Chapter 3

"Well, it's a courtesy title," I said, "but really in these hard times we have reduced economy to such a fine art that I thought a wall-paper with body in it might help matters."

"I think I catch the idea," said the marquis. "Something that would make you feel more satisfied after dinner than you otherwise would feel, as it were."

"My dear Sir," I said, "you have hit it exactly. Yours is a sympathetic nature. How readily you have divined my thoughts! No doubt you too are suffering."

He sighed almost audibly. "How is the room furnished?" he said.

"Leading features," I said, "a Welsh dresser, rush-bottomed chairs, gate-legged table, bookcases--"

"Saxe-blue carpet," said Alison.

"A most important detail," Lord Bayswater said. "Don't you think something of a chintzy nature would ... etc."

Both Alison and I agreed that a prescription of that kind might possibly ... etc.

I don't know what is comprised under the term chintzy, but it appeared to be a comprehensive one, for the nobleman descanted on the merits of the following patterns among others:--

(1) Cockatoos on trees, cockatooing.

(2) Pheasants on trees, eating blackberries.

(3) Other birds on trees, doing nothing in particular.

(4) Roses, in full bloom, half bloom, fading, falling.

(5) Forget-me-nots in bunches, ready for sale.

(6) Grapes doing whatever it is that grapes do.

(7) Other flowers and fruits, also acting after the manner of their kind.

Many other patterns were shown us and we spent an hour or two looking at them. Our host tried hard to push the cockatoos on to us. His idea was that the pattern would act as wallpaper and pictures combined. Alison's idea was that there would be too many portraits of cockatoos round the room, and I maintained that the wretched birds looked so realistic that I should certainly feel I ought to be giving them some food, and this would of course hardly assist my idea. The noes had it.

In the end we came away with four patterns (fruits and flowers) and a promise to let Lord Bayswater know which one we preferred. One of them I chose really to show my tailor, as it was a top-hole scheme for a winter waistcoat.

Alison and I spent the evening hanging the patterns up one after the other on one wall of the dining-room, and tried to paper the rest of the walls in the mind's eye, but at eleven o'clock we knocked off for the night and went to bed with headaches.

I fancy Alison must have had a disturbed night. As I was leaving the house after breakfast she said, "Have you made up your mind about those patterns?"

"No, I haven't," I said. "I'm going to leave it to you. Choose which you like."

"I've chosen," she said with an air of finality.

"Well," said Alison, when I reached home that evening, "it's up."

"Up?" I said. "The new paper, already?"

"Come and see," Alison said.

"By Jove, how well it looks!" I said. "You've chosen well. There's something familiar about it, though it looks almost new."

"Yes," said Alison, "Ellen and I cleaned it all over with bread-crumbs."

"Poor Lord Bayswater," I said. "But you've done the right thing. Wall-paper as usual during the War."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The annual agricultural returns show that the increased area in England and Wales of corn and potatoes for the present harvest amount to no less than 347,0000 acres. This result exceeds all expectations."

_Bradford Daily Argus_.

We can well believe it.

* * * * *

From a sale advertisement:--

"LACE DEPT.

Ladies' Overalls and Breeches for the farm, garden, or home use, reduced in Price."

_Daily Paper._

Cooler and cooler.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"SKILLY."

Prior to "Skilly" being taken on the regimental strength, our canteen was the paradise of a battalion of mice, from whose nightly raids nothing was sacred. But from the day "Skilly" enlisted the marauders became less and less obtrusive. And "Skilly" grew sleek.

Then came a time of scarcity. Mice fought shy of the canteen, and "Skilly" visibly suffered from lack of nourishment. A sergeant's wife provided welcome hospitality; but no sooner was "Skilly" billeted outside the canteen than the plague returned, and so she was recalled urgently to active service. Again was the enemy routed; but again came the wilting-time of dire want. Virtue, however, did not go unrewarded a second time. "Skilly" had earned honourable mention, and representations to the proper quarters resulted in an order that she should be rationed so long as she remained on canteen duty.

With times of ease came time for love. In due course "Skilly" presented an absentee and unidentifiable spouse with five bouncing baby kittens. Throughout their extreme infancy the family throve; but the time came when the devoted mother was no longer able to supply sufficient nutriment for five lusty youngsters. Clearly something must be done, and the canteen sergeant was the man to do it. He sent in a proper formal application to the regimental powers, requesting that increased feline rations be ordered as "subsistence for Canteen Skilly and family of five."

Time passed, and--let this be read and remembered by all carping critics who accuse our army of want of method and business sense--in due course the application was returned, properly entered, checked, signed and counter-signed. The verdict run thus: "Application on behalf of Canteen Skilly refused, as apparently she married off the strength of the regiment."

* * * * *

"No youth should be regarded educationally as a finished article at 1 years of age." _Yorkshire Post._

Mr. Fisher will be pleased.

* * * * *

"A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE DAY."

I jogged along the footpath way And leant against the stile; "A merry heart goes all the day," Stoutly I sang the old refrain; My own heart mocked me back again, "Yet tire you in a mile!"

Well may I tire, that stand alone And turn a wistful glance On each remembered tree and stone, Familiar landmarks of a road Where once so light of heart I strode With one who sleeps in France.

Heavily on the stile I lean, Not as we leant of yore, To drink the beauty of the scene, Glory of green and blue and gold, Shadow and gleam on wood and wold That he will see no more.

Then came from somewhere far afield A song of thrush unseen, And suddenly there stood revealed (Oh heart so merry, song so true!) A day when we shall walk, we two, Where other worlds are green.

* * * * *

THE REVIEWS FOR ----.

_(A specimen article for the use of those editors who have come to the realisation that the contents of our heavier periodicals never change. All that is needed is the insertion of the right month and the survey can be used as a serial.)_

In _The Umteenth Century and Forever_, which is, as usual, alert and interesting, the place of honour is given to an article by Sir Vincent Stodge, M.P., on "Proportional Representation in New Patagonia." Sir Vincent's argument may or may not convince, but it is succinctly stated. Sir ERNEST CASSEL writes usefully on "Economy for Cottagers," and Lord Sopwith, in a paper on "Air Raids and Glowworms," shows how important it is that on dark nights there should be some compulsory extinction of the light of these dangerous and, he fears, pro-German, insects. Mr. HARRY DE WINDT describes "Galicia as I Knew It," and there are suggestive papers on "The Probable Course of History for the next Three Centuries," by the Dean of LINCOLN; "Potatoes as Food," by Sir WALTER RALEIGH; and "Hair in Relation to Eminence," by Dr. SALEEBY, in which all the strong men in history famous for their locks, from SAMSON to Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, are passed in review. An excellent number, full of mental nutriment, is brought to a close by a symposium of Bishops on the petrol restrictions.

* * * * *

By a strange coincidence _The Shortsightly_ also has a valuable paper on "Proportional Representation," by Mr. and Mrs. C.N. WILLIAMSON, who thus make their bow for the first time among what might be called our thinking novelists, their effort being in some degree balanced by an essay in the same number from so inveterate a politician as Mr. J.M. HOGGE, M.P., on the "Wit and Humour of WILLIAM LE QUEUX." There is also an anonymous article of great power on "Conscientious Objectors as Food for Racehorses," which should cause discussion, both by reason of its arguments and also through the secret of its authorship, which to the initiated is only of course a _secret de Polichinelle_. For the rest we content ourselves with drawing attention to "The Small Holding," by Lord PIRRIE; "Women and Tobacco," by the Manager of the Piccadilly Hotel; "Feud Control," by Mr. PHILIP SNOWDEN, M.P.; "Russia as I knew it," by Mr. HARRY DE WINDT; and "The Spirit of Ireland," by Sir JOHN POWER.

* * * * *

_The Peremptory Review_ opens with Lord CURZON'S well-reasoned appeal to Labour to relinquish its attitude of criticism and trust the powers that be. Other notable articles deal with the possible effect of woman's franchise on the cult of Pekinese spaniels, the case pro and con. for a tunnel under St. George's Channel, and the philosophy of E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM. Mr. HARRY DE WINDT writes of "Serbia as I Knew It." A spirited attack on the MINISTER of MUNITIONS by the Editor of _The Morning Post_ brings an excellent number to a close.

* * * * *

_Backwood's_ is, as usual, strong in the martial element, and is further proof that in the present conflict there is no excluding rivalry between pen and sword, but plenty of room for both. The article wittily entitled, "Mess-up-otamia" should be read by everyone who is not tired of that theme. The trenchant author of "Reflections without Rancour" displays his customary vigilance as a censor of _bêtes noires_, not sparing the whip even when some of the animals are dead.

* * * * *

In the ever iconoclastic and live _Gnashing All Review_ Mr. Smacksy is, as usual, at his most vigorous. Among the statesmen who come in for his attacks are Mr. ASQUITH and Lord HALDANE, both of whom are probably by now quite inured to his blows. Nothing could be more amusing than the renewed play which is made with the phrase, "spiritual home." Mr. Smacksy has also something to say to members of what might be called his own Party. Other articles deal with "The Psychology of the Pacifist," a trenchant exposure; "The Teeth of American Presidents," which contains a number of curious statistics; "The Film and the Future," by Viscount CHAPLIN; "The Honours List," in which the anonymous writer makes the revolutionary suggestion that the KING'S birthday should in future be marked by the withdrawal of old titles instead of the conferring of new. Mr. HARRY DE WINDT descries "Roumania as I Knew It"; "A Suggestion for the Settlement of the Irish Problem" is offered by Mr. GINNELL, M.P.; and Mr. C.B. COCHRAN utters a disinterested plea for "The Small Theatre."

* * * * *

_The Jinglish Review_, also famous for the activity of its fighting editor, has no fewer than four articles from his pen, of which the least negligible is perhaps that of "The Partition of Europe after the War." The others deal with "The Real Germany," "Sunday Journalism as a World Asset," and "HORATIO BOTTOMLEY the Prophet." Other contributions in a varied number include a series of votive verses to Mr. EDWARD MARSH, C.B., by a band of Georgian poets, on the occasion of his resumption of his duties as private secretary to Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL. A charming study of leprosy, translated from the Russian of Lugubriski, brings the number to a close.

* * * * *

LONDON PRIDE.

Upon a lily-laden tide, Where galleons rocked with sails blown wide And white swans gleamed, there was a city Whose citizens called "London Pride" The flower that some call "None-so-Pretty."

It grew beside the frowning tower, By RALEGH'S walk and BOLEYN'S bower, As frail as joy, as sweet as pity; And "London Pride" they called that flower Which country folk call "None-so-Pretty."

When London lads made holiday In dewy hours o' th' month o' May, And footed it with Moll and Kitty, Among the maypole garlands gay Be sure they plaited "None-so-Pretty."

When London lads in battle bent Their bows beside the bows of Kent ('Tis told in many a gallant ditty) Their caps were tufted as they went With "London Pride" or "None-so-Pretty."

Oh, London is what London was, And mighty food for pride she has; Her saints are wise, her sinners witty, And Picard clay and Flemish grass Are sweet with stars of "None-so-Pretty."

* * * * *

"SAMMIES."

_À propos_ of the note in our issue of August 1st, a Correspondent suggests that the Americans might go into action to the tune of "Tommy make room for your Uncle."

* * * * *

"A Leghorn pullet, belonging to Mrs. G.R. Bell, of Coxhoe, Durham, has laid an egg 3-1/4 oz. in weight, 7-1/2 in. in diameter, and 6-1/4 in. in circumference."--_Scotch Paper._

Most interesting and novel, but very disconcerting to the mathematicians.

* * * * *

"The procession was headed by the choristers and songmen, and included the surplus clergy and the Very Rev. the Dean."

_Yorkshire Herald._

No support here, you will note, for the recent suggestion that Deans are superfluous.

* * * * *

* * * * *

DUELLING EXTRAORDINARY.

The contemplated single-stick encounter between Colonel ARCHER-SHEE and Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING recalls to mind a ludicrous affair which actually happened some years ago in a foreign city which I will here call Killemalivo.

Mr. Alec McTavish, a Briton many years resident in that fair capital and editor of the only English newspaper, had taken up stout verbal cudgels on behalf of the Americans, who had been viciously attacked in the columns of a local "daily." The United States of the North, in its capacity of "special" to the entire American continent, comes in for plenty of abuse when a new revolution is about to be perpetrated.

The strife had waxed fast and furious and eventually had taken on a personal tone, the editor of _La Muera_ accusing the editor of the English paper of being "that lowest of all living things--a Texan." It will be remembered that in times gone by the State of Texas decided to desert its Latin parents and roost under the shadow of the eagle's wing, thereby earning for itself prosperity and an evil reputation--in certain quarters.

McTavish's editorial reply was a gem of satire and displayed an intimate knowledge of the antecedents of the rival editor.

At that time duelling was still prevalent, and it was not many days before the editorial sanctum of _The Tribune_ was honoured by the visit of two officers in full-dress uniform.

The eventual outcome of their visit was that Mr. McTavish found himself pledged to fight a duel with a man who was, among other things, a first-class pistol shot and exceptionally expert with the "florette," all of which McTavish was not.

The affair looked particularly unpleasant--to McTavish, who was short, fat, and by no means young. But the dignity of the foreign population as represented by the editor of _The Killemalivo Tribune_ must of necessity be upheld.

Faced by this quite unusual difficulty, McTavish bethought him of his old and tried friend, General O'Flynnone, an Irish-American of many years' residence in the Latin Americas. No one seemed to know his real name, and the title of General had come to him from his last place.

The General was delighted at the turn of events, agreed to be McTavish's second, and promised to get him through the affair with a whole skin and no loss of honour.

As the challenged party McTavish had choice of weapons, which was the crux of the situation, as the General pointed out.

Among the Killemalivo aristocracy the favourite weapons were the duelling pistol and the "florette," or rapier. The "pelado," or lower orders, preferred the "lingua de vaca," which means literally "cow's tongue," a nasty-looking knife of no mean proportions.

As O'Flynnone explained, the duel would have to be fought with "killing weapons"; nothing else would satisfy the bloodthirsty editor. Meanwhile he would think on the matter, and he advised McTavish to do likewise.

The following were the most unpleasant days of his life, as McTavish confessed afterwards. He was not a "conscientious objector," but he had no pressing wish to exterminate his opponent, as that would have necessitated a sudden and forcible exile from the land of his adoption; still less did he fancy an early demise in the interests of his paper.

Meanwhile the General visited the rival editor's seconds and arranged for a meeting in his own rooms to discuss final conditions.

O'Flynnone's rooms contained, among other things, a collection of curious and ancient weapons. The walls were decorated with all sorts and conditions of strange and barbarous instruments of slaughter; Zulu assegais, Afghan knives and Burmese swords hung in savage array.

The meeting took place on the following Sunday afternoon. The officers greeted the General agreeably enough, but saluted McTavish with the stiffness that the occasion called for.

"Well, Señores," commenced the General, after depositing his visitors in the most comfortable chairs, "to business. Mr. McTavish, as you will admit, has the choice of weapons."

The officers nodded assent.

"This gentleman," continued O'Flynnone, "comes of that most noble and warlike race--the Scotch. Fiercest of fighters, although they do not sometimes look it, the warriors of Scotland alone among all nations withstood the ravages of the conquering English. I feel sorry, very sorry for the 'caballero' whom you have the honour to represent."

The pause which followed was most impressive. The General's air was suggestive of dire things, as with dramatic suddenness he produced from beneath the sideboard two enormous double-edged battle-axes, which careful polishing had made to shine as new.

"These," said he, "are the weapons which Mr. McTavish has chosen--weapons of men, such as they use in his own country," he continued, brandishing one of them savagely. "And the fight will be on barebacked horses, for such is the custom of the Scotch."

The duel did not occur.

* * * * *

THE GAME OF HIS LIFE.

I met the mercurial Gosling at the club a few days ago. As I hadn't seen him for some time I asked if he had been on a holiday. "Yes," he said, "down at Shinglestrand. Golfing? No--yes. I did play one game, the first since the War, and rather a remarkable game it was. I'm a member of the golf-club there, and was down at the clubhouse one morning looking at the papers when a fat middle-aged man, about my age, asked me if I cared for a game. I didn't, but in a spirit of self-sacrifice said that I should be very glad. 'I think I ought to tell you,' he went on, 'that I don't care about playing with a 18-handicap man, and that I always like to have a sovereign on the match.' Now I never was much of a player--too erratic, I suppose. My handicap has gone up from 12 to 18, and the last time I played it was about 24. But, exasperated by his swank, I suddenly found myself saying, 'My handicap is 12.' 'Very well,' replied the fat man, 'I'll give you 4 strokes.' We went out to the first tee, and after he had made a moderate shot I hit the drive of my life. My second landed on the green and I ran down a long putt--this for a 4-bogey hole. I'm not going to bore you with details. I won the second and third holes, and then the fat man went to pieces. I never wanted any of my strokes and downed him by 5 and 3. As we re-entered the club-house my partner, who had become strangely silent, walked up to the board which gives the list of handicaps and looked at them. There was my name with 18 opposite it. 'I thought you said your handicap was 12,' he observed. 'Well,' I answered, 'it wasn't more than that this morning.' The fat man was very angry. He said he would report me to the committee, and he did. But the secretary (who happens to be my brother) played up nobly. He communicated with the secretary of the fat man's club, whom he happened to know, and, having found out that the fat man's handicap was not 6 but 12, he wrote to him to say that in view of the fact that 'the lies had been equally bad on both sides' the committee did not propose to take any action. The fat man got no change out of my brother and I kept my sovereign."

* * * * *

The Globe Trotters.

"Mr. and Mrs. ----, of Knysna, are on a visit to Knysna."--_South African Paper._

* * * * *

* * * * *

V.A.D.

There's an angel in our ward as keeps a-flittin' to and fro With fifty eyes upon 'er wherever she may go; She's as pretty as a picture and as bright as mercury, And she wears the cap and apron of a V.A.D.

The Matron she is gracious and the Sister she is kind, But they wasn't born just yesterday and lets you know their mind; The M.O. and the Padre is as thoughtful as can be, But they ain't so good to look at as our V.A.D.

She's a honourable miss because 'er father is a dook, But, Lord, you'd never guess it and it ain't no good to look For 'er portrait in the illustrated papers, for you see She ain't an advertiser, not _our_ V.A.D.

Not like them that wash a tea-cup in an orficer's canteen And then "Engaged in War Work" in the weekly Press is seen; She's on the trot from morn to night and busy as a bee, And there's 'eaps of wounded Tommies bless that V.A.D.

She's the lightest 'and at dressin's and she polishes the floor, She feeds Bill Smith who'll never never use 'is 'ands no more; And we're all of us supporters of the harristocracy 'Cos our weary days are lightened by that V.A.D.

And when the War is over, some knight or belted earl, What's survived from killin' Germans, will take 'er for 'is girl; They'll go and see the pictures and then 'ave shrimps and tea; 'E's a lucky man as gets 'er--and don't I wish 'twas me!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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