do not appoint Ministers," left one wondering what sort of an appearance the Treasury Bench would present if he did.

_Tuesday, July 24th_.--Major HUNT and Mr. KING, though in some respects not unlike one another--each combining a child-like belief in what they are told outside the House with an invincible scepticism in regard to the information they receive from Ministers inside--are rarely found hunting in couples. But they made common cause to-day over the alleged award of the Distinguished Service Order to persons who had never been near the firing line, and they refused to accept Mr. MACPHERSON'S assurance that it was only given for service in the field. Mr. KING knew for a fact that a gentleman in France who had only served in the Post-Office had received it--presumably for not deserting his post; while Major HUNT could not understand how anyone should have earned it for fighting at home. "How has this country been attacked?" he asked indignantly. Air-raids evidently do not count with this gallant yeoman.

Efficiency, not economy, is the PRIME MINISTER'S watchword. Sir EDWARD CARSON as a Member of the War Cabinet will have no portfolio, but will enjoy the not inadequate salary of five thousand a year for what the Profession calls "a thinking part." The new Minister of Reconstruction is to have two thousand a year; and we shall no doubt hear shortly that he has begun his labours by reconstructing another hotel for the accommodation of his staff.

With the spirit of expansion pervading the Head of the Government, it is not surprising that the expenditure of the country continues to rise. The panting estimators of the Treasury toil after it in vain. Mr. McKENNA's passionate plea for a limit to our war-expenditure would have carried more weight if he had shown any sign during his own time at the Exchequer of being able to impose one. As it was, Mr. G.D. FABER'S interjection, "Do you want to limit munitions?" quickly reduced him to generalities. The House had to rest content with Mr. BONAR LAW'S assurance that, though we could not go on for ever, we could go on longer than our enemies.

_Wednesday, July 25th_.--In answer to Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING the UNDER-SECRETARY FOR WAR stated that since the outbreak of hostilities there had been forty-seven airship raids and thirty "heavier than air" raids upon this country, "making seventy-eight air-raids in all." It is believed that the discrepancy is explained by Mr. BILLING'S unaccountable omission on one occasion to make a speech.

He made one to-night of prodigious length, which brought him into personal collision with Major ARCHER-SHEE. Palace Yard was the scene of the combat, which ended, as I understand, in ARCHER downing PEMBERTON and BILLING sitting on SHEE. Then the police arrived and swept up the hyphens.

Opinions differ as to Mr. KING'S latest performance. Some hold his complaint, that the Government had introduced detectives into the precincts of the House, to have been perfectly genuine, and point to his phrase, "I speak from conviction," as a proof that he was trying to revenge himself for personal inconvenience suffered at the hands of the minions of the law. Others contend that he knew all the time the real reason for their presence--the possibility that Sinn Fein emissaries would greet Mr. GINNELL'S impending departure with a display of fireworks from the Gallery.

_Thursday, July 26th_.--Mr. GINNELL put in a belated appearance this afternoon in order to make a dramatic exit. But the performance lacked spontaneity. Indeed honourable Members, even while they laughed, were, I think, a little saddened by the sight of this elderly gentleman's pathetic efforts to play the martyr.

Only twenty Members agreed with Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD in believing, or affecting to believe, that the recent resolution of the German Reichstag was the solemn pronouncement of a sovereign people, and that it only requires the endorsement of the British Government to produce an immediate and equitable peace. Not much was left of this pleasant theory after Mr. ASQUITH had dealt it a few of his sledge-hammer blows. "So far as we know," he said, "the influence of the Reichstag, not only upon the composition but upon the policy of the German Government, remains what it has always been, a practically negligible quantity."

Any faint hopes that the pacificists may have cherished of a favourable division were destroyed by Mr. SNOWDEN in a speech whose character may be judged by the comment passed on it by Mr. O'GRADY, just back from Russia, that "LENIN had preached the same doctrine in Petrograd."

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THE REST CURE.

TRIBUNALS PLEASE COPY.

"It is understood that the French Consul at Lourenco Marques, M. Savoye, has, owing to ill-health, asked his Government to allow him to return to Army duties."--_Cape Times_.

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"Lady ---- set the fashion of arriving at the altar with empty hands. She is the first bride to have had such an important wedding without the etceteras of bouquet or prayerbook, bridesmaids, pages, or wedding-cake."--_News of the World_.

Far too big a handful.

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"150 YEARS AGO--JULY 20, 1767.

Reports of the borough treasurer of West Ham show a loss of £41,000 on the municipal tramways and a loss of £35,000 on the electricity undertaking."--_Northampton Daily Echo_.

So the eighteenth century was not so much behind the present time as we had been led to believe.

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"Piano wanted by a lady to teach little girl to learn."--_Provincial Paper_.

One of those player-pianos with the new knuckle-rapping attachment, we suppose.

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MILITARY AIDES.

Last year, owing to the pressure of other engagements, we did not mark out the tennis-lawn at "Sunnyside." This year the matter has been taken out of our hands by the military powers.

Nevin was the first to think of it.

"What about a game of tennis?" he suggested one bright morning in May. "Keep us from going to seed."

It was his second day of leave after three months in the Ypres salient, so the change may have been too sudden for him.

"That's a toppin' notion," echoed Bob; "let's raid 'old Beetle's' museum and dig out the posts."

So Captain Richard Nevin, R.E., and Second-Lieutenant Robert Simpson, R.G.A., took the affair into their own hands.

Having seen the same forces cooperating on previous occasions, I determined to keep clear of them. Besides, I am only "old Beetle."

They found the posts in the tool-shed, and, borne upon the initial enthusiasm of their venture, began to sink a sort of winze on each side of the lawn. Up to this point they were perfectly amicable.

Then Nevin, who is a thoughtful person, said suddenly, "I suppose you made quite sure that the line of these posts will cross the centre of the court?" And then, before Bob could retort, added, "Of course you ought to have made absolutely certain of that. As it is we had better leave this and find the corner irons."

Corner irons that have remained undisturbed for some twenty-four months have a way of concealing themselves. At the end of ten minutes the seekers began to show signs of impatience. Such terms as "angles," "bases," "centres," interspersed with "futilass," "sodamsure," "knowseverything" were cast upon a hazardous breeze.

Eventually they found one of the angles. To the ordinary layman this would have meant the beginning of the end. But Captain Richard Nevin and Second-Lieutenant Robert Simpson are made of different stuff. They scorn the easy path. They have stores of deep knowledge to draw upon which place their calculations beyond the ken of ordinary mortals. After they had made a searching examination of the exhumed angle, Bob pulled out a pencil, prostrated himself behind it and then proceeded to gaze ecstatically over the top.

I moved my chair slightly south, and pretended to regard the apple-blossom, and when Nevin went into the house and brought out something which dimly resembled a ship's sextant I had the extreme presence of mind not to make any inquiries.

Margery drifted up with a pink duster.

"What ever are they doing?" she asked.

"Hush!" I whispered; "Bob has just got the range of a supply train on the far side of the rockery, and if Nevin (Nevin is the Crown Prince of Wurtemberg) doesn't get the longitude of Bob's battery in the next minute or so it's all up with his day's rations."

Suddenly Bob rose and made some calculations on an old envelope.

"That means three rounds battery fire," I said, "and the Prince loses his lunch."

Not satisfied with this success, Bob went indoors and looted the hall of three walking-sticks and Margery's new sunshade.

"What's he going to do now?" said Margery, with one eye on the sunshade.

He walked to the far end of the lawn and manoeuvred in a small circle. "The water-jackets are boiling," I replied, "and they've run out of cold water. He's divining with the sunshade. Look!"

Bob suddenly drove the sunshade into the ground. There was a sharp crack and--well, he found another iron. Of course he tried to explain to Margery that it was an absolute accident and he only wanted to get a sighting post; but that was mere self-effacement, and I said so.

Things began to happen quickly after this, and if Private James Thompson had not put in an unexpected appearance they might have completed the job without any further difference of opinion.

In the merry days before war was thrust upon us, James Thompson was an architect of distinction. Obviously an architect of distinction can reduce the difficulty of laying out a tennis-court to an elementary and puerile absurdity. For half-an-hour the demonstration was carried on in the garden, and, after Private Thompson had twice been threatened with arrest for using insubordinate language to a superior, it was decided to finish the discussion in my study, assisted by the softening influence of the Tantalus.

Not for a hundred pounds would I have ventured into the study. I picked up _The Gardening Gazette_ and engrossed myself in an interesting piece of scandal about the slug family.

Suddenly Margery appeared at the double.

"Do you know," I exclaimed excitedly, "it was the wireworm after all."

"Come on," Margery panted irrelevantly, "buck up and we can finish it before they come out again."

In her hand she held a tape-measure and an official diagram of a tennis-court.

Five minutes later the experts emerged from the house.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Nevin aggressively, "what have you been up to?"

"Oh," I replied, flicking over a page on weed-killers, "Margery and I thought we had better find the remainder of the tennis-court while you were having a rest. Margery's gone for a ball of string, and if Bob fetches the marker you can mark the court out now."

Nevin's retort was addressed solely to Private James Thompson, who had in an unfortunate moment given way to laughter of an unmilitary character.

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BOYCOTTING THE BARD.