Chapter 3

"Here's Beatty's," said the boy; "I chose it. The one with the shrimp on it. It says, 'At Breezy Brightbourne. From one giddy young shrimp to another.' Jolly clever, isn't it? And this is for Mr. Hatton, because he's so fond of beer. You see there's a glass of beer, and it says underneath, 'Come where the girls are bright and the tonic's all right.' There was another one with a bottle called 'The Spirit of Brightbourne,' but we thought beer was best."

"What about Uncle?" the mother asked.

"Oh!" said the girl, "there's a lovely one for him. Three men on their hands and knees licking up the whisky spilt from broken bottles."

"Good Heavens!" said the father, "you can't send him that."

"I think not," said the mother. "If you sent Uncle that, all the fat would be in the fire."

"It's very funny," said the boy.

"Funny, yes," said the father. "But funniness can be very dangerous. Good Heavens!" and he mopped his brow, "you gave me quite a turn."

"Very well, who shall we give it to?" the boy asked. "We mustn't waste it."

"I don't care who has it so long as it's not your Uncle," said the father. "And what have you got for your Aunt Tilly?"

"This one," said the girl. "An old maid looking under the bed for a man and hoping she'll find one."

"Goodness, Maria!" said the father, "are your children mad? The idea of sending such a thing to Tilly!"

"But she is an old maid," said the girl.

"Of course she is," said the father. "That's the mischief."

"Well, there's rather a good one where a wife is going through her husband's trousers and saying, 'Brightbourne's the place for change,'" said the girl. "Would that suit?"

"Of course not," snapped her father.

"Or the one where the bed is full of fleas?" the boy suggested.

"No jokes about fleas," said the father sternly. "No, you must change those for something else. Don't be funny at all with either your Uncle or Aunt. We can't run any risks. Send them local views--coloured ones, of course, but strictly local."

"Mr. Gates helped us," said the boy meanly.

"Mr. Gates doesn't know all the facts," said the father.

"He can guess one or two of them," said Mr. Gates, jingling his pocket.

"Fred is so quick," said his admiring wife.

"Well, and what are the others?" the mother asked. "There's Mr. Brown and Mrs. Venning. Why shouldn't Mr. Brown have the whisky one? I'm sure he'd laugh. But you couldn't send Mrs. Venning the old maid."

"We got this for Mr. Brown," said the boy. "The nurse bringing the father twins and calling them two 'pink forms.'"

"That's dashed good," said Mr. Gates, "don't you think?"

"Very smart," said the father. "That's all right. And what about Mrs. Venning?"

"Well," said the girl, "we thought she'd like this one--a man and a woman kissing in a tunnel, and he says the tunnel cost ten thousand pounds to make, and she says it's worth it, every penny."

"Very good," said the father; "I like that. Get me another of those and I'll send it to a friend of mine in the City. And I'll go to the shop myself and help you to choose the local views for your Uncle and Aunt Tilly. It's a case where care is necessary."

* * * * *

THREE DAUGHTERS OF FRANCE.

_Château ----, France_.

_To_ M. PUNCH.

CHER MONSIEUR,--Shall I write to you of the toil, the fatigues which my sisters and I must endure at the hands of our country's Allies, without kindling in your breast that flame of chivalry which is the common glory of our two races? _C'est incroyable_.

Let us then to my complaint.

We lived for many years, my two sisters and I, in the service of our dear master, who owned a beautiful château in the North of France.

Our duties were simple--to entertain the guests of M. le Vicomte after dinner on those evenings upon which he gathered his friends around him.

For the rest we lived in the ease which his kind generosity knew how to provide. We loved our own particular boudoir, with its books, its pictures, its comfortable fauteuils and its soft green cushions.

Oh, Monsieur, it makes me to weep when I think of my beautiful sisters--the one with her laughing rosy cheeks, the other pale as ivory, save for one little black spot, which no man surely could call a blemish.

Those were happy days. Often we kissed, my sisters and I, for very joy.

Then it came--this terrible War. M. le Vicomte was called away in the cause of _la belle France_; but we would not desert our home. One day, we said, it shall be as of old.

And as the months went by it was whispered that the English would make of our château a house of rest for their officers who were recovering themselves of their wounds. And we were glad, for we promised ourselves to entertain our brave Allies. Thus might we too serve _la patrie_.

They came. _Mon Dieu!_ Is it now a hundred years that we hurry to and fro in their service? A House of Rest! _Ma foi!_ Morning, noon and night they come, these countrymen of yours. Never can we rest. Hither and thither do they drive us. No longer are our cushions soft and caressing; the cloth upon our table is stained, and see--here is a hole.

Ah, it is cruel! Our beauty is decayed. The cheeks of my poor sister, that once were so rosy, have lost their colour and our figures their rounded grace.

We are loyal, Monsieur, and, though we are no longer pleasing to look upon, we do not grudge our service. But we beg of you, kind M. Punch, to procure for us a respite from our labours, that we may recover something of our former lustre. Thus shall you merit the undying gratitude and your countrymen regain the devoted services of what were at one time three of France's fairest billiard-balls.

_Agréez, cher Monsieur, etc., etc._

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE FATAL EMBRACE.

"There is a good story of how at an election meeting in Cork a few years ago, when he was a candidate, one of a crowd of working women pushed her way into a brake from which he was addressing a throng in the market square and suddenly put her arm round his neck and killed him."--_Times of India_.

* * * * *

"At the Port Elizabeth Town Council meeting, Mr. Mackay asked could nothing be done to the seats at Homewood? The resin was oozing out of them. He had had a valuable pair of pants completely ruined, and the same thing might happen to any lady."--_South African Paper_.

Our trousered Amazons must not be discouraged.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE TWELFTH--NEW STYLE.

(_DREAMT IN A DUG-OUT_.)

In my dream it was my first Twelfth after the ending of the War.

The party moved off in file up the slope of the moor, Sir Percy on his pony in front, then the guests with rifles at the trail, next the bearers and orderlies, and in the rear the ammunition-limbers and regimental baggage. A ration-party would follow later. There was to be no singing on the march, but pipes were allowed.

Just as we neared the crest of the hill, at a notice bearing the legend, "Keep below," the whole party entered a deep "boyau" leading right up to the trenches in front, from which branched off various passages to the gun pits, or butts, as we used to call them.

Our position was semi-circular in form and about three-quarters of a mile long; its main strength lay in a chain of machine-gun emplacements at intervals of about two hundred yards. These were, needless to say, all armoured, but it was nevertheless considered bad form to fire along the line.

Further back there were a couple of Archies and a battery of eighteen-pounders.

Our instructions had been as follows: "At 10 A.M. the artillery will open on enemy's main positions with H.E., and at the same time the Archies will maintain a barrage along the far side, to keep them from breaking away to Smithson's moor (a poor sportsman, Smithson; uses lachrymatories. All the birds we got off his place last year actually had tears in their eyes still). At 10.15 you will open fire with machine guns and rifles on anything under three hundred yards. At 10.30 the firing will stop and you will make your way to the assembly trenches, where bombs will be served out. At 10.35 the entire force will advance in open order. No prisoners will be taken."

My personal instructions were to hold my position with two men. Hastily lighting a cigarette and adjusting my map-case, I was standing-to, when the telephone bell tinkled. "Hello," said Sir Percy's voice, "all ready? The planes are out." I glanced up at the two 500 h.p. Liddell and Scott monoplanes, which circled high up over the moor. "What do they report?" I asked. "Birds in force at a.2.B.c.d., x.y.z.6 and A.b.3.m., and small parties in and near the Heather Redoubt."

At 10.30 I left my smoking weapon and an empty flask, and at 10.35 went over the top. A little later I brought down no fewer than seven of the enemy with one beautifully timed bomb, and stole a furtive glance at the others. Nobody had seen me do it. However, I thought, I shall be able to tell them about it at least three times to-night.

Meanwhile our bearers were collecting the enemy's dead and finishing off his wounded. Away to the left Sir Percy and half-a-dozen more were gathered round what I took to be the Heather Redoubt, and every now and then a little white puff of smoke broke from the ground.

"What's the idea?" I asked over the telephone. "Rabbit warren," answered Sir Percy. "Bombing 'em out. I always bomb 'em out. Smithson uses gas--poor sportsman, Smithson."

* * * * *

I was dozing lazily in the smoking-room, vaguely wondering if I could tell them about it a fourth time, when suddenly the dressing gong went, and someone shook me roughly by the shoulder. Outside a voice was shouting, "Gas!"

"Poor sportsman, Smithson," I muttered, struggling into my mask.

* * * * *

EXPERIENCES.

There are few of my friends whom I hold in higher respect than the Fladworths. Fladworth is a prosperous accountant, quite in the front rank of his profession, and for the last three years an indefatigable War-worker. His two sons joined up on the day War was declared; his three daughters are all nursing, and for the last two years their town house has been a convalescent home. Mrs. Fladworth is a saint of hospitality, and their country house is always full for the week-end with people who want a rest. And one can accept this hospitality with a good conscience, because they can afford it. It does not involve the painful self-sacrifice shown by some people, of whom it has been happily said that, when their supplies are short, they will insist on your staying for a meal, "even if they have to kill a rabbit with a Christian name."

The Fladworths are charming hosts, but they have a weakness--a passion for intellectual games, serious variants, for the most part, on "Consequences," and a most trying ordeal for persons who cannot spell or are ignorant of history or general information. Moreover, to add to the strain, Fladworth is always inventing new games, "so that all may start fair." This happened on the occasion of my last visit, when he introduced the company to "Experiences." Every one, having contributed sixpence to the pool, was expected to describe the most interesting or exciting event in his or her life. One of the party, who did not compete, then decided which was the best experience, and the winner pocketed the pool.

I cannot remember all the episodes recounted, though they were for the most part serious and impressive. Mrs. Fladworth had heard Mr. GLADSTONE read the lessons in church; Fladworth had heard TENNYSON recite "Come into the Garden, Maud" at a friend's house in the Isle of Wight; a young invalid airman, who was known to have had the most thrilling adventures, but, after the manner of his kind, never talked of his own achievements, told us how frightened he had been by the giant in his first pantomime. My turn came last, but I was not in the least helped by having had the longest time to prepare. I have a wonderful memory for futilities, and when called on could think of nothing better than my recollection of the arrival of _Hiawatha_ at the Channel Islands and the delirium of the populace.

You can imagine my feelings when old Mr. Fladworth, _æt._ eighty-four and rather deaf, who was acting as judge, awarded me the prize on the ground that nothing was more interesting than the effect of poetry on the masses. I hadn't the courage to explain that it was not LONGFELLOW'S poem, but that terrible tarantellating American tune which electrified the Channel Islanders some ten years back. As none of the company was able or disposed to correct him there was nothing left for me to do but to rake in the sixpences. After all, the total only amounted to five and sixpence, and I compounded with my conscience by putting it in the plate on the following morning.

* * * * *

A TALE OF THE HORSE MARINES.

"The crew of the submarine made great efforts to refloat the vessel, but were unsuccessful. The cavalry advanced towards the spot and surrounded both the submarine and her crew, who surrendered."--_Daily Paper_.

* * * * *

"Lord Lambourne, in a farewell address to his late constituents at Waltham Abbey, said the honour which had been conferred on him was not degraded by a farthing of his money. Licensed victualler, of Queen's Road."--_Woodford Times_.

Are we to infer that the late Chairman of the Commons' Kitchen Committee is now in business on his own account?

* * * * *

"One of my informants says that he was awakened by shells passing beside his window which rushed screaming inland."--_Daily Paper_.

This was evidently "a magic casement opening on the foam of perilous seas." A French window would have shown more courage.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)

It was a special duty of the late JOHN F. MACDONALD, who was cut off in his prime after incautiously adding to his journalistic labours in Paris the voluntary and too exacting duties of entertaining the wounded, to emphasize the _Entente Cordiale_. Ever since KING EDWARD laid the foundation of that understanding between England and France, it was Mr. MACDONALD'S delight as well as his livelihood to study every facet of it, both in Paris and in London, and with unfailing humour and spirit, fortified by swift insight, to present each in turn to his readers. The two best papers in the first volume of the posthumous collection of his writings are those which describe in vivid kindly strokes the triumphant impact of the late KING on the Parisians some fourteen years ago, and the visit, not long after, of five hundred London school-children to the French capital. Had Mr. MACDONALD been spared to prepare this book himself, there is no doubt that he would have subjected his essays to revision and brought them into a more harmonious whole; but as they stand, gathered together in this volume, _Two Towns--One City_ (GRANT RICHARDS), by the proud hands of his mother, they have charm and vitality and the authenticity of first-hand knowledge and lively sympathy. The War, as we have just been reminded by an impressive memorial service, has made deep gaps in the ranks of English journalists, and the loss of JOHN F. MACDONALD'S quick eyes, happy choice of words, and intensely human apprehensions was far from being the least.

* * * * *

Whether you enjoy _The House in Marylebone_ (DUCKWORTH) will depend entirely upon your taste for the society of a number of hardworking but sentimental "business girls." For this is the whole matter of Mrs. W.K. CLIFFORD'S book. I call her girls sentimental, because (for all that they are supposed to be chiefly concerned with living their own lives) you will be struck at once with the extent to which they contrive to mix themselves up with the lives of any male creatures who venture over the horizon. "Our little republic," says one of its inmates towards the end of the book, "is firmly feminine and hasn't done much falling in love." Well, well--I suppose this is a question that turns upon your definition of the word "much;" to me personally they seldom seemed to be doing, or thinking about, anything else. Nor could I help reflecting how much fuller and more vigorous all Mrs. CLIFFORD'S cast would have found their existence to-day. Perhaps this feeling explains a slight impatience which the society of so much struggling femininity eventually produced in me. Young women still live in houses in the Marylebone Road; they still proclaim republics of hardworking celibacy, and fall briskly in love with the first eligible bachelor; but their vocations and their citizenship have both (_Hoch der KAISER!_) grown out of all knowledge. So that charming writer, Mrs. CLIFFORD, must forgive me if I could find only an historical interest, and no very robust one at that, in her amiable retrospect.

* * * * *

AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE have certainly been well advised about their sub-title to _The Black Office and other Chapters of Romance_ (MURRAY). For that is precisely what the tales are; and excellently romantic and thrilling chapters too, for the most part dated in the decade following the great Anglo-French peace of a century ago. Probably you couldn't say off-hand what the Black Office was. Let me whisper. It was, amongst other things, a postal censorship that opened and perused all letters intended to cross the Channel. With what natural indignation would you, in July three years ago, have read of such monstrous activities! Truly, as the authors say, there is some interest in the comparison of then and now. Of the other stories, my own favourites would he "The Resurrectionist" and "The Smile on the Portrait." The first of these is a haunting affair of body-snatching, or rather of an early escapade of the notorious BURKE, who was asked to supply a red-haired corpse, and not finding one produced instead a gentleman who had yet to fulfil the condition precedent to body-snatching, i.e. who had to be killed first and snatched afterwards. This is certainly as grim as anything I have met over the Castellated signature. Beside it, "The Smile on the Portrait," the tale of a jealous husband who becomes a maniac, is almost soothing. They had clearly their little worries even a century ago. The CASTLES, as everybody knows, have always had the trick of adventurous fiction; _The Black Office, etc._, proves that their hands have lost nothing of their cunning.

* * * * *

One has heard so often of works of "absorbing interest" that appeared at "the psychological moment" that one feels a bit squeamish about applying these phrases even to such a book as Mr. HARRY DE WINDT'S _Russia as I Know It_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL); but honestly their appropriateness cannot be denied in view of the author's peculiar knowledge of the too mysterious country on which interest just now is so poignantly concentrated. He has not only traversed Siberia as few, even Russians, have done--that is an old though still thrilling story--but he has ranged at large over the whole country from Finland to the Crimea (the only two parts, by the way, which he has made me thirst to visit), and has gone with his eyes open. In the present volume, touching only incidentally on his journeyings and still less on politics, he has tried to satisfy the thousand-and-one questioners who, one imagines, have been plaguing him not a little lately as to those intimate details that really count in the life of a nation. He tells us for instance how the Russians do business and keep out the cold; how many of the women you could call pretty, and how much mutton a Kirghiz can eat. Though some of this is not new, yet the book has, as a whole, a most vivid freshness, and, if in the end the main effect is to make one content to live out of Russia, that is a tribute to the writer's frankness. At the least one is able to rejoice in his final verdict of unqualified enthusiasm for his hosts, since he found not merely acquaintances ready to welcome the popular English, but true and trustworthy friends in all classes of the community.

* * * * *

MRS. OLIVER ONIONS has a light puckish humour and a smooth if over-hasty pen, and I don't think she quite does her own intelligence (or ours) full justice in _The Bridge of Kisses_ (HUTCHINSON). I liked her flapper heroine, _Joey_, and the naughty nephews, the _O.U.2's_, and her sapper lover, _The Bridge Builder_, who was a confoundedly long time over his work, by the way, but ultimately came into his own over his own bridge of kisses, built under a heavy barrage of needless misunderstandings. But _Joey's_ pipsqueak shirker _fiancé_, _Hilary_, was altogether too foolish a travesty of a man ever to have gained her hand or, having gained it, to have held it against any real male in or out of khaki. The fact is that "BERTHA RUCK" can achieve something better than these meandering methods and this spinelessness of characterisation; and it is distinctly disappointing to see her content with the curate's egg standard.

* * * * *

It is time that some of our novelists put up a statue to NAPOLEON for services rendered to the cause of fiction. In Miss MAY WYNNE'S A _Spy for Napoleon_ (JARROLD) his misdeeds and those of his minions are made to serve the purpose of emphasizing the loyalty of the heroine to her lover. This lover was an Englishman of a type sufficiently familiar in novels--cold and masterful, but, for some reason not apparent to me, extremely attractive. As he seemed to be roaming about France with the object of getting NAPOLEON out of the way by any means available, I am not certain that he was playing the game, even when we remember that the rules of it were lax enough at the beginning of the nineteenth century. But we are not asked to weigh carefully the merits of character. It is just a romance of incident, in which a hot pace is set at the start and kept up to the finish. In short you get a good run for your money, and that is all about it.

* * * * *

* * * * *

From a review of a novel:--

"Joan is pretty, and Stewart Austen ... asks her to marry him. Joan refuses indignantly on the ground that his views and conduct are opposed to those which as a member of a Suffrage Society she is pledged to eradicate."--_The Saturday Westminster_.

Why the lady should resent her lover's endorsement of her own opinions is just one of those things that no fellah (unless he is a reviewer) can understand.

* * * * *

"Besides being Paul Von Hindenburg's second self, Ludendorff is the transportation expert of the Central Powers. He was ordered to go to the industrial cities along the Rhine and the Rhone rivers."--_Evening Paper_.

It is a pity that the second part of this enterprise had for geographical reasons to be abandoned, for we understand that Lyons would have given him a particularly warm reception.

* * * * *

"The Canadian Club gave a luncheon to-day in honour of the Canadian Highlanders, who have been a picturesque feature of the British recruiting week in New York....